Last quarter of Owl Moon, Casa del Sybilla

The mystery of my bottle has not been easy to solve. First, opening the bottle was difficult. Lucia and I brought it to a glassblower in the village, after we had deposited our waste for recycling. In Duwamish cleaning the beaches is very important. We were well rewarded with huge mugs of steaming Chai, apricots, and as many honey drenched pastries as we would carry. Even our little jennies were given apples and good oats for bearing the bags of garbage away.

The glassblower held my bottle carefully over a fire, not the one he uses to melt glass, but something like a large candle. The black coating would become soft, and he would quickly scrape it away with his knife. Much like I had tried the evening before, but his tongs made the process much easier. Once most of the black was scraped away, he gouged away at the cork with a smaller knife. The pieces crumbled away quickly under his deft hands. I held out my hands to him and he poured the contents into them – a tightly bound little scroll and a small gold ring.

The little ring fit my right ring finger. Looking closely I saw it was etched with little markings that I could not decipher. Carefully I unrolled the scroll. It was two pages of translucent paper, vellum I learned later, covered front and back with tiny letters written in a delicate, clear hand. Written in a language I did not understand.

Lucia and I walked the long walk back to the Casa, arriving as the evening banquet was dissolving into the evening dance. Emil graciously curried and cared for our donkeys, tent and baskets. He shooed us into the Casa with a smile. I felt as if the color had faded from the sunset. I was very curious to know what the writing in my bottle said, but afraid too. Whatever one writes, encapsulates in a bottle, seals and throws into the sea, never to know if it be found, is significant.

Once I threw a bottle into a river for a lark. As I take even a lark seriously, I pondered over what message to write. What message is important enough to throw into the future? I imagined who might find it – a little boy fishing? A lonely, moody adolescent? A homeless one looking for bottles and cans to redeem for pennies? I will never know. I imagined the feeling of intrigue and excitement that unknown someone might feel picking up a bottle with a rolled up piece of paper inside. An obvious message.

I thought about what message I would want the universe to send me.

“This too shall pass.” “The sun also rises.” “Somewhere the sun is shining, somewhere the sky is blue.” “Never, never, never give up.” “It’s never too late.”

These messages distill into one word: Hope.

After one of our first dates, my husband sent me a dozen sweetheart rosebuds. The card read, “On the advise of Edmond Dante. Jade.”

He teased me and I had to read all of the Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas to find the answer to his mysterious card. At the very end of the story were Dante’s words of advise, “Hope and Wait.”

Now, when I feel all is lost, all my love and effort to create a happy home and marriage a waste, those words whisper back into memory. Hope and Wait.

Hope and Wait.

Hope and Wait.

My mantra to repeat through the tears. The message of the Universe to my grieving heart.

Hope and Wait.

The words soothe my spirit as the warm water of the bath soothes my tired body.

Lucia and I bathed in the glorious pool near our rooms. Wrapped in soft robes we returned to our rooms. Warm bread and hot lentil soup awaited me in mine. I curled in the ample chair before the fire, eating the nourishing food slowly. A fire wasn’t really necessary for warmth of body, but it is soothing to the soul. Watching the flickering light brings a meditative peace. As does the purring of a creamy kitten nestled under my chin, and a black Tuxedo cat curled next to me, also purring.

Hope and Wait.