The treatment room   by Simon Mitchell

I open the arched doorway and enter the walled garden.
As usual the plants contain their own inner lights, reaching up to the sky they glow in luminous green. The deep black soil glints with touches of silica light as I walk the path across the garden. The scents of lavendar, rosemary, marjoram, jasmine and a thousand others hang in in the air, buzzing my nose like hardworking bees making trails between the rich flowers. Here in the garden is every plant, but I`m not working here today.

On the other side of the garden is another arched doorway set in the old, red-brick wall. I touch the rough wood of the doorway which is warm with the sunlight and the door swings open. In front of me is a huge room, full of books and tapes and CD`s, microfiche and the odd bit of electrical equipment. The tall shelves stretch away to vanishing point on the other side of the room. I hear the warm wooden floorboards sound under my feet as I cross the room, enjoying the way that the afternoon sunlight slants down from the tall windows creating pools of light and shadow amongst the shelves, dilating and shrinking my pupils as I pass. But I`m not working here today.

The other side of the library has another door, beautiful oak hung on silent hinges, it swings open. The treatment room is full of jars and bottles, chests of drawers, salves, decoctions, tissanes, crystals, rocks, strange magnetic implements. Here is every cure.

I don`t know what`s wrong with me today. I just feel a bit off colour, a bit run down. I sit down in the comfortable chair in the centre of the room and it starts to work. I shut my eyes and relax for a while. This chair is very special - it analyses my energy, running through the spectrums of light, sound, heat, magnetism, proteins, vitamins, nutrients, amino acids, salts, liquids and everything else that makes me up. It sees the patterns and senses what is missing. I have no idea how it works.

Then, like a spider spinning its web the room draws threads from all over. Extract of spurtle, a dash of Rowan berry, a bit of yellow, a touch of nasturtium red to make the right orange, some Masai clay, the memory of autumn leaves from a eucalyptus, Icelandic night, a splinter of yew, the sharp tang of quince, oil of cloves, a perfect `C` and others I don`t even recognise. Slowly the treatment forms in front of my chair, a thin column of light caught in dust as the room hums quietly to itself like a mad scientist on the trail of a hot formula.

Ping - like a microwave the room tells me my treatment is ready, all I have to do is stand up and absorb the energy. I stand up for a moment and absorb.

Phew, that`s better - now where was I? Oh yes - the next door, that`s where I am today.

Author Info:

SECRETS OF CREATIVITY by Simon Mitchell
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