Catalogue

Evening on the Lake of Dreams: the myth

In the market of old Marrakech, I met an elderly traveller with remarkable eyes. Pulling me aside, she told me this story with urgency, as though there were little time to tell it.

“Many years ago”, she said, looking into my eyes with an unsettling intensity, “I embarked on a quest to find the mythological Lake of Dreams. I dedicated my life to it.”

“One day”, she said, “pulled by an invisible force, I found myself on the shores of a round golden lake. Enormous water lilies, all shades of orange and red as though kissed by the setting sun, whispered softly to me as my canoe glided over them. I was lulled into a foggy dreamlike reverie and somewhere in the mists of a moment I realized that I could understand the language of these flowers. I doubled over in sadness at the beauty of their words. When the grief of some deep longing finally abated, I lay back in my canoe, exhausted, my eyes red. I was enfolded in the strange but certain comfort of knowing I belonged here—that I had found home.”

The traveller stopped momentarily, overcome with her memories. “I awoke sometime in the night”, she continued, “with mists of thick, warm fog encircling me. My canoe moved slowly on its own over the surface of ghostly ancestors, toward a dim light glowing in the distance and as the fog parted momentarily, I floated through a portal, a spiritual gateway. I saw an enormous golden bowl on the edge of the lake and people sitting in meditation looking up at this brilliant vessel that was lit from within. A kindly figure in a hooded cloak rose to help me from my canoe as it reached the shore. I felt comfortable with this woman as if I had always known her. As we walked together toward the huge glowing bowl, I could feel strong waves of energy coming from it, and some untold joy pierced my chest, filling me with warmth. I was in the presence of the sacred. This was the Vessel of creation. A vessel of truth and hope.”

“Eventually, I was instructed to return and tell of this golden vessel on the Lake of Dreams. As I left, the cloaked woman smiled as she put her hand on my heart and said, ‘This is an inner journey, not an outer quest.’ She chanted a blessing into the wind, pressed a green stone into my palm, then sent me back through the mist and the water lilies.”

A crowd of people pushed past us in the Marrakech market. When I turned, the elderly traveller was gone and I found a small green stone in my hand.

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