Out the tower of Chalicetine Abbey,
You sing to us. O glory to morning!
You sing to us below from the belfry,
Out the tower of Chalicetine Abbey.
O morning good night! You sing through the trees.
Sweet castles of light, new night is dawning!
Out the tower of Chalicetine Abbey,
You sing to us. O glory to morning!

copyright © 2008 by Smidgen Raspberrie. All rights reserved.

Seated in a shaded patch of meadow at the base of Bramblevine Mountain, I have a clear view of Pointy Peak. Steeped in sweet grass, I’m examining roots and admiring the grandeur in  thousands of wildflowers. Each one of them has a Little Inner. Otherwise how could they know when and how to make the appearance? Our heritage is the same.

Bramblevine Mountain is awe-inspiring, breath-stopping, a splendid death. Beauty and grace do not measure it fairly.  Not supreme power or omniscience.  Even strung together as a whole choir singing as one, such big-hearted words cannot capture the magnificence.  The royal majestic extends far beyond the bounds of oral language, its silent “being” sheathed in the spirit’s rapture.

I’ve journeyed here to ponder my commission. Except for flurries of songbirds in the meadow, I’m alone.  And in this sanctity of silence, I find myself rapt in a rather curious vision. I am in the closet of Chalicetine Abbey, praying in a whisper. That ancient sacred stone house sits some miles away from here near to the hamlet. The simply built gray-stone has two rooms.  Chapel, and bell tower; and the sweet musk stairwell leading up to the triolet bell (1). No closet in the abbey, yet there I am cloistered in it. I suppose there are three of me in this moment then. Smidgen in the meadow. Smidgen in the closet. (Smidgen’s) Little Inner.  All of us preparing.

Not any sort of grand commission.  Just a little book.  But the duty assigned me is to render a competent translation of Raspberrie thought–the common substance of it–so I wait here in the meadow gazing, until I’m at the proper starting place. Doing my best to listen for it. Waiting for Little Inner to carry it outside.  So many possible points of entry. I’m in no hurry. It’s lovely here.

Peering up to the top of the mountain, I celebrate the magic voiceless.  Even Little Inner is hushed now breathing slow, and the imposing power in the absolute stillness shouts from deep within me.  I am not engaged in thought as to my starting place when the brainchild strikes, like a hatchling busting out of its paper skin house:

The top of the mountain is the place to begin.  You know–Raspiritis and the invisible.  Hooray for bliss! Write about the top of it.”

Atop Bramblevine Mountain, there is a tower.  It rests on the pinnacle, on Pointy Peak. Borbel’s tower cannot be seen from the meadow or from anywhere within the circumference of the mountain below. Every Raspberrie has been up there at least once in the lifetime. According to Gomeii custom, one travels the distance alone, guaranteed safe passage by following the map issued for the journey. And Sapphire will spot you, although you may not see her hovering around. Nearing the top, one can see the spire and the dome. Once you are there traveling the narrow dirt path, and you are yourself again after recovering from being awe-struck, knock twice at the entrance and abide there. Raspiritis will let you in. He is your pilot for the journey back down.

That is the short of it.

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(1) The bell rings out in song at dawn and at sunset. A poem inscribed on the south wall of the belfry celebrates the sound.

copyright © 2008 by Smidgen Raspberrie.  All rights reserved