Stories Told Through Symbols 🌿

Out of the haze, the tip of a pyramid slowly emerges — and not just any pyramid. This one is pink. Truly pink. With every meditation I create a painting, and it briefly occurs to me that this is exactly the kind of sugary shade I would never choose on purpose.
And you may wonder how I can even think like that in the middle of meditation. But I can. It’s a living process — and no matter how rational I try to be, the images simply arrive.

Back to the pink pyramid. Most of it is wrapped in a veil of mist, but I’m determinedly climbing upward.

When I look down, there’s only a dense smoky layer beneath me — so thick I almost feel I could step on it without falling through. I finally reach the very top… and there’s nothing. Just emptiness.

And then I know I have to jump. I can’t see where, but it’s one of those moments when the universe tells you, uncompromisingly: “Go on.”

I jump. I fall through the thick haze and land in a vast underground cave.

The air is heavy, and beneath my feet I feel damp stone. All around me walk figures in grey cloaks, hoods pulled low over their faces. It’s a bit like a gathering of anonymous shadows. I’m making light of it, but honestly, it creeps me out. I don’t know why this keeps happening in my meditations.

What draws my attention most is a line of figures walking one behind the other.

Each one holds a wooden staff and spins a golden hoop in front of them.

They stack the hoops one on top of the other, as if building an energetic escalator toward the sky. And I realize that I’ve actually already been up there… and that there was truly nothing.

Other figures have no hoops at all and simply wander past me. They don’t see me — clearly no one here is interested in my presence. What am I even doing here?

Then there’s a group heading toward a basin filled with thick black tar. They climb in willingly, soak themselves completely, and then move so agonizingly slowly that I want to give them a push. But they don’t stop. No one stops here — movement is mandatory.

There’s also a basin of water, where some scrub the tar off again, but it costs them tremendous effort. Afterwards, they join the line with the golden hoops — and now they move much faster.

I don’t want to join anyone. Yet I feel I have to. Everything here pushes me toward choosing.
I ask one of the hooded figures, and he quietly tells me that I must decide. Choose.
I look at all the lines, the hoops, the tar, the water… and none of it appeals to me.

And suddenly I’m back at the pink pyramid. Climbing upward again.
This time there are metal rungs hammered into the stone — as if they’d been there all along and I simply missed them. I climb faster, more confidently, almost joyfully.

Then I notice a circular opening in the pyramid. I peek inside — it’s hollow. A rope hangs from above.
Everything is clear: I have to grab it. And also face the fear that I could end up suspended in a void. Because yes — I could stay there, just holding on, doing nothing, enjoying the relative calm until my strength runs out. It’s tempting, in a way. Peaceful and comfortable.
Exhaustingly comfortable.

But the calm is false. And I know that if I let go, I’ll have to start all over again — from the very bottom of the pyramid. Beneath me is a chasm so deep… but I still have strength. And, most importantly, will.
So I climb.

From inside I break through the tip of the pyramid with ease, and again I find myself at the top. And again there is nothing. Only emptiness.

Then a stork flies overhead — straight out of a fairy tale.

In its beak it carries a swaddled baby, and it drops it into my arms.
The child is pure, fragile, innocent… and then it begins to change.
The child becomes snakes that seep into my hands and into my entire body.
Snake heads peek out from my palms, yet I feel no fear — not even a trace of it.
Instead, I feel strength.

A verse flashes through my mind — from the Gospel of Matthew, which I once glanced into out of simple curiosity, wanting to broaden my horizons:
“I am sending you out as sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as serpents and as innocent as doves.”

And suddenly everything clicks into place.

I fall back down through the smoky layer into the underground cave, and this time I silently join the line of those spinning the golden hoop.
I take a staff and spin with such force that the hoop sparks.
It locks onto another.
And another.
And another.
And the tunnel upward grows.

I ask one of the hooded figures what it all means.
And he replies, in a quiet, calm voice:

“The golden hoop is your awareness. Everything you carry with you — and nothing else can be taken along.
It doesn’t matter where you’re headed.
It isn’t about what’s at the top. What matters is who you become on your way there.”

And I feel it to the marrow of my bones.

Life isn’t about the summit — it’s about the one who climbs the steps.