[1]
Secret rooms are everywhere,
say the poets, architects, psychologists, and the pilgrims.
We must seek out these secret rooms
if we are to discover the reasons for,
and the answers to,
our being.
At the Rose Garden,
I wander slowly, searching,
observing the changes of light,
the different angles,
kneeling close to the ground,
stepping gently into the garden beds,
nose to the flowers,
taking in the scent.
But where is the door?
Only when it rains do I take refuge
under the poplar at the edge of the garden,
and peek into the crook of the tree,
into the secret room
(ah, there it is)
where others have placed their pilgrimage coins,
notes of thanks, personal tokens, and bits of nature.
Echoes of mystery and magic
are hidden in the tree beside the roses.
I find my answer to why I was drawn to that place.
To find peace.
To be grateful.
[2]
My studio apartment is tiny,
seemingly too small to contain a secret room.
But the door is revealed on some days,
only in the morning, briefly,
when the eastern sun pierces the window
and the light falls upon the painting of a walking trail by a lake,
revealing every brushstroke,
illuminating the wall art,
giving it a pulsating vibrancy,
and the adjacent statue of the bird with its big feet
casting the shadow of a phoenix,
to be reborn every cloudless morning.
The door is open for only ten minutes
before the sun moves sufficiently
and the door eases shut.
But in those few minutes, I sit with my spicy tea,
facing the painting,
where I ponder the answers to my life questions.
What am I to do next?
What is still worth attaining?
How am I to live?
What do I need to learn?
What virtues must I focus on?
What am I grateful for today?
[3]
Your secret room is hidden from me,
dearest gypsy,
but I see the door from time to time,
and from place to place.
Inside are the answers I seek.
Is this unrequited love,
for which I will not be rewarded?
What are your fears?
What are your dreams?
What is the source of those flashes of pain
that are revealed in your vulnerable moments?
A characteristic expression,
a lift of the eyes, a twinkle,
a flush of the cheek,
a sudden lilt to your step,
a peculiar gesture.
And there in that moment,
ever so briefly,
I see the door to your hidden room.
But when I reach for the handle,
the door vanishes,
like the mist of a lake under the sun’s rays,
securing your secrets.