Every once in a while I realize that this life is a dream—that, if I bother to pay attention, existence is inherently as full of imagery and mystery as any myth.
I am reading Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ tale of the Ugly Duckling, and how it relates to finding one’s true self. So, at the upscale market, the butcher gives me a duck egg for free. I buy another and share them in omlettes with two of my dearest friends. Only later do I realize what's happened.
My cousin calls to tell me that some of the boxes I put in her basement have rotted away. Only clothes are harmed—clothes, which in myth and folktale represent the personality one assumes, or one’s role in life. Silently, for a few years, earthworms have been busily eating the few treasured garments I saved and stored away when I went to the monastery.
An old self is composted in a California basement; a new one is born here in Portland. If not in this life, where else do myths happen?
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