Sitting down to write is always akin to crossing a threshold, passing over from one realm or state of being to another. It is not so much that one is more rarified than the other, for that would suggest that there is some vast, over-arching truth – a belief that perhaps I once adopted, but no longer adhere to, like the concept of True Love or Soul Spirits…dreams only, the basis of which I often lie awake while the rest of the world appears to sleep and ponder on how such flights of fancy ever came to be.
No, writing is simpler than that, easier to grasp in its quotidian reality, and seen through such a lens instantly becomes more accessible to us lesser mortals. Perhaps this is the essence of our enrapture with Hestia – that we too can exist in realms formerly accessible only to the chosen few who have been initiated into the Mysteries. Hestia hides no Mystery other than that which lies at our feet, whether that is a pen or a stove. Either way is a route to a multitude of truths, with no promise of the one and only Truth.
I will step through the threshold that Hestia holds open for me. Tonight my threshold is the pen. Tomorrow it may be the pan.