Page 37 of All That Has Flown Beyond
“Good. What else?”
“Well, then there are catalysts, which are things which have natural properties that have these effects. For example, certain herbs, or crystals, or moon positions, that naturally have components that make them useful in certain rituals, such as, I don’t know…using the new moon and daisies for a commencement ritual.”
“Very good. Are there dangers to spells and rituals?”
“Yeah. When you communicate with other Ousía, you have to anchor yourself in, well, yourself and the world. People can use this as an opportunity to hurt you.”
“How do you defend against this?”
“With different spells, correspondences, catalysts…but it’s also mental. Like you said, you need to know your worth and expect a normal amount from yourself. You need to be aware of yourself and your rightful place in the world.”
“Good, Kaiyo. And what is your place in the world?”
“Right here. In my own skin.”
**********
Such as the physical history of a place affects the terrain you travel on, so does history affect its Ousía. Such as your physical history affects the capacity of your body, so does it affect your Ousía.
Kaiyo had to understand his own relationship with the world to navigate those waters. He had to understand his history with correspondences. How the green of Ahmik’s eyes signified loss. How the ambergris incense his father had used distracted him from rituals, necessitating a stronger anchor.
Learning about catalysts was easier. They were what they were. Their properties were calming to know, knowledge aside for himself. He learnt about plants, runes, words. The moon, which had been lost to him in the dog of depression, came back to him.
He learnt how to enchant objects, changing the make-up of their Ousía, becoming pseudo-catalysts. Some took on receptive qualities, such as divination tools. Others were conductive, such as amulets to mask scent.
He felt himself expand with every new piece of knowledge, every new skill, every fragment of himself he recovered.
*****
One of the most important lessons Kaiyo learnt in understanding the balance of Ousía was the role of gratitude. When someone cooked you a meal, simply showing genuine gratitude was its own kind of payment.
Employing this to his life was a balm. Saying thank you became an act of healing.
When he saw a good movie, he said thanks. When he ate good food, he took a moment to acknowledge the skill that went into it, the richness of the ingredients, the generosity of the cook and the world. When there was a clear night, a good song, a fresh smell after the rain, he appreciated each thing for what it was.
His awareness became filled with things to appreciate. Life became worth living. It wasn’t just about finding a larger purpose, or a reason, for being. It was in the act of existing in harmony with the world. In seeing it for what it was. The beauty of the susurrus of the forest leaves, of the orange sky at sunset, the glow of the moon at night.
Slowly, he turned that lens on himself. He acknowledged the completion of a task, a meal well done, a successful spell. He tried to be kind in the face of mistakes even when it was a struggle.
Sometimes, he would look around at the world, appreciate things simply for existing, and let himself be.
*****
Seasons fell like leaves from a tree. Kaiyo’s mother returned home in a tearful, hopeful farewell. She accepted his decision to not return to university easily. It was not less than she expected.
Months turned into years under Akiko’s wing.
“Ready to fly on your own?” Akiko asked one day. Kaiyo looked at her. There had been days when he thought he would never feel the blue of the sky at all.
“Yes.”
He started with creams and poultices. It was, in a way, his understanding of despair that made him talented at the task. He would sit at his table and crumble the clustered petals of the lavender he had dried. The fragrance in such quantities would be rich and fill the air, the deep almost-sweetness of it. He would understand what it had taken for the plant to grow. Not just this seed, but the one before it, the one before that. Millennia of chance and nature leading up to this single plant giving way between his fingers.
He would run an adder’s tongue against his hand, watching the sway of the fertile spike that licked up and separated from the leaf to give the plant its name. He appreciated its form, its simplicity, its staying power on people’s tongues.
He would hold the white handle of his bolline carefully, firmly, slicing the bells of a comfrey plant into delicate strips, understanding its place in the world, its sacrifice.
Everything he used, he built a relationship with as he appreciated it for existing. It was a sentiment that echoed back. He could not thank the drip of the poppy without appreciating the rush of his own blood. Could not treasure the balm of the aloe pulp without acknowledging the synchronicity of his own organs. Could not be in awe of the properties of nutmeg without tipping his head at his own skill.
