The Snow Globe Sanctum has wooden floors the rich color of mahogany, walls painted a delicate eggshell blue, and white-framed windows of crystal clear glass unwaveringly standing guard over the wondrous lands that are my backyard. Though the room is like a refreshing breath of spring air after months of being trapped in a frozen wasteland, that's not why I spend hours upon hours there. The real reason lies in the untold numbers of snow globes waiting patiently on gleaming white shelves. These shelves, carefully trading their treasures, cover all the walls save one.
This wall is what fulfills the waiting of snow globes. As I wander the rows of bookcases, one snow globe calls out to me louder than the others. I can hear it, though no one else can, whispering promises of magical wonders if chosen in the language of dreams. I step silently up to it, afraid as always that noise will break the spell woven over the whole room. Once again I find myself caught in its thick strands. For a moment I admire the tiny figures of myth that dance through fairy tales. I take notice of how the darker creatures lurk on the edge of the handmade forest and how the lighter, good creatures gather merrily round the painted river.
I slide my hand around the snow globe, surrounding the tiny world and its inhabitants, and instantly the lure in its tone grows stronger. The cool glass reminds me of what to do, and promises of what will come, although I know I will never forget.
Moving faster now, forgetting about silence, I head towards the empty wall. The snow globe, the wall, and I are all radiating anticipation. I can see it threading its way through the air like a ray of sunlight turned meandering stream. When I reach the wall, my hands tremble and make it difficult to lift the snow globe into position. I don't have time to worry over this, as the snow globe fairly shouts that it's ready. Without hesitation I hurl it at the wall.
The glass shatters upon collision. Rainbow shards spin across the room. I flinch as tiny daggers stab my bare arms. Mist swirls out from the broken fragments like a lady's whirling dress. It heaps itself in ever-thickening drifts around me. In moments the room wears a cloak of white, shyly hiding itself, and my pain is replaced by anticipation. Foggy tendrils glide around me, brushing my cheek in a cool caress, making me shiver. And then it is gone. The mist fades away and leaves everything so clear and vibrant it's hard to believe the room was encased in white only seconds ago. Except the room is no longer here. Suddenly, what was myth becomes real.
A forest faces me. The trees are tall, but grey and bare. Their dull looks whisper of the evil hiding between their weakened branches. A shallow breath of air, a dying gasp, falters through my hair and raises goosebumps. I sense more than see creatures vanish into its depths at my appearance. I shiver, although as eerie as the scene is, I somehow know I'm safe. I turn my gaze, shaking off one last shiver, to my other surroundings.
Fairies, no longer tiny, spin and whirl in the air and on the ground. They weave between each other in perfect synchronization. Everything about them seems perfect. Their hair, long and flowing, their faces, pure and serene, their clothing, delicate and pretty. All of it. Flower accessories adorn their bodies and intertwine their hair.
Wings of iridescent colors expand with every leap they take, powerfully propelling the fairies into the air until they land gracefully once again. The pulses of rainbow shades running through each set of wings paint the river below.
The whole spectacle delights my eyes, resonating with power and grace. I feel as though I've been granted a great privilege, sharing in some sacred tradition. Tingling thrills rush through me and a grin spreads across my face. The joyous call of a bird interrupts the splendor that surrounds me. Every time something new signals the end of my time here, but I always know it when it happens.
In only a matter of seconds, the dancing fairies are replaced by the Snow Globe Sanctum. The world I had just left, once again small and tiny, lies unbroken in my hand. I place the snow globe gently back on the shelf where it will wait until I decide to release its' magic once more. Its voice is silenced, its wish fulfilled. Yet a new voice has taken its place.
This one speaks to me in colors; the rich brown of the earth, the pure blue of the sky, the cool white of the clouds, the deep depths of the ocean. Both the warm mellow tones of the sun and the fiery red and orange tones ablaze in light. Delicate purple, flamboyant pink, fresh green. Somber grey and violent black.
A riot of colors fairly explode in front of my eyes when I pluck the snow globe out of its resting place. A moment of tinkling glass later, I'm waiting in the shapeless world of mist. Ahead of me, a land of colors, but behind me, the Snow Globe Sanctum.
Not everyone will believe the story of the Snow Globe Sanctum that I shared with you, or the many others I could tell, because not everyone knows of such a thing as imagination. You can believe it, or just like to use it, although it really only matters if you have it.
Whenever you're in need and just can't stand being where you are any longer, come pay me a visit. Close your eyes and step onto the train of thought that will bring you to me. As the doors open I'll be there, ready to show you the way. The gleaming white shelves will proudly display their untold numbers of snow globes waiting patiently. Pick one that calls to you, one that stirs your soul, and release its' magic. And then, when the mystical mist swirls out from the broken glass, the Snow Globe Sanctum will transport you to a land of imagination.