A Tiny Oasis


Sitting Under a Tree, In the Rain

reading a book of poetry 

or maybe short stories, or 

both — it’s hard to tell
with this author; rich wet air, 
occasional drops falling into
my hair, onto the pages, and I
am purely happy, in a way 
that is like riding your bike 
down a very steep hill, or 
wading in a stony brook — 
it is a way that I knew 
how to follow once, but
for a long time, I 
have been too scared — 
to read a book, 
under a tree, 

in light rain.

Mary Anne Mohanraj


This was a gift my mum was just given by a pretty remarkable friend of hers. After talking about how she wishes she could just lie in the middle of the forest with the trees stretching over her for hours on end, the next time they met, she was greeted with this beautiful dream made into a – miniature – reality. The poem above is the writing that was tied ever so daintily with a ribbon on the top of the jar.

It’s a tiny oasis for us all to escape to, even if it’s just staring at its inviting little bed underneath the canopy of leaves. Encased in a glass jar, free from all our troubles, I would sleep. Or read. Or chill with the birdies, who I’m presuming can talk, all around me. Or maybe just lie there, looking up at the comforting leaves above me, and beyond these leaves there is simply a foggy blur of the outside world. Nothing would be able to tap into this dream. 

Why is it that everything miniature seems so unfathomably intriguing? Because it’s cute. And enchanting. And perhaps because we associate miniature people with stories, and in stories, there is no such thing as a cruel ending, so in some other sense, it’s soothing. I think we like to be able to imagine ourselves as such petite little creatures because of this dream-like taste it would have. Because of this impenetrable innocence that surrounds the dream, because anything little, let it be a child or a puppy or any other fellow that’s new to the world, can’t possibly be able to grasp anything beyond what is an innocent view of the world free from the reality that can be, well, slightly depressing.

I can just imagine a delicate fairy wandering through the forest, only to find a bed to rest on, and sleep away her own troubles for an hour or two and suddenly everything’s all better, and to us, or at least I know to me, there is no life more perfect.

Unfortunately that’s just not how it goes, right! Back to my awaiting textbook. Bleh.

What would you do if you were to stumble upon this little bed? You have an hour to yourself. How divine.

*m

{my photos}
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