Le Centre Bleu

There once was a thin stretch of land, along a crater rim, where all came to, seeking healing, wisdom and new beginnings. They called it Le Centre Bleu. It was an easy path, and none knew how, or even if it did work, but still they arrived, in numbers and galaxies. None could catch sight of what happened when someone entered the site, of what hid in the darkness of the blue, nor capture a glimpse of the wisdom and healing imparted, without going through it oneself. On the other side, all were changed, perhaps standing slightly taller, smiling a tad more, sensing something in themselves that had been grown and forever transformed, without remembering either an ounce of the core process, knowing how to handle this newness, what had happened, nor what had changed within. After, beyond, Le Centre Bleu, they had no memory of ever crossing it, confused and mesmerised, welcomed into their new reality by friends and family, curious strangers and passersby. Integrating their healing would be a subtle matter of spirit, and all had already been breathed anew. 

Decades, falling into centuries, had passed since the beginning of this mysterious tradition in the village, and soon the knowledge of how, when and why it ever started was erased from the collective memory, only to be replaced by myths and legends. They foretold, or related, the story of a daring little girl herding her goats into the lush forest, past fields, through the fence, up the rocks, into unknown territory - kavaulu they said, kavaulu, they marvelled, kavaulu their worried - up the volcano, upon a sacred and mystical land, all the way to the ridge, straight into Le Centre Bleu, in the sole company of her faithful goats. Mere minutes, and she came out on the other side, a little bouncier, a little more joyful, a little more anchored, and definitely a spoonful more herself. The goats, wise guides into the depths, remained unharmed, unchanged, albeit wearing more dust, and exhilarated by this adventure, a feeling they had long forgotten in their domesticated herd. The village welcomed her back in fear, and in awe. They had wanted to exorcise her; they had wanted her to cross once more; most ignored and discarded that something ever happened. And the little girl, anonymous in her light, lived the life she was meant to, with perhaps, a little less struggle than her counterparts.

However, time and the curious human spirit could never let it be. Young men started to follow through in her footsteps, as a dare, a quest, a rite of passage. They followed her footsteps in and out, in and out, in and out… into the truth. Then, it was the curious souls’ turn. They all braved the crossing: a wise grandmother, escapee children, depressed and desperate lovers, bored teenagers, and more, and more, and more, until even the least adventurous and curious, or the most nonchalant beings had also passed through. Soon, the village was utterly transformed from the inside out, and only the fearful, resistant, rationalist denied the change, even after experiencing themselves a safe and bright passage through Le Centre Bleu. Throughout the land, change wasn’t drastic, but it was remarkable. They were less quarrels, less petty gossip and pointless sarcasm, and the atmosphere became gently pleasant, with an air of ease and surrender that was never seen before. Not everyone went through it, oh God no, but there had been enough people to change what needed to be changed, for the village to grow peacefully from a surrendered state, and for Le Centre Bleu to become a magical, mystical and important place for all who were born here.

And soon again, as legends go, the appeal for Le Centre Bleu for adventurers of all kind, trickled down. After all, there wasn’t much to do on the physical plane of this hike: climb a few rocks, walk along the edge of the dormant volcano, cross in-between two sliding rocks and end up, somehow, someway, on the other side of the forest. “There is nothing to it, really!” they recounted, and the changes were so subtle, minimal, ungraspable to the mind, that you’d really needed to want to do it, for mysterious, and obvious reasons, to actually go through it. Long after it was born, it became a place for healers to commune with their power, for wrongdoers to seek absolution, for overt, or often covert, desperate souls to ask for help and divine guidance. It became a place of healing, one hidden in plain sight, one you came to if you needed it, if you were called to it, if you wanted it, but nevermore for the absolution of the village.

And from then on, Le Centre Bleu was where you could shed your layers, and get closer, infinitesimally and infinitely closer, to who you were. Always, and forevermore.

None outside the village would ever know about this place of wonder, and it was just as well. Some things were meant to be, as they were, in the light of themselves, not for show, curiosity, or tourism. Simply for the souls who had wandered close, by chance encounter, or for those born nearby.

Like a herd of goats, and a little girl wandering in the sun, on dark volcanic rocks, things were as needed, as fated, as graciously imagined, or chosen. Until one day, elsewhere, another site, akin to this centre, would be born, from the confine of someone’s, anyone’s imagination.