My mother died of pancreatic cancer in 2014. On one of my final visits with her, she told me that in her youth she had dreamed of becoming an artist. Her sister had followed that path, but my mother had not. She had let go of her dream until, a few years before her death, she began to paint for the first time since her childhood. She painted through the pain of both her physical and mental illnesses. The picture featured here is my most cherished of all her works. I have dubbed it The Amber Tree:
My favourite passage in The Alchemists’ Council–the final paragraph of Chapter Six–centres on Jaden’s revelation about amber. The scene takes place in the Amber Garden, the most tranquil and exquisite of all the landscapes within Council dimension. The garden is filled with “resin-imbued trees” that transform into a “glistening spectacle” in the evening light (xi; 321). The Amber Garden is also a place of mourning for the alchemists, a place where they openly shed their tears.
The connection between tears and amber is as ancient as Council dimension. In one Greek myth, for example, “Phaeton’s sisters, the Heliades, lament his fate and are turned into poplar trees on the banks of the river, and their tears turn into amber” (Mythography). This and other amber-related myths can be read via the Amber Museum.
At my mothers memorial, many of her friends laid roses on her urn. She loved yellow roses in particular. Instead of rose petals, I sprinkled small beads of amber to represent my tears. She would have appreciated their connection both to her painting and to my writing.
My mother could not have known at the time of its creation what her Amber Tree painting would mean to me now. She died two months after I signed the contract for the book and two years before the book was published. But she knew that I had written it, and she knew it would be published. I explained the synopsis and told her that I would always think of her tree as one of the trees in the Amber Garden. Though precious to me, I did not keep the painting. I gave it to the only other person I knew would understand it and treasure it as much as I do: my editor.
I cried today. And consequently I made a decision based on the Amber Garden scene. Each time I am hurt by someone’s words, I will move an amber bead from the butterfly pouch (another symbolic gesture to my mother) to a glass jar. Today’s tears are represented by the first amber bead placed therein. As the years pass, the jar will fill. But perhaps, as in The Alchemists’ Council, these amber tears will one day be alchemically transformed into an exquisitely beautiful creation. Long live the Quintessence.
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4 thoughts on “The Amber Garden”
A lump developed in my throat reading your passage. What a lovely tribute to your mom. I’m always amazed at the different uses people find in materials. I love the warmth of amber in my hands. The pieces I use are from 30 some years ago when I considered myself a bead artist. Recently, I put the beads together in a necklace and read a lot about amber again. Your story is very touching. Thank you for sharing.
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Judy, I’m thankful you dropped by, appreciated the amber connections, and took the time to comment. 🙂