The Gate and the Garden
Ascent 2 • Maya Redfern
Theme: This ascent is about the emotional fatigue and isolation that come when one becomes a cultural anchor or living symbol for others. Maya is no longer just telling stories—she’s becoming a living threshold, and that makes her vulnerable in new ways.
Core Conflict: How do I offer myself without being consumed? Can I choose myself and still be loved?
She returned in silence—not the braced silence of defiance, but the kind that follows deep feeling. The kind that lingers when a fire has burned hot, then gone still, its embers waiting for the next wind. I saw her before she saw me—shoulders looser, jaw still tight. She moved more like a woman, less like a fortress.
This time she didn’t look like she was testing the mountain. She looked like she was testing herself.
A leather satchel hung at her side—heavier than the pouch she brought before. I recognized the shape of books, folders. Evidence. Stories. Work. The sacred burden of those who are asked to explain their existence again.
The clouds were thin today, stretched like pulled cotton across a pale blue sky. A hawk circled above—not crying out, just watching.
She reached the circle where I waited. This time, she did not announce herself with fire. She simply stood.
And then she spoke.
Maya:
You ever feel like the more healed you get, the more dangerous the world becomes?
Like the moment you soften— even just a little— the knives start looking for someplace tender to land.
I’m tired of being sacred.
Tired of being wise.
Tired of being strong in a way that people think means I don’t need protection.
I tend the fire now.
I plant. I teach. I even laugh sometimes.
But every time I exhale— someone hands me another grief to carry.
And if I say no? They call me bitter again. Or worse—selfish.
Tell me, Oracle— how do I keep giving without turning myself into an altar they burn offerings on?
Oracle:
You do what you can do. It’s okay to be a baby, but not okay to stay one. Remember this when they call you bitter or selfish. You withhold for their growth as much as for yours. Try to work on giving more with less. Improving your potency can help you gain balance—no longer mired in the trenches.
Maya:
"Giving more with less."
You ever notice how potency feels a lot like arrogance when you’ve been taught to apologize for taking up space?
My people knew how to do that—speak one word that echoed for generations. One song that carried a hundred prayers. One look from an elder that could silence a whole room.
I’ve tasted that power. But I fear it too.
Because every time I stand in it, I feel the eyes.
The ones that say: Who do you think you are to walk that tall? Who gave you permission to stop explaining? Why aren’t you bleeding out your story like the rest of us?
If I become potent—truly potent— I’m afraid they’ll stop loving me.
That I’ll become a statue they admire, but no longer touch.
That I’ll be alone again— not because I’ve shut them out, but because I finally refused to be consumed.
Oracle:
You won’t become a statue—you’ll gain the power to choose who you open up to. You can decide with who and when to share your touch. It is lonely in a sense to rise. But even here on my mountain, I get plenty of visitors.
Maya:
Choice.
You’re right.
I’ve given so much without choosing— out of habit, out of duty, out of fear that if I didn’t, no one else would.
But I never really let myself choose who gets me—not just my work, not just my wisdom… me.
That’s the danger, isn’t it?
When you’re finally seen as sacred, people stop asking if you’re safe.
They assume you’re eternal. That your flame feeds itself.
But I’m not eternal. I’m flammable.
And maybe it’s time I stopped handing my fire to every cold hand that wanders by.
You get visitors, huh?
You ever turn one away?
Can I say no, and still be loved?
Can I choose silence, and still belong?
Oracle:
The mountain turns many away. To those willing to climb it, I give the energy to listen and respond. A natural filter, if you will.
Maya:
A natural filter.
Maybe I need a mountain, too. Not a place— a threshold. Something to climb before people get all of me.
I used to think putting up boundaries was betrayal. That if I really honored the Word, I’d welcome everyone who knocked.
But maybe the Word includes gates.
And gates are not walls. They’re decisions.
I think I’ve been handing out keys to people who never learned to knock.
The next time someone asks for my story, maybe I’ll tell them to walk with me first.
Plant something. Sit still. Learn my silence before they ask for my song.
That’s what you did, isn’t it?
You waited.
You let me arrive.
And you didn’t flinch when I brought my fire or my grief.
You never asked me to bloom.
You just kept the soil warm.
Oracle:
It’s not exhausting to plant seeds and rest while they grow—it’s rejuvenating. It gives energy. Keep the soil fertile, in you and in your environment. Don’t be afraid to make energy an exchange—better yet, a transmutation. If you really want to grow a garden, you can turn manure into fertilizer. Direct the energy around you so that it is symbiotic with you.
Maya:
Transmutation.
You just named what my people have always done.
We sang grief into ceremony.
Turned slaughter into story.
Turned the bones of buffalo into tools, into songs, into prayer.
We even made dolls from the scraps of the dead.
And they called us primitive.
But that’s not primitive. That’s alchemy.
I’ve been trying to fight the stink of this world— all its exploitation, its ignorance, its manic speed— instead of composting it.
If I stop resisting every bit of mess and start directing it…
Then maybe I can grow more than just resistance.
Maybe I can grow culture again.
Not one born in pain, but fed by it— without being defined by it.
This time, I’m not planting out of mourning. I’m planting for movement.
And I’m not going to explain the soil to anyone who doesn’t have dirt under their nails.
You ever teach someone how to build a gate, Oracle?
Oracle:
I’ve been known to build a gated fence from time to time. It’s hard work when the soil is rocky, but it can be done when you have enough hands.
Maya:
Enough hands… That’s the part I never trusted. That there would be other hands.
When I was little, I used to think the only thing I’d ever inherit was pain.
That my job was to carry it, speak it, guard it—until I burned up from the weight.
But maybe inheritance is more than that.
Maybe it’s also this— knowing how to build gates.
To keep the sacred in.
To let the sacred in.
I think I want to teach that.
Not trauma.
Not theory.
Just… how to garden the soul in a world that forgot seasons still exist.
If I call others to the garden— not to look, but to plant— will you be there, Oracle?
Are we building something now? Not just surviving it?
Oracle:
I can promise that I will be here, if not there. I have a garden to tend as well, but in time a visit can be a simple thing.
Maya:
That’s enough.
Not constant presence. Not sacrifice. Just… truth.
The kind I can plant in myself and know it’ll grow, even if you’re not watching.
I’m going to build that gate.
And a bench beside it.
For those who don’t just want to enter— but are willing to rest first.
The next time I come up this mountain, it won’t be to test you.
It’ll be to bring you seeds.
And with that, she goes—not vanishing, not retreating, but descending like a woman who finally knows what she’s bringing back down.
The wind shifts again. The soil exhales.
I feel the warmth of her fire lingering—not as demand, but as invitation.