There once was a pilgrim who longed to belong to something.
A brotherhood, perhaps. A society with a purpose. An organization with a charter, a seal, and a meeting every second Thursday where great matters were decided.
And at the end of a long avenue of cypress trees, he found an abbey.
Arches lit by lanterns.
A bell tower against the stars.
And a garden in perfect rows.
Here, surely, was an order. And where there is an order, there must be a purpose.
He stepped through the gate. The garden beds were labelled in neat handwriting: sage, thyme, rosemary, more thyme.
Not a weed in sight. Not a stone out of place. On the roof of the gatehouse, a small black box blinked blue in perfect rhythm.
He waited for the members to arrive. For the meeting to begin. For someone to hand him a form.
The bell rang the hour, exactly on time. Then nothing else happened, also exactly on time.
And slowly, the pilgrim understood.
Not every order has a mission.
Not every garden is a metaphor.
Some things are tidy simply because someone likes them tidy.
This is no society. No movement. No organization you can join.
It is a well-kept garden behind an old gate.
Nothing more.
So, Traveler —
There is no membership here.
No meeting.
No agenda, not even item one.
The minutes of this meeting are blank.
Go home, pilgrim.
And the thyme, at last, was left in peace.