The Well That Reflects Souls (Το Πηγάδι που Αντικατοπτρίζει Ψυχές)

-From The Meletic Tales.

Far above the olive valleys of Attica, beyond the thickets where shepherds seldom tread and higher still than the vineyards that clung to the hillsides like ancient souls, there lay a lonely plateau hidden in the emerging fog and silence. No path led clearly to it. The few who knew of it spoke of the journey, as one taken not just by the feet but by the soul. They called it To Anemiston Pedion—'The Unmeasured Plateau'.

At the centre of this high, untamed place stood a stone-ringed well. It had no actual name carved upon it, no signs of ownership or temple offering, yet it endured. Birds did not sing near it, nor did grass grow close to its stones. The water within was said to be too clear, too deep, as though it had no true bottom. When people gazed into it, some saw stars—not reflections, but stars that pulsed and shimmered like hearts beating within the profound abyss.

There were stranger tales too. Stories of those who, after peering too long into the stillness, stepped forth and vanished into the light, not as though falling, but as though ascending. Some people called the well a gateway. Others, a riddle that could not be answered.

In a coastal village south of Marathon lived a blind man named Philostratos, known for his patience, silence and gentle voice. He had not always been blind, although his eyes had lost vision before his tenth year. He remembered only faint glimmers of the world: sunlight on water, the red of a pomegranate split open and the outline of his mother’s face.

In his youth, people pitied him for his condition. In his maturity, they sought his advice. He spoke little, but when he did, it was as if the very earth paused to listen closely. There was in him a strange clarity—something that made others feel transparent under his enchanted expression, even though his green eyes no longer saw.

One evening, as the cicadas fell silent and the sea wind ceased, a merchant came to Philostratos and said: 'I have seen a well on a high plateau that does not reflect the sky but something else. You should go there in person'.

Philostratos nodded. 'Where truth lies silent. Sometimes the soul must listen', he said.

With only a walking staff and the guidance of his niece, Xenia, Philostratos set out. The journey took days. They crossed dry riverbeds and shadowed ravines, sleeping beneath olive trees and listening to the breath of the wind. Kallianeira would describe the land to him, but often he would smile and say, 'I know it. It tells me more through its silence than words ever can'.

When at last they reached the plateau, the mist greeted them like a memory returning to its place. The well stood where the earth seemed to hold its breath, round and solemn, as if it were waiting for them.

Xenia led him to its edge. The stone rim was cool, worn smooth by countless hands. He reached out and touched it gently, his fingers tracing the contours, as if reading a sentence written in ancient time. Then, without a word, he drew the iron ladle from its chain, filled it with the well’s still water and drank.

The water tasted of nothing—but its sheer silence moved through him like the wind through tall grass.

That night, Philostratos did not sleep. He sat cross-legged beneath the stars, his face tilted skywards. His niece asked if he was well.

'I am listening, and for the first time, the soul speaks back', he uttered.

When they returned to the village, something had shifted. Philostratos began to speak of things he could not have known—of the sorrow hidden in the heart of the fisherman’s son and of the guilt buried in the merchant’s dreams. He did not know these people's hidden secrets. He only said: 'There is a light in you. I do not see it with my eyes, but I feel its weight and its shape'.

People began to gather where he sat. He told no fortunes, gave no predictions and claimed no divine wisdom. He only spoke of a silence within, and of a certain light that does not burn but emanates like To Ena, the One.

'You are more than breath and thought. There is something within you that remembers what you are, even when you forget. That thing is not mind. It is not even soul. It is awareness. It is what the well showed me to reveal to the world', he would acknowledge.

Some called him blest. Others mocked him. Philostratos became the conversation that everyone who knew his story was discussing.

A scholar from Athens visited and asked: 'Do you claim that the well is divine?'

Philostratos replied, 'No, it is not divine. It is the stillness between thoughts. It is not the well itself that matters, but the way it teaches you to listen. To Ena is not above. It is within. It reflects through what we call the soul'.

The scholar laughed. 'You say this without even seeing it. How can this be?'

'I do not need to see with my eyes. The soul sees differently, and that is the truth you do not trust'.

Despite the laughter, the scholar did not leave unchanged. He could not believe the words of a blind man.

Soon, word of the blind seer spread beyond Attica. Visitors travelled from Elis, Boeotia, and even distant Ionia to hear him speak in person. Not to hear commands or doctrines, but for the calm with which he named the light in others. Some returned home quietly altered. Others chose to make the journey to the well themselves, hoping to see the same thing that the blind man had professed.

A young potter from Chalcis arrived one spring morning and said, 'I looked into the well and saw no stars. Only shadows'.

Philostratos nodded. 'Then it showed you what lies in you still unseen'.

A widow named Eurydike climbed the plateau and returned trembling. 'I felt a warmth. As though the world breathed through me and in my soul'.

'Then you listened truly, not just with your ears, but with your soul', Philostratos told her.

Not all were so accepting. A rhetorician accused him of spreading illusions and mysticism.

'There is no proof of what you say. You take metaphor and claim it as reality', he accused the blind man.

Philostratos unmoved answered, 'It is reality you confuse with metaphor. You live amongst images and mistake them for the truth. The soul does not argue. It reveals things that people attempt to conceal with their vanity'.

He never charged a single coin, nor did he seek followers. Those who believed began to share a simple practice: to sit in stillness, eyes closed, seeking not visions, but presence. They called themselves blepontes, 'the inwards watchers'. They became Meletics.

As Philostratos’ reputation grew, so too did the diversity of those individuals who sought him out. One crisp autumn morning, a traveller arrived at the village, clad in a cloak of deep indigo and carrying a polished staff tipped with silver. He introduced himself as Sosigenes, a scholar from Athens renowned for his mastery of rhetoric and dialectic.

Sosigenes approached Philostratos with a wary respect. 'Blind seer. I have come to question your claims about the well and the soul. How can a mere well reveal actual truths that the mind, with all its wisdom, cannot see? Surely what you speak of is nothing more than a fanciful superstition'.

Philostratos smiled gently. 'Sosigenes, wisdom is not measured by how much one knows, but by how deeply one listens. The well does not speak in words, nor does it show visions to the eyes. It reflects the essence within, the light that the soul alone can perceive'.

Sosigenes scoffed. 'Essence, soul, light—these are but shadows of language. How does one prove such things? Can you bring forth evidence that satisfies reason and intellect?'

'Is a lantern in the dark, but it does not create the light. The well does not provide evidence as a scholar seeks in scrolls and tomes. Instead, it invites you to sit in silence, to become still, and to see with that which is beyond seeing,' said Philostratos.

Sosigenes frowned but was intrigued. 'If I sit by this well, what shall I find in my search?'

Philostratos gestured to the distant plateau. 'You shall find not the stars above, but the stars within. The well mirrors not the heavens, but the depths of your own soul. To see this, you must look not with your eyes, but with your whole being'.

Curious despite himself, Sosigenes agreed to journey with Kallianeira to the plateau. The path was steep and silent, the mist curling like spirits around their feet. When they reached the well, Sosigenes gazed into its depths, expecting only the reflection of the sky.

Instead, something shifted in him—a subtle stirring, like a forgotten melody waking in the soul he bore.

Philostratos watched quietly. 'What do you see?'

Sosigenes hesitated. 'It is not stars, nor shadow. It is… a feeling. A pulse. As if the well breathes with life'.

Philostratos nodded. 'That pulse is awareness—the spark of To Ena, the One, flowing through all things of life. You see it because it has always been within you, since your birth'.

For hours, Sosigenes sat beside the well, his mind quieting, his breath steadying. He no longer sought answers from words, but from the stillness itself.

When they descended the plateau, Sosigenes was changed. 'I came to question, but I leave with a deeper question: Who am I, beyond thought and sight?'

Philostratos smiled. 'The question is only the beginning of the journey. The well shows us not what we want to see, but what we need to know to be wiser'.

Word spread of Sosigenes’ transformation. Scholars and poets alike pondered the tale of the well that reflects souls. Thus, the circle of seekers grew, each bringing their own questions, each learning to see with the soul.

The legend of Philostratos and the well that reflects souls lived on—not as a divine story of miracles, but as an inspiration to awaken to the light within, to the unity that binds all things, and to the eternal truth of To Ena.

In the days that followed, Sosigens remained in the village, his nights filled with quiet contemplation. He sought out Philostratos’ closest followers, the blepontes, eager to learn their practice of stillness and inwards watching.

One evening, as twilight painted the sky in hues of rose and gold, Sosigenes approached Philostratos with a new question.

'Master', he said softly, 'if the well reflects the soul, how do we know when we are truly seeing? How do we distinguish the light from the shadows within us that are present?'

Philostratos regarded him with gentle eyes. 'That is the journey of each seeker. The soul is a vast ocean, with calm depths and turbulent waves. To see truly is to learn patience—to wait without expectation and to listen without the need to pass judgement'.

He paused, then continued, 'The light that you seek is not separate from the shadows. They are two currents in the same sea. To embrace the One, you must embrace both, for only then does the soul find its true shape in life'.

Sosigenes nodded slowly, the weight of this wisdom settling into his innermost soul and thoughts.

As night deepened, the stars above seemed to echo Philostratos’ words, flickering like distant beacons in the vastness. Beneath their silent gaze, the well shimmered—not just with reflected starlight, but with the countless souls of those who had looked within and found themselves anew.

One winter, Philostratos returned to the plateau alone. Xenia, grown and married now, begged him not to.

'I am not alone, I go to listen again', he assured her.

The air on the plateau was thin and sharp. The well stood as it always had, unmoved by the centuries. Philostratos knelt before it, placed both hands on the rim and whispered, 'What more can I learn, old friend that time is my witness?'

There was no voice. No vision. Only stillness. In that stillness, he felt it: the soft descent of awareness into the very depth of being. The well was no longer a thing in the world. It had become a mirror of the inner vastness. It reflected not heavens, nor futures, but genuine essence.

'To Ena is the well within the soul', he whispered.

He did not descend the plateau again. Days later, travellers found him seated beside the well, a faint smile on his lips, his face lifted to the mist. He had passed gently, as though exhaling the world.

They buried him there, in silence, beneath a cairn of white stones. No epitaph was carved, but someone scratched a phrase on a nearby rock: 'Look not to see, but to understand'.

The years passed. The tale of Philostratos became quiet legend. The well remained. Some people said the stars in it shone brighter than ever. Others said they saw their own faces glowing faintly in its depths, not as they were—but as they could eventually become in their lives.

Even generations later, children sat on stones beside the well and listened to elders speak of the blind seer who saw more than sight allowed. A mosaic was once laid near the rim, depicting a single open eye within a heart. Below it, a phrase written in old Attic script: 'Awareness is the bridge of all light. For it holds the truth'.

Still, when the wind is quiet and the moon high, wanderers say they hear clear whispers from the stone. Not words, but invitations: to sit, to listen, to see.

The tale of Philostratos, like many Meletic stories, is not about proving a truth but discovering it inwardly. It invites the listener to look beyond appearances, beyond even thought, into the heart of awareness. The well is not sacred because of what it shows, but because of what it awakens: a silence that listens, a soul that remembers and an awareness that flows naturally through all existential things.

Meleticism teaches us that we are not merely observers of the cosmos, but participants in its unfolding occurrences. The stars are not only above—they are within. To Ena the One, is not far off. It is always present, revealed only to those people who see with their souls.

Perhaps, as Philostratos once said, 'The well does not grant visions. It reminds you that you are one, and in that oneness, you find yourself'.

The years turned into decades. The village that once lay quiet became known to travellers not for its market nor its temples, but for the echo of stillness carried from a forgotten plateau. Visitors continued to come—not in droves, but in thoughtful trickles—drawn not by miracles, but by a story whispered from mouth to ear of a blind man who had once seen beyond mere sight. Meleticism had begun to spread its philosophy unto others.

A humble shrine of stone was raised near the well, not for worship, but for contemplation. Its walls bore no idols, only carved phrases from those who had come and gazed and left changed. A bronze plaque weathered by time read: 'To Ena is not above nor below, but always present'.

Some visitors came hoping to see visions; others came only to sit. A few saw nothing at all and left disappointed. Many of them returned, years later, their lives gentler, their speech more deliberate, as though they had begun to see the world not as pieces, but as a whole in its essece.

Amongst the blepontes, it was said that Philostratos never truly left. In the hush before dawn, his presence could still be felt—an unseen hand upon the shoulder, a breeze that stirred the soul rather than the leaves.

One child, quiet and wide-eyed, claimed she had dreamt of him. 'He told me that we are the wells now. The stillness is in us all', she said.

The Meletic tale endured. It was not a mere memory or a sign of divine will, but as a living thread in the weave of those who sought the inner path. For as long as hearts beat and minds dared to listen beyond thought, the well would remain—not in stone alone, but in the silent space of awareness where all things begin, and all things eventually return.

There, in that stillness untouched by time, the seeker might drink—not with lips, but with soul, and what was drawn from the well was never water, but the remembrance of being itself: clear, quiet and endlessly flowing. To those individuals who approached without vanity or haste, the well revealed not answers, but clarity—the kind that rises like mist and settles deep within. It spoke not in language, but in rhythm, in the way the breath slows, and the gaze softens.

For in the Meletic way, truth was never seized—it was received, like sunlight entering a still room. Those people who understood this did not speak often, but when they did, their words bore the gentle weight of the eternal revealed in the finite things of nature.

Such people were not always known by name, nor did they seek to be. You could find them at the edge of fields at dawn, watching how mist curled along the earth, or listening to the wind speak through pines. They were weavers, potters, wanderers—souls who had come to understand that the world spoke in gestures, not in declarations.

One elder woman, known only as Persephone, was said to sit each morning by a stream near the foot of the hills. When asked what she heard in the running water, she would smile gently and say, ‘It says nothing—but it does not lie’. She spoke little else, but the villagers claimed that birds lingered near her longer, and children who played by her feet would grow strangely thoughtful, as though her stillness settled into them.

The Meletic way, after all, was not about appearing wise, but about becoming inwardly transparent—clear enough for the light of To Ena, the One to pass through. Truth was not thunder. It was a silence that fell when the soul ceased striving, when thought bent low enough to listen.

Those people who listened—truly listened—found in silence the whole cosmos unfolding.

She rose without haste, leaving the lamp burning. Its glow lingered long after she was gone, casting gentle shadows across the earth—like words never spoken, yet always understood by the soul.

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