Deia, Mallorca is a tiny village of about 700 inhabitants, nestled in between the Tramuntana mountain range and the Mediterranean Sea in a western corner of Mallorca, just north of Palma, the grand capital of this beautiful island.
In Deia there is a certain time of day, usually in the last hour of sunlight for the day, when a light shines on the Tramuntana mountain range creating the sensation of an intense red light against the rock. The light looks red, but not like candy apple red or cherry red, or fire engine red, more like the red color of mud, the ground, what mystics associate with the color of “the source,” the great mother earth. Another color associated with “the source” is the clear color of crystal or white light. Before the red light appears, when the sun shines, you can often see a bright white light that shines upon the mountain illuminating the little stone houses, the gardens and the entire village. It is interesting to note that if you mix red, blue and green paint you get a reddish brown color, or you could say the color of the earth. If you mix red, blue and green light, you get a white, bright light. Mystics believe the red color of the earth is grounding while the white light provides guidance from above and spiritual clarity.
I’ve had a few people tell me this valley is enchanted and has lots of angels. Whether or not all of this has something to do with why many find inspiration here to paint, write poetry, do photography, ceramics, jewelry and other arts, who knows? But it’s certainly true that great art has been created here.
They say that creative types are dreamers and dreamers often lack grounding. Perhaps this valley and this tiny village offers artists a perfect combination of the two, the inspiration to dream so they can produce great pieces and the grounding of the red rock and the mountains so they can bring their creations that often originate in their hearts down to earth to be enjoyed by all of us.
The most famous poet of this village is probably the late Robert Graves. Here is one of his poems about dreams, called A Pinch of Salt:
When a dream is born in you
With a sudden clamorous pain,
When you know the dream is true
And lovely, with no flaw nor stain,
O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch
You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much.
Dreams are like a bird that mocks,
Flirting the feathers of his tail.
When you seize at the salt-box,
Over the hedge you'll see him sail.
Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff:
They watch you from the apple bough and laugh.
Poet, never chase the dream.
Laugh yourself, and turn away.
Mask your hunger; let it seem
Small matter if he come or stay;
But when he nestles in your hand at last,
Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.
Many come here with dreams of creating great art or simply of having a good life by the sea, or both. Whether you’re an artist or not, living in Deia or somewhere else, Grave’s poem gives us all something real to ponder upon regarding our dreams.