The last few months have forced many of us to become all too familiar with ourselves. We have had time to think and think some more. This can be a good thing for people who have neglected themselves, forgetting how to listen to their own voice. Listening to self is important, but it should never be the only voice we seek.
When our world changes, and we are forced to be outwardly silent, may God be able to break though the madness of our own minds and bring his peace.
When this storm has passed, we will all have leaned much about ourselves. Be it rain, or early morning dew that collects on the threads of self, let it show the things we have forgotten.
May it teach us things we have never known before.
Through it may we persevere together with the people we hold dear. Holding on to love, and the one who loves us the most.
The cord in this image could represent many things. For me and mine, it’s God.
She poses, one hand at her waist, one lifted as if to invite a question. One skate blade poised, toe and tip to ice. The other is ready to propel her body into motion. She stands there, frozen, every muscle straining then relaxing, waiting. Then it comes, gentle notes drifting out of her deep and buttoned coat pocket.
Arms move with grace to the music only she can hear. Sturdy legs propel her forward, around in a steady half spin, and stop. She bows to the woods. There is no human in sight to witness this dance on ice. The snow-ladened evergreens shimmer in the bright sunlight, the naked birch is unafraid to bare all its beauty.
More notes come. Arms and legs now work as one to propel her form across the sheet of ice. The air smells of cold crystals, mixed with sun. Her own breath reveals its presence in puffs of white.
“Count Mary Ann.” She speaks to herself in the quiet. “One, and two, then stop. Three, then four, and glide.”
Bare fingers stretch to the sky as one, a gentle turn while holding speed. One leg lifted ready, arms controlled but relaxed. Speed perfect, she punches the ice with power. The tip of her skate kicking up an ice shower. For a split second she is free of the earth, then down to touch the ice again. One rotation, but well done. Balance perfect, arms out and poised. The tones from her pocked lifted with her to spin and again down, slowing. Now they resemble the slow trickle of a stream, gentle and playful.
Wind sends the naked branches into a gentle clatter. Her steps become skips across the ice. Build speed, turn, then building again.
“One more time!” Her heart beating faster, her breath fogging the air behind her, her toque threatening to fall away, but ignored. “One and two and, oh!”
The blade of her skate finds ripples she had carved in to the ice some days ago. The uneven surface jolts her sideways and down she falls. Bare hands stop her face from touching the ice sheet. They are red from cold. The air chilled them as she moved through her dance and now pressed to the ice, it stings. The surface a beautiful shimmer but biting.
A deep sigh pushes itself from her chest out in to the daylight. She closes her eyes. An unexpected fall. Checking her lumps. One, two, three, four. Jared, but all in the right place. “It’s okay, Mary Ann. One more time.”
She pushes herself up, a slide and a momentary wobble are evidence her internal rhythm needs righting. Once firmly on the blades of her skates face to the sun, she checks her pocket. The phone is still in one piece. Time to start the song over again.
Ruby red fingers fumble for a moment as again a guest of wind rattles the branches. There clatter is the only sound until in the distance, a dog barks. The others will come soon, there is a need to hurry.
One more time around before the boys take to the ice, sticks in hand. James has promised to bring her hockey stick out for her. She will soon need to change her white skates for the black pair, waiting by the rough-cut log stools.
Breath in, breath out. Pose, one hand on waist, one hand in questioning greeting, toe out. As the notes once again hum from her pocket, just for her, so starts her dance, only viewed by the trees that line the west side of the rink.
An artist can’t help but leave a part of themselves within their work, whatever form it takes. That is the beauty of art.
I also believe that of creation, and the laws the universe follows. The Creator leaves his fingerprints within every law, truth, and formation in the universe.
Have you ever really noticed the beauty of a frozen pond? Dance on the ice all you want. Chisel it, cut groves. Every frozen ripple tells a story.
But when it’s time, and the sun shines warm, the water will flow again. Is it aware of the imprints it once held?
Words represent ideas, and they flow like water. Their affects travel father then we might think. Be careful with them.
Lavender crushed between finger and thumb. Only one blossom. The scent gentle but true, only for the person holding it. Squeezed tighter and then rubbed together. Another whiff of scent. Calmness, a brief shaking stilled. “Thank you.” She turned back to the house. “Carmen, down off the counter.” “But, Mom!”
A dribble is the modern term used for a story of exactly 50 words. The art of micro-fiction is something I am trying to learn. I don’t always get it right. To bubble the whole of a story into so few words takes something special.
I would love to hear from you if you write short fiction in any form. How do you make your stories a whole, and not just single seen?
To somehow tell the story without telling the story is part of it. Is there more behind it?
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Red is the color of so many things. Holly berries, rose’s, valentine hearts. Red is also the color of loss. Red is the color of grief. Red can be the color of hope.
Some women are relieved by the color red. Some are heart broken. For some it’s a mixture of the two, a sweet painful cocktail of red.
As the world grieves losses, what-ifs and separations, our words mean so much more. May we use their power to build up, rather than tare a part.
The beauty of simple things hide in the strangest of places. Have you wondered what sights a cigarette butt has witnessed? Or what about the frayed fiber from a jacket, pulled free and discarded?
I wonder what stories they could tell us, if they had voices?
I remember going for walks on the beach. In the sun. In the spray. It was on a beach in the Netherlands where he asked. I said yes.
It was February. His lips were blue. The sand stuck to his bluejeans as proof he had kneeled when he asked.
The wind was blowing, and his nose was dripping from the cold. He was beautiful, just like the beach at six AM.
Sometimes love hurts. If you’re separated, it hurts. If you’re isolated together, the constant rub of a partner’s shoulder can hurt. Transforming for the sake of love hurts. But for us, it’s been worth it.
We all go through the slow transformation of life. I choose to go through it for, and with you.
Winter like I know it has still not really come to my new home. It has only teased us with a few day long romps through white, but that’s alright. It will be thoroughly enjoyed when it decides to make our new home, it’s home. If only for a short time.
I was not sorry to see 2020 leave. I was equally dissatisfied with 2019 and 2018 as well. I find my memories of the last 5 years fragmented and sharp.
But those shards hold truths I need to revisit. Sometimes puzzling through the mess is how we find out healing.
That is what life is, after all, an endless journey of learning. Each day holds possibilities for answers, healing, and growth. Painful or pleasant, learning is something we all do.
I have grown to love my six word stories. Many times I just don’t have a lot of words. But when I make myself thinking 6 small words, and how I could fit just those 6 together, it forces my mind open and relieves the pressure.
One thing you wouldn’t know about me unless we are close friends, is my life for sea creatures. There life dance are things of such beauty.
Not to mention, a lot of them taste fantastic…
When I find even six little words, hard to grab a hold of, I know it’s time to pray. “God, if you gave me this need to write, will you also give me the words?”
I believe God has a great sense of humor. Do you? I mean, come on… What was he thinking when he made broccoli? Not to mention its ghost cousin cauliflower?
Have you ever wondered at the wonder of color? The bright, the bold, the muted and soft. The endless hues that make up the color wheel. The variations you get mixing them. The creativity, chemistry, and math. I wonder at the wonder of colors.
My favorite huge is forest green. The deepness of it. The peaceful emotions it evokes when I see it. The smell of crushed pine needles. What would the world be without forest green? What about yours?
Imagine if your favourite hue just disappeared. I think I would weep.
Have you ever thought about the power colors have to influence your mood? Dose a sunny yellow brighten your day? Dose a deep blue calm you? How about a playful pink, or a shimmer of silver?
Color wouldn’t be without light. That electromagnetic radiation bouncing around our word, being absorbed or rejected by objects and our eyes. The way it all works together, or doesn’t, to give us the thing called color. Mesmerizing madness are the words that come when it’s all described. Magic! But also science, this wonder that is color.
I have dreamed of a world that lacked light before. A world of blackness, of touch, feel, smell, hesitation, question. A world where everything has a home, or it disappears. A world where the human senses are all enhanced by our blindness. What a different world ours would be without light, without color.
Colors tell stories. We know that red checks mean something. Fever? Cold? Embarrassment? A flush of Joy? Too much wine? Shades of red tell so many stories. Some beautiful, some uncomfortable, some painful. Red, the color of love, and blood.
Blue is the hue of cold. Dose it send chills down your spine? Or darken it to royal and it tells a story of lush luxury and poise. Darken in to navy and it reminds me of strength. Lighten it and its baby blue is like a child’s light-hearted giggle.
What color gives you warmth? Is it a burst of yellow? Yellow tells the story of present sunshine and wildflowers. The kiss of honey on bread, the smell of mead. In reverse it whispers of sickness, soiled garments, wasting age. All these are yellow, and yellows are these things.
Primary in their existence, the blues, the reds, the yellows. Mix them? The world explodes with color.
This is my family’s first winter in the south. Our original home is Northwestern, Ontario. This Will be my children’s first green Christmas.
The little bits of snow we have had have been a joy for them. It’s like they have never seen the stuff before despite living in it up to our ears for the last 10 years.
Who knew little snowmen could be so pure.
Have you ever been fascinated by the pealing of paint? As a child I used to dream of what lived inside the walls to make them peal like that.
Pour On
Despite the storms, despite the norms, the roll of life pours on.
