I am much more of a night owl than a morning bird. I love the quiet whined down after a long loud day. Because of that, I have only caught a very few sunrises, yet, they are a miracle that happens every day.
What beauty have you been missing out on? Why?
I think it’s okay to be a night owl, and now catch every sunrise, as long as I remember it still happens, and it’s a gift.
I love to watch the shadows grow. Some times the time goes fast and sometimes is crawls, but it’s always a blessing to watch.
When we rest, the world doesn’t stop spinning, time doesn’t stand still. But something inside of us changes and slows, and maybe even grows. Have you felt it?
Sometimes I feel like an overturned cup of confetti… Until I remember cups are for holding liquid, not everyone else’s bits and pieces. Confetti wants to be thrown around, shared, and bring colour to the world.
Remember, it’s okay to throw those bits around, as long as you clean up after the party is over.
Dwelling Literary has again redecorated and on July 1st my piece, Lovers Getaway dropped as part of their BEACH HOUSE Issue.
BEACH HOUSE will continue to be an interactive experience on the home page for the month of July, after which all included pieces will remain in their Archives.
Dwelling literary continues to be a great sight to interact with and write for on a monthly basis. I encourage all of my friends to check out there monthly themes. Thank you!
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Trees are more like people than we often think. They hide so much beneath the ground, just like humans hid part of themselves behind pretending.
Beauty, intricate personalities, strangeness, connectivity, how we and they reach out for each other.
It’s often not until something unwanted, something uncomfortable happens and washes away the dirt, that we get a glimpse of what a person is really like. Sometimes, it’s not pretty. Other times, it reveals amazing things.
Not all buried things are bad or ugly. Even when beautiful there are things that need to STAY burred to grow properly, other things need to be protected for a.
But then, after growth, they need to be pulled up, and out, before we can use them.
I wonder what carrots think when they are harvested?
There is something about the color orange.
It inspires and glows. It’s joy to pull orange things out of the dirt, and pluck them from a branch.
Was it a shriek of delight or fear? She didn’t know as it forced its way from her chest to the cavity of her mouth. A little heart pounded the rhythm of it as it bubbled into an audible note.
“Stay back. You can’t catch me.”
The floor moved. The carpet rippling right before her eyes. Its colours swimming and shifted, a living thing.
“Hurry!” the others yelled at her as they bounced up and down in excitement. “Its rising!”
She stood on her pillow, feet sinking into its marshmallow softness. She danced like a cat.
“Now, May!”
Her body moved before her mind, responding to the call. The marshmallow softness was her downfall. Toes slid, the truth of its betrayal apparent in a second that stretched to an hour in a single heartbeat.
“No.”
White sock stained brown on the bottom touched carpet. Hands held before her broke the fall, and she giggled with gleeful horror as the waves of colour splashed.
“She’s done for.” The pain in Carter’s voice rocked her back to reality. His terror was exaggerated, but real.
Another scream bubbled out as her ankles were grabbed and the friction of carpet on prone stomach threatened a burn.
“I’ve EATEN you May!”
The blanket muffled the voice, rainbow patterns shifting with movement.
“You have to join me.” “I know, I know.”
Her breathless reply held only a mite of disapproval. Her chest still rose and fell with heavy adrenaline induced gasps. She grasped the offered corner of his blanket, eyes sparking.
“The worm GROWS!”
They yell the words together. The trumpet of doom.
I have always loved the simple things in life. A nice sharp crayon. A heavily weighted paper.
Yet the latter never belonged wrapped around the other, even in my child mind. I would unwrap each individual crayon so that the whole could be used for making my pictures.
As an adult, I am learning how to unwrap my own label and use all of me.
I would also look for the darkest part of the driveway, or church parking lot to scribble out my creations in calk. They just never looked as good on the light gray of normal cement slabs.
Contrast is still important. It helps us see details we would otherwise miss.
The way you look at things makes all the difference. It’s not about changing truths, but seeing what God really intents for each of us. If I believe he has had a plan for me since the dawn of time, then every mark, stain, and wrinkle has been accounted for. He WILL use all of them.
As the guitarist placed a pick on metal strings, the first notes of music were born. Together, they made chords. Waves wrapped around each other, then dove into the blackness of guitar’s belly.
A single Wave came awake. Was it particles all clumped together? No. It was sound. A singleness that moved and bounced and collided with its siblings within the darkness.
“Were did the light go?”
At the moment of birth, was brightness. Then speed swallowed light, and shadowed hardness housed multitudes, and became Wave’s world.
The journey changed Wave. With every bounce it slowed, or speed up. It brushed, or joined, then ripped away from a sibling. When this happened Wave warped.
It was pain and pleasure. An existence of experience crammed within small spaces, and fragments of time. Edges of knowing were fuzzy. If Wave had known what time was, it would have seen its lines. It followed them, unaware.
“Where is the light?”
Can a wave remember? This one was searching for something. A doorway? Freedom? There!
The abruptness of existence ceased and Wave sprang past metal strings to bright openness.
It sliced past dust particles suspended in air and rocked them with its wake. They danced and waved goodbye.
The lines of time directed Wave’s path, and in a blink it knew a human. It stretched within the openness, only to fold across the mass of skin and hair, seeping through fabric to touch warmth and disappear.
As Wave broke apart upon the mountain of flesh, it found a tunnel. Small, hot, yet soft. A shard of Wave reverberated down this narrow well. It touched taught skin and changed again.
Wave was tinny, yet it filled the entirety of a human. It shivered between skin and bones, liquid lines that reached out and sought understanding. It joined with electricity and plasma to become the flesh that had taken it in.
A pulse, heartbeat, and tap of toes. A movement with a smile. It knew and breathed and in the absorption of self, it touched a soul, and became whole.
“Play it again for me, please?”
The guitarist chuckled, and again set pick to metal, birthing chords that split as fingers held down strings and a human heart sang without words.
Learning to grow in silence can be hard. Sometimes we think all the action happens when our lives are spinning at a crazy pace. But we still grow in silence. It’s like a child doing most of his growing while asleep.
Or a brain learning when it’s allowed to be bored.
When WE are silent, the world doesn’t stop its own babbling. In the echoes of our human noise, we often miss how our world speaks to us, sings to us, even prays with us.
Maybe it’s because I am getting old, but I breathe better in the quiet.
Mary Grace Writing 