NaBloPoMo

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 14: Fleurs du Mal

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Tonight, I reached up onto my shelf and drew down one of the most beautiful books I own: a leather-bound copy of The Flowers of Evil (Fleurs du Mal) by Charles Baudelaire, the poems translated into English. I first became aware of these poems when a friend had his character in a forum rpg (so deep and mysterious, that one) send the book to my character. And then, suddenly, I find this book in the store. I couldn’t resist it, couldn’t leave it behind, and it has become one of the favorites, one of the few books of poetry in my collection. Below is my favorite poem in the volume.

= = =

The Cat

Come, beautiful creature, sheathe your claws;

Rest on my amorous heart,

And let me plunge in your marvelous eyes,

Of mingled metal and agate.

When my fingers caress at leisure

Your supple, elastic back,

And my hand tingles with pleasure

From your body’s electric contact,

I see to see my mistress. Her regard,

Like yours, nice animal,

Deep and cold, cuts and thrusts like a sword,

And from her feet to her head’s dark coronal,

A subtile air, a dangerous perfume,

Swim round her brown body’s dusky bloom.

 

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 13: Corner Table

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‘Why do so many stock photos of girls in coffee shops have them sitting with their chin in their hands, looking dreamy or wistful or even morose?’

It was a brief wondering that flit through her head as she sat in – what else? – a coffee shop. It was a warm respite from the world that blustered and blew outside. Her book sat splayed on the table, held down by her left hand as her fingers surround and drum softly on the saucer of her cup of smooth vanilla chai. The steam curls cunningly from the cup, just as the words of the story coil their way into her brain, filling it with characters that she was, admittedly, quickly falling in love with. She cut a rather lovely figure sitting there at her table, in her boots, stockings, skirt, and sweater, her body angled out to allow her to cross her legs. Suddenly, there was a bump against her ankle that drew her out of her world with a start!

“I am so sorry!” came a voice. Unfamiliar, male, but unmistakably apologetic. “Really, I am so very sorry!”

She looked up to find a pair of bright eyes and apologetic smile meeting her own brown-eyed gaze. He bent then to retrieve the offending culprit: a streusel muffin, now more the worse for wear. “Alas, poor Yorick…” the young man intoned, holding up the crumbly confection before depositing it on his plate. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to dive-bomb you with my snack.”

She found herself smiling without reservation, bending down to brush off her ankle with a chuckle. “No, no. It’s all right. I’m just sorry that your muffin didn’t make it.”

“Probably for the best,” he replied, poking the bygone muffin with a quirk of his mouth. He then glanced at the book, which had fallen closed on her tabletop. “Lackey. Is that her new one?” he then asks.

“Oh, yes. One of them. I haven’t gotten Blood Red yet,” she replied with a smile, “Are you a fan of the Elemental Masters?”

“I’ve read a few, yes,” he replies. Then, as if suddenly remembering that he was standing, he indicated the seat across from her, “Excuse me, may I?”

She nodded in acquiescence and he seated himself, introductions made all round and nicely. They fell into conversation as naturally as tripping on the sidewalk, and it soon spanned a myriad of topics and a plethora of stories.

Dark was starting to fall, the lights on the street outside blinking into being and the building windows starting to glow.

“I should go,” she said, reluctance lacing her voice.

He didn’t try to stay her but they said their goodbyes nicely, shaking hands all round. Then he handed her back her book, which he had borrowed from her for a moment.

“I’ll have to thank that muffin for its uneven bottom and well-time dive,” he said, giving her that smile again, “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, too,” she replied, settling her creamy-colored hat over her dark hair.

He helped her on with her coat, held the door for her, wished her well, and then she stepped out once more into the cold. Her book was cradled under her arm, her hands tucked tightly into her pockets. Little did she know the book was carrying a brand new bookmark within its pages: a simple napkin pressed privately into service, waiting to be found twenty pages onward.

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 12: Discussing the Other

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Pinned by Kimberly Fitch – http://www.pinterest.com/pin/217439488234406857/

Author’s Note: This is my latest article published by The Well Written Woman.

As I told the editors upon submission, I was working on this article a month ago and, then, it didn’t feel like the right time to publish it. So I published a small statement on love instead. I cannot really explain why. But, a few nights ago, as I opened up Word on my laptop, I was drawn to open and revise this article again. This is an intensely personal work for me and that makes me nervous to send it out into the world, in all honesty. But I hope that, somehow, somewhere, it makes a positive impact.

= = =

“Life is constant rewriting and revision. It’s a good thing I like to edit.”

Not too long ago, I said this to a friend in response to his sharing a picture with me on Facebook. The picture was a quote admonishing that great writers aren’t necessarily great first-drafters but great rewriters. My friend asserted that the quote was applicable to a great many things in life and I find that I must agree. I have found my life and my very self to be in a constant state of re-evaluation and revision. From my sense of self, to a more personal understanding of my faith and calling in life, to my relationships, friendships, and the way I relate to others, amongst other things.

Over the past three years, I have been able to observe some pretty intense shifts in society: some notables are states legalizing same-sex marriage, the resurgence and redefinition of the feminist movement, and the cases for and against religion. One of the hottest button topics of late, though, is sexual orientation. Whether you are hereto, homo, bi, or trans (sexual or gendered), American society has become largely more open and accepting of your orientation than in the past. This is a pretty significant cultural shift. But, as with just about every major cultural shift – from a heliocentric solar system to the abolishment of slavery to women’s suffrage – it is not without its share of battles. The world is so loud with voices crying for acknowledgement and others rising in anger and protest (on both sides) that I do not know where my voice fits or if it should even be heard. Writing this, it’s scary for me because I know the chances of it backfiring and those angry voices, whichever side they may come from, growing louder and becoming directed at me, my intention notwithstanding. But hear me now. I am not here to comment on the politics of or rights for differing sexual orientations. I am not here to talk about civil unions or marriage or legalities. That is above my pay grade. I am here to talk about people.

When I was a young girl growing up in a deeply conservative community, there was no such subject as sexual orientation. Nothing deviated from hetero on that score, not to my limited knowledge, and no one discussed anything ‘other’. It wasn’t until I was in graduate school and afterward that I had friends who were willing and felt comfortable enough to be open with me about such things. Right now, I would dare to speculate that a good third of my current friend base would classify themselves as belonging to a sexual orientation other than hetero. It was an entirely new experience for me and I found myself woefully unprepared. I did my best to observe these individuals and tried to listen closely when they spoke about their lives growing up, their decisions, and their lives now. As a Christian, I grew up hearing sermons about and reading the passages that speak against homosexuality, yes. But, also as a Christian, I am reminded that it is not my place to make judgment calls on other people’s lives, the state of their souls, or their relationships with God. “Do not judge, or you too will be judged.”[i] I know what it is to be disparaged against, to have the choices I have made or the way I live my life judged and found wanting by others, for the sheer reason that I choose to be a Christian. Therefore, I try to uphold my friends, any friends, whenever I can. Not with shouting or with soapboxing, but with an acknowledgement of their wonderful qualities as a person.

I have friends of faith, friends of purpose and drive, friends of talent and heart. I have friends who are brilliant people and far outstrip me in intelligence. People who have helped, loved on, and cared for me when I needed someone most. They have sat with me – online and in person – and kept me company all day when I was on bed rest at the end of my pregnancy. They have brought me adorable gifts just to see me smile. They talk with, listen to, and encourage me when I am in need of a gentle, kindly heart. I have friends who are blessings in my life.

Their sexual orientation has nothing to do with this.

Their humanity does.

Their willingness and desire to have an impact for good in this world does.

One of my dearest friends, a young gay man, is one of the first people I call or text when I am in a rough spot and in need of prayer. He is one of the deepest men of faith that I know, and I often find myself humbled by him and his joy in life and constant work to learn and grow closer to God. I cannot tell you how uplifted I am by his presence in my life.

I know who I am, I know what I believe, and I know what my calling is: to love others. How can I be faithful to that calling if I am judging someone behind my words and actions or seeking to change them through our interactions? That’s simple: I can’t. Will we agree on everything in their lives or in mine? Nope. That is part and parcel of being humans with free will. However, I believe that the question of sexual orientation and its role in the acceptance or denial of people has become a wedge in a faith whose greatest calling is to love others. These are people with lives and families and faiths and convictions, hearts and souls, and beautiful ones at that. They are my friends, my neighbors. Divine appointments do not come in a simply-wrapped box but with all the trimmings and trappings of lives lived in a myriad of ways. One’s sexual orientation or choice of lifestyle does not change their humanity or their need for love, patience, peace, support, faithful friendship, kindness, and relationships in this life.

Jesus taught that the greatest commandment is to love God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength, and second only to that is to love your neighbor like your own self.[ii] I wonder just how many people wouldn’t have to walk through life with shattered hearts and battered souls if we held to these two all-important principles, regardless of color, race, philosophy, orientation, or creed. My parents used to tell me, “You might be the only Jesus that people ever see,” admonishing me that the way I live my life and the way I treat others will speak louder and more broadly about my beliefs than anything else. If God is love, then it is our responsibility and duty to share that love and light with others, no matter who they are. Anger and hatred and separation only produce more of the same. We are not to judge others or claim to know the inner workings of their souls or the mind of God. As I said before, that is above our pay grade. But we have every duty and reason to love them as God loves them. So I ask, I beg you. Let’s treat each other like human beings, because that is what you are. Bright, brilliant, soulful human beings.

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 11: The Shadow In My Window

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“Once Upon a Time” Peter Pan Art by and Property of Lehanan – http://lehanan.deviantart.com/

Inspired by and based on J.M. Barrie’s creation Peter Pan and Wendy.

= = =

When that shadow showed up at my window, I knew instantly what it was. Part of me didn’t want to let it in, but how can you keep a shadow out? I knew what it heralded. I knew who was coming. And what he was coming for. He was coming for me.

I had done something very foolish. No, very stupid. Everyone with a mind knew that a story wasn’t just a story. There was always something behind those fictions, something real. And he was. He was real. Pan. Barrie had conveniently left out the part about Pan also being an ancient Greek god, represented as a man, forever young, tripping and traipsing and stealing away young women for his enjoyment. I didn’t find that out until later, until after I had done my something stupid.

I had called him. I offered him my voice, since he couldn’t hear mermaids sing or fairies talk. I offered him my breaths to count by, as his days are but one endless summer. I offered him my memories to tell him endless stories. I offered him my heart since he doesn’t know love.

I had offered my life, myself, not to an ageless child bent on fun, but to the god of eternal summer. Peter Pan. Puck. Robin Goodfellow. I had given myself to the oldest of the Old Ones. And now he came to collect. I was to turn sixteen the next day. Age of consent. The beginning of adulthood. And, tonight, his shadow showed up at my window, slipped beneath the brace, and sat itself at the foot of my bed. Its master was soon to follow, stepping through a window that opened to admit him as if glad to see him arrive.

I could smell sunshine in his wake, leaves and salt spray on the wind that brought him to my room. He crouched there on the windowsill. He had eyes like flint, a mouth set in a line that would make even a smile look grim.

And, eventually, he did smile with hand outstretched, a voice lilting yet ancient. “Are you ready to fly? Just think a little happy thought and it will be over quick as winking.”

The shadow loomed and I felt cold. All I could do was stare past him to those stars, just as cold but ever bright. Second to the right and straight on to the light.

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 10: Home is where the Heart Is

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On the way home from errands today, I was listening to Michael Buble’s Christmas album (hush, I can listen to music whenever I please, regardless of season) and he began to sing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”. I always smile when I hear that song, remembering the years that I would board two to three planes to wend my way to my home with my parents for the holidays. Now, more and often, I realize that I will be home for Christmas, without ever leaving.

I have lived in Indiana for the past fourteen years, the first six of which I was in undergrad and then graduate school. Ever since I first set foot in this state, I knew I was where I was supposed to be. It wasn’t for several years that I would come to call it home, however. When I left southern Indiana and headed north of Indy for graduate school, I was homesick for my world of the past four years something terrible. I promised myself that this new city would “never be home”. I have no problem admitting that I was terribly, terribly wrong. It is most definitely home. It is where I live with my husband, where my daughter was born, where my in-laws live, where I first started my teaching career. It is where I discovered myself and crafted my life as an adult. This is home. Amongst the fields, the woods, the cities, and the surprising little towns. That’s not to say that the place where I grew up isn’t home as well. It is. It keeps my family and my memories, but it is more ‘childhood home’, where I used  to live. My bedroom in my parents’ house is a guest/craft room now, with only a few vestiges of it ever having belonged to a kid-teenager-young woman at one point. But that’s all right.

This is where my heart is. This is home. I will be home for Christmas, and that makes my heart swell.

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 9: What Might Have Been

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Author’s Note: This is part of my in-between stories for Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. Elenyaiel Windfoot is my own original character.

= = = =

What Might Have Been

~

“See that lass there? The one with the dark hair.”

“Oh, aye. What about her?”

“Didn’t you know that she was to have married Frodo Baggins?”

Old Marigold Bracegirdle almost dropped her coffee mug in amazement. “Here now, what’s all this?”

“Why, as sure as I’m sitting here, Mr. Frodo was fixing to speak to her! I could tell!” Thistle-Ann Proudfoot adamantly insisted. “That is, before his adventure and all.”

Marigold glanced again at the hobbit-lass about whom Thistle-ann spoke. She was barely 50, just past the age of maturity for a hobbit. She was of normal hobbit stature, though quite slender. She had glossy black curls caught up in a linen snood which, as soon as her mother was out of sight, she ripped off and let the curls trickle over her shoulders and down her back. Her white blouse, pale-yellow bodice and grey skirt seemed to only heighten the pink in her cheeks and made her look that much lovelier. Her emerald-green eyes danced gaily and with a silvery laugh, she disappeared through the marketplace, a half-filled basket on her arm. Soon, her mother returned only to find the spot by old Lumbertoll’s flower cart empty.

“Elen! Elenyaiel Windfoot, where be ya?” she called but to no avail.

“That’s the Took in the dear lass; just as mischievous as our dear Master Peregrin used to be, before he became all lordly and such.” Thistle-Ann commented as she returned to her coffee. “But this child is a fine hobbit-girl indeed. She took right proper care of Bag End while Mr. Frodo was gone, until those ruffians moved in. Yes, she would have made Mr. Frodo a fine wife.”

Old Marigold just glanced in the direction where the girl had disappeared and, giving an expected nod, returned to her coffee as well.

 

Up the lane at Bag End, there came a smart jangle of the doorbell. Sam left Rosie nursing Elanor and hurried to answer the door; Frodo was occupied in the study and Sam despaired of disturbing him. He opened the door quickly and there stood a pretty young hobbit on the doorstep, barely older than his Rosie.

“Good day, Master Samwise. Is Mistress Rose at home?” the lass asked.

“Why, yes, Ms. Elen. Won’t you come in?” Sam’s face lit up at the sight of his childhood neighbor.

“Oh, thank you but I really cannot linger, unfortunately. I only came to drop this by for your new daughter. I only hope it’s as pretty as her name.” With this sweet speech, Elen presented a darling linen smock of bright blue. “Congratulations, Sam!”

“Thank you, Elen. Come by again, won’t you?” He watched with a smile as she hurried off down the lane and then shut Bag End’s green door.

“Who was that, Sam?” Rosie asked, looking up from Elanor’s cradle.

“Elenyaiel Windfoot, if you can believe it,” he replied, handing her the smock and relating Elen’s greetings.

Rosie’s lovely face lit up. “Dear Elen? Are you sure? Why didn’t she stay for second breakfast?” She moved as if to hurry to the door and recall her old friend.

“I saw a half-filled basket on her arm and reckoned that she’d run away from another market trip and that her mother might be missing her.” Sam replied with a chuckle.

Rosie laughed as well, for Elen had been running away from market days since she had been a little hobbit-girl. She’d always cut around to see a friend and then return to the market before her mother left for their home on the south end of Hobbiton again.

Elenyaiel Windfoot was the daughter of Geradoc Windfoot and Lilyan Took. She was an only child, unfortunately, but enough of a handful for her parents to equal a hobbit-hole full of children. Her mother, whose family had been known for visiting with Elves, had insisted on her daughter having a lovely Elvish name, so she was named Elenyaiel, which means “Starsday”. But most fell to calling her Elen. Her family had come to Hobbiton from Marish when she was but a babe and she had known Sam Gamgee and Rosie Cotton all her life, as well as Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, to whom she was a direct cousin.

Elenyaiel had become acquainted with Frodo soon after Mr. Bilbo Baggins adopted him as his heir and brought him to live at Bag End. Elen had also been a help to Mr. Bilbo as a housekeeper of sorts for a short while, especially around the time of his eleventieth birthday. She’d flown round the elegant hobbit-hole, making sure that things were kept in order and that not too many visitors bothered dear old Bilbo, who was grateful for her help.

As she’d grown up knowing Frodo, Elen had noticed many things about the young hobbit that struck her fancy. Being quite Tookish herself, she understood his curious moods and his desire to see the world outside the Shire; but, unlike Mr. Frodo, she had never gotten the chance to do so. She had kept quiet about the affection that had steadily grown in her heart for the young Mr. Baggins over the years, doing her best to not set hopes too high, not even daring to tell her own mother about what dreams lay sleeping.

“If it will be, it will be,” was what she always said to herself. However, she had only seen Mr. Frodo in passing since he had returned from his adventure and, along with Sam, Merry, and Pippin, had restored the Shire to its hobbits.

“If it will be, it will be,” was what she now whispered to herself as she hurried down the lane from Bag End.

 

“Sam.”

Rosie and Sam turned to see Frodo standing in the doorway, a small smile on his face and his hands stuck comfortably in his pockets as he watched them look after Elanor.

“Yes, Mr. Frodo? Did you need something?” Sam asked, ready to fly to the furthest part of the Shire if need be.

Frodo smiled broader and shook his head. “No, no. I was just going to take a walk and was wondering if you’d like to join me.”

Rosie smiled. “You two go on ahead. Now that Elanor’s asleep, it will keep you out of my way while I get things cleaned around here. Take your second breakfast with you and you can have a picnic.” She always had been a smart, practical hobbit and it was one of Sam’s favorite things about her.

Soon, the two gentle-hobbits were on their way through the paths and fields of the Shire, enjoying the morning sun on their backs and the fresh breeze in their hair.

They traveled in silence for a while but, presently, Frodo spoke, “Did we have a visitor this morning, Sam? I thought I heard the doorbell while I was in the study.”

Sam glanced up from the blades of grass that he had been looking at, “Oh, it was Elenyaiel Windfoot. She came by to drop off a dress for Elanor.”

Frodo stopped walking and sort of stared at Sam. “Elen? Really? She came up to Bag End?”

“Yes, she was running away from market day again,” Sam replied with a smile. He watched for Frodo’s reaction, having always been aware of something deep in his friend’s heart for Elenyaiel Windfoot. Frodo has spoken of it only once or twice and Sam had never pressed him, knowing that his friend would always follow his heart in the end.

As Sam watched his face, Frodo became thoughtful and quiet once again and they kept on walking. Soon, they found a pretty spot near the old Bramblebush stream in the forest and sat down to have a late second-breakfast. It was so late, in fact, that it might as well have been elevensies.

After they ate, the two hobbits sat placidly smoking their pipes (the ones Bilbo had so generously given them on their departure from Rivendell). After a while, Frodo ventured to speak again. “I was to speak to her, you know, Sam. I had planned on it, my mind was made up.”

Sam glanced up at his friend, letting the mouthpiece of the pipe slip from his lips but he said nothing.

Frodo puffed for a moment more and then lowered his pipe. “Before we left, before everything happened, I was ready. Ready to settle down, ready to speak. But now…now it would not be fair. Not now.” His fingers strayed searchingly to his neck and clasped about the white pendant that Queen Arwen had given him, as if his life depended on it.

“But why ever not, Mr. Frodo? I’m sure she would accept, even after you’ve been gone. She cared for Bag End when we left, before Saruman and his lackeys moved in. Stood up to them right proper from what I hear.”

“I know, Sam. But I just can’t,” Frodo argued gently. “Besides, it’s too late I’m sure. Elen’s probably married by now; I know that Merry’s cousin Larimore Brandybuck had his eye on her.”

Sam fairly jumped up at this, anxious for Frodo to grab this chance at finally being happy. “No, it’s not too late, Mr. Frodo!” he interjected, “She hasn’t married from what I can tell, if you follow me. You can still speak. She’s surely been waiting for you, sir.”

He paused for a moment, almost regretting his hasty words when he saw his friend’s face color a bit. Sam had not meant to embarrass him. “You know, Mr. Frodo, I think that Elen always understood you, better than even I did.” The thought made Sam smile because he knew that Elenyaiel and Frodo did indeed have similar spirits.

Frodo’s eyes lit up a bit but then faded again as he clutched the pendant even tighter as though something pained him deeply. “No, Sam. No one can understand me better than you. But I can’t speak now, after everything. I’m…I’m not well. It wouldn’t be fair to her. No, I cannot ask her to be my wife now.” With an air of finality to his voice, Frodo put his pipe back in his mouth.

Sam sighed quietly and the two hobbits smoked in silence for a while. Soon, they saw the sun start on his westward run and decided that it was time to head on back to Hobbiton. Gathering up the remains of their picnic, Sam and Frodo started on their way, puffing on their pipes as they went.

 

Several days later, Frodo was helping Sam in the garden when a merry voice hailed them over the gate, “Good day to you, Masters! ‘Tis a right fine day for being outdoors!”

The friends looked up to see Elenyaiel standing there. Her hat was in her hand and a twinkle in her green eyes as her shiny, dark ringlets poured over her shoulders. The red and white of the dress she wore gave her a sort of rose-ish look, much befitting the early-summer day.

“Elen! Good to see you!” Frodo said, smiling and walking over to the fence. Sam added his greetings but soon slipped silently inside Bag End to watch by the window.

Frodo opened the gate, holding out his hand to his old friend. “I’m sorry, Elen. I should have cut round to see you sooner. Things have been quite hectic about here with Sam marrying and becoming a father and all.”

Elen just laughed and gave his hand a hearty shake as she and Frodo sat on a bench in the sunshiny side garden. “Please, no apologies, Frodo Baggins. I understand. You must be very happy with Sam and Rosie living right here with you, not to mention little Elanor.”

Frodo nodded, smiling at the words I understand. “I am, but something has been bothering me as of late.”

Elen turned, touching his hand. “Oh? What is it? Come now, ‘fess up and we shall make it right like we used to as children.”

He looked at her, right into those sparkly green eyes of hers. “I wanted to say that I am dreadfully sorry. Sorry for not speaking when I had the chance. Sorry for leaving the Shire without telling you how I felt. But things have changed now; I have changed.”

He paused for breath but then hurried on. “Don’t mistake me, Elen. I care for you as much now as I did then but things have changed. Things I can’t explain to myself, much less to you. Things I couldn’t bear to burden you with.” There was such a look of remorse on his face that it caused tears to well up in Elen’s eyes.

“Frodo. Dear Frodo Baggins. I have loved you since that day we met in the Party Tree all those years ago. What’s more is I’ve always understood you. How or why, I don’t know, but I have. And I understand you now. You are right, Frodo; you have changed.”

She saw him wince as though the truth of his own words hurt him. “Do you remember when we used to bring wood for Mr. Bilbo from Sam’s Gaffer because he always had the best wood chips?”

Frodo nodded, the memories plain in his mind of Elen, Sam, and himself trudging up the lane with their arms full of small wooden logs.

“Remember how we shared out the load so we would all be helping with the burden? Well, things are like that now. You carry a great burden in your heart, Frodo. I can sense it. But, this time, it is a burden that neither Sam nor I can help you bear. Though I wish to high heavens I could.” At this, her eyes filled with a look of sadness that should never be the lot of any hobbit.

Elen’s voice grew softer and she took Frodo’s right hand in hers, the hand that was now missing its third finger. Her other hand she placed on his shoulder, above the Nazgûl wound, as if to address both injuries at once. “Frodo, I have loved and waited for you, and I will continue to do so. And who knows? Perhaps, someday, we shall find that place where it can be.”

Elenyaiel ended her speech with a quiet smile and a gentle, understanding look that went straight to Frodo’s heart. Somehow, he managed to smile as well.

“Thank you, Elen. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, dear Frodo.” Then, with hat in hand, she stood, all traces of the sad pain gone from her pretty face. “Now, am I correct in assuming that there is still a standing invitation for me at Bag End?”

“Of course there is! Come in, both of you, or luncheon will be cold!” Rosie’s voice carried from the kitchen, and she and Sam’s faces could be seen smiling at window.

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 8: Two and on the Move

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Today was my daughter’s 2nd birthday picture session. We decided to do it early (her birthday isn’t until next month) and get it out of the way before the Holidays get busy. It was a vastly different experience than last year because now, of course, she can move and run freely. So keeping her on task for the pictures was rough, coupled with having to switch studio rooms back and forth as they were needed by other photographers. Just another testament to her growing up. But, all in all, it turned out well and fun was had, as you can judge from below. Many thanks to the hubby for the help with wrangling.

64C

 

NanoBloPoMo 2014 Day 7: The Moonlight’s Serenade

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Did you know that moonlight has a sound? It is unlike anything known to the human ear and each person hears it differently, not to mention each region on earth having its own melody. Where I am, moonlight sounds like clean blue glass, shivering and silvery like winter sparkle, all major chords and flutey melody. Full moonlight builds like a spreading crescendo, like fingers of sea foam on sand dollar strings. Fragile and magnificent, shimmeringly beautiful.

That is how I hear moonlight, its melody sneaking into my home through window panes and sifting into my dreams. What does your melody sound like?

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 6: Undone

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Amazing how things can begin with such pomp and circumstance, such ceremony and celebration, and then can simply be undone by a pair of signatures. He sat there, looking at the papers that lay between them on the table, the ink still wet and bright on the signature lines. His hands were folded on the table in front of him, feeling strangely lighter now, at least his left one. The skin on his fourth finger was worn smooth just below the third knuckle and he rubbed it subconsciously.

How could things be undone so simply? It had been far from simple, really. It was the final process that seemed almost insultingly simple. “Sign here and it is as if it never happened.” Years gone with a pen stroke. How could it be so easy? Are all things in life so simply undone? Loves simply wished away? Memories forgotten? Do we make space in our minds and in our hearts for the future by getting rid of the past?

His mind turned over and over and over itself, none of his thoughts happy. None of them sad. Just thoughts. This wasn’t what he had planned, wasn’t how he had seen things going. But, then again, when does life ever go as we think it will? All we can do it keep walking, step by step, and do life day by day.

Hands pressing against the table, he rose slowly to his feet and left the conference room, never looking back. Life waited beyond the door. Life that had yet to be done.

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 5: A Day of Anticipation

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Today is an anticipatory day.

There’s a feeling in the sunshine, a flutter in my belly, a skipping to my heart.

I feel like I should be peeking around corners for presents and surprises.

It feels like I should be in my car – music blaring, singing at the top of my lungs with my husband – on my way to some amazing, fantastic fun.

I cannot help myself smiling.

It feels like Christmas morning, before the world – or at least my house – is awake: that anticipation and excitement that lives just as a quiver beneath your skin for that moment.

It’s that breath between heartbeats before breaking into a run. Or a dance.

Anticipation. Excitement. Warmth. Joy. For no good reason. It’s a good feeling.