The Memories of Raindrops and Sunbeams


The weather has a memory. It remembers how we feel, just as the sensations it generates are buried in our minds.

Mother Nature remembers what thoughtful fancies flit through your mind when the clouds look like nests composed of cotton candy.

How your heart leaps, aches, thrills, or yearns when the sunlight is just so or the cool wind caresses the back of your neck.

It remembers how the scent of fall causes anticipation to bubble up in your soul.

How a park freshly carpeted with undisturbed snow can fill you from your toes to your crown with peace at its silence.

It remembers the way your heart beats a little bit quicker with something indescribable when the early-morning  sun races across the horizon to warm and caress your face in that one particular way.

How the blossoms of the dogwoods sparkle like stars in the moonlight, forming new constellations as they fall around you.

For this is the reason that Nature wields and weaves such a vast palette: not only for the nurturing of life but for the nurturing of the human soul.

Reading my Soul


I had a thought today, as I was driving, about how I write. I pictured reaching into myself, taking my soul in my hands, and turning it around, examining it. Sometimes I feel like Quorra in Tron: Legacy, watching Flynn draw out a corrupted line of her code to examine the damage. I draw out lines within my soul and it is from these bits and pieces, these lines and stories, that I write.

As I write, I take my soul in my hands, its glowing orb warm and pulsing with my own heartbeat, strong and delicate at the same time. It is the heart of me, the seat of my being, everything that makes me me. When I am done here, I will put my soul away until it is filled with inspiration and bids me take it out and turn it over again.