(notes from my journal, forty thousand feet in the sky)

Flying inspires me. The novelty will probably never wear off for my simple mind. The fact that we wingless creatures can soar the open heights fills me with awe. The chance to explore the anatomy of the clouds, to plunge ourselves into this white, ethereal field of cotton - well, it's fun. I love the momentum of takeoff, that one second before the wheels lift and you think, "Here it comes! Go, baby, go!" as if your will and encouragement are what gives the plane that last needed push. I smile, every time, even though I try not to. What a victory for mankind! What an accomplishment! And I look around at the people who have already begun to sleep or read, and I wonder, how can you not mark this moment? Look at us! We fly! We did it! We conquered gravity!

I don't want flying to ever be commonplace to me. I don't want to pull the blind down and block out the clouds. I don't want to close my eyes against the patchworked terra firma beneath me. I want to feel the magnitude, the history, the effort, the sheer miracle, that has brought me into the sky. And if I seem naive, or inexperienced, or totally lacking in sophistication with my nose pressed against the window, I don't care. My mind is on other things- like the twisting of rivers, the geometry of corn fields, the glimmering of lakes, the cresting meringue of clouds.

The world becomes bigger as the people become smaller, and I am reminded of life beyond my own vista.

I see the world, and know that I am such a small part of it. And yet, it's exactly the way it should be. The world is too big for any one of us. It takes us all to fill up the nooks and cranies, we each hold up our own little end of the world.

What a lovely way to live, and what a beautiful sight it makes.

who swung me around to fats domino and aretha franklin and all those greats that i never knew. she was spontaneous and gorgeous and perfect and mine. she pulled me into a place that stands outside the rules - she wasn't a grown up and i wasn't a kid, we were just people for the very first time. the years between us were suspended, as we danced in the living room in the middle of the day beside the vacuum cleaner and the speakers and orange shag carpet. the whole world was right here and for a minute i saw her exactly as she is, how she was, how she'll always be on the inside. she let me in, she let me see, and i never knew why but i didn't ask. as she twirled me around to make me laugh, i loved her as i'd never loved anyone in my whole little life. she was sunshine and motion and i'll never forget it.

stream of conciousness-- i love where it takes you. back home, so long ago, when all seemed right and new and amazing. and home, now, which is also right, just right for my own wide eyed little girl who dances with her mother in the middle of the afternoon. we twirl and laugh and i remember, and i know we are all exactly where we should be.

Yesterday evening, I ran.

I ran past houses with warm lights in the windows, mothers in kitchens, fathers in yards, and children darting between the two. I peeked into their life and soaked up their happiness, their normalcy, their comfortable routines.

There was one home that was particularly poignant to me. It was no different, really, than the scores of other houses I passed, but for one thing. The view through the window showed walls and walls of shelves, filled with books from one end to the other. Ahh, I thought. Readers.

What kind of books do they read? Who reads them? Are they trophies or pillars?

As I thought these things, I wondered what people see through my windows. They don't see books. This is strange if you know me, because books prop up my life, keeping the bits and pieces balanced, harmonic. You would think my house would be overflowing. But it isn't. The few books I own are usually ones given to me that I've read but haven't had a chance to donate to the library yet.

Why is that?

Well, it's because I am not a collector of books. I am a collector of words. I hunt and gather words like a literary savage. They are crowded into my brain, archived in a messy chaos that only I can navigate. They wait patiently for employment. Innoculate. Puissance. Gratuitous. Fathomless. Melancholy. Conspicuous. These words beg for utterance, for a chance to exist, and I am sympathetic to their plight. I am helpless against their pleas, I can't bear the dying of words.

So when I saw that house, those shelves and books, I gloried in the thought that those words had found a home. They are read over and over again, until they are polished and shiny from use. With each reading, they are resuscitated from obscurity, guaranteed a few more years, a few more breaths.

My run carries me away in seconds, my glimpse into their home abbreviated by my speed. My legs move faster and I am fueled by satisfaction. There is purpose in my effort, in my tending of words. Someone cares. As writers, we release our much loved words into this wide world, hoping and praying that they find their way. We watch them wobble out, new and eager and impossibly innocent. We fret nervously and helplessly as they find their own fates.

And then it happens. Magically. Surprisingly. Someone finds them, and loves them, and gives them a home.

There are few moments in life when I am speechless, when words fail me. A blessing and a curse to be sure, this propensity to articulate my entire life. It's gotten me in more trouble than I care to remember. But in this, words fall short. They can't contain the joy they invoke in my life. Ironic, isn't it?

It's a funny thing, this love affair with words. It's bottomless, insatiable, and yet incredibly fulfilling.

It's just... wonderful.

There are moments in my life when I stand in the center of all the good things - alone in the field of my happiness, and I want to hold out my arms and spin until I'm dizzy. The blessings of my life surround me like wildflowers, and they become a bright blur as I turn faster and faster. Nothing touches me there, no troubles or dark thoughts dare to intrude.

Continue reading "Abundance"

Once upon a time, I wrote this. Now, I've cleaned it up a bit since that rough draft, and get this - actually submitted it to a magazine. Yikes. That's my first little tiptoe into the publishing world, so we'll see how it goes. I won't hear from them for a few months, though, so I'm not looking for results any time soon.

Whatcha think?

***

I dropped my bag onto the sand, and gazed out at the sinking sun. My chair sat within reach of the lapping waves, and with a sigh of relief, I settled in comfortably. My toes wriggled down in the soggy sand of their own volition, as waves flirted softly with my feet. My hands stretched over stomach, now rounded with pregnancy.

Gulls cried high above, soaring in graceful arcs. Sun-kissed children combed the shore for one last shell, as parents began to gather their now salty belongings. Crabs scuttled playfully in the fading light, and a school of tiny fish hid in the faint shadow of my chair. I watched lazily as forgotten sandcastles were slowly swept away by the relentless tide. As the waters claimed each crumbling turret, my troubles followed. My worries and fears drifted far into the sea, far from me.

Clouds abandoned their fluffy whiteness, and gleefully donned pinks and oranges and yellows. The parade of colors stretched over the ocean, filling the breadth of the sky. Sunset waited, fashionably late, until we all held our breath for her entrance.

As I sat beneath the canopy of day’s end, I took a picture in my mind. I memorized each detail, each taste and texture and smell. It's all still there, though the memory is but a shadow of the brilliance.

I left the beach knowing I'd never be able to recreate the moment, not entirely. Life was around me, and inside me, for the very first time. In that instant, I was joined with the elements and creatures in their endless cycles. It changed me. The peace and beauty imprinted on my soul. I carry that with me always, a souvenir, hidden deep within.

And now, when I look at my child, with her bright smile and golden curls, I know that I am not the only one who carries the mark of our perfect day. For she shines like the sun, and she smells like the breeze. She soars like a bird, and she has colors in her soul that rival the setting sun.

That day, so perfect and beautiful, passed swiftly into a memory. But my daughter? Her light stretches into a lifetime.

I feel a story creeping around in my head again. It usually happens when I reach critical mass emotionally. I lay in bed at night, playing out the dialogues in my head. Anger, joy, frustration - whatever I feel in my own life becomes a conversation between fictious characters, and pretty soon, I need to see it in print. It's like excorcising my demons in a way. I can look at everything I've ever written, and tell you exactly what was happening in my personal life to motivate it. (But don't ask, because a girl has to have a few secrets!) I wouldn't call my writing autobiographical, but it is an outlet.

Is this why I don't feel comfortable pursuing it professionally? Because writing is actually just an extension of me, nothing more. I'm afraid that if you look too closely at what I write, you'll see it's not particularly special. It's not founded in some great literary education, and there's no lyrical genius behind these words. It is what it is, because I am what I am.

Which brings me to the question, just what do I think I am? And I'm not talking about my roles-- because my first instinct is to answer, "I'm a mom. And a wife. And a friend." I have to go a little farther than that. I want to know what's beneath that, what's under my skin?

Who am I when I'm in a room all by myself? Because that's where my writing takes me-- to a room all by myself. I'm not Mother or Wife or Friend when I'm there. I'm just The Author. And I guess I'm afraid that that isn't good enough sometimes, and I'm afraid to put it out there for judgement.

I dunno. I'll have to mull this one over a bit. But not now, because I am sleepy and everything is terribly dramatic when the body is tired. Time for bed, time for dialogues to bounce around in my head again, until sleep finally wins the night.

G'nite.
Sleep tight.
And so forth and so on.

Fifteen miles south of Natchez, right before the rain comes, you can find my favorite shades of green.

I watch as the grass shivers in the wind, and drinks the water right out of the air. The world glows emerald, sparkling with those few eager raindrops that have leapt early from the clouds. I am not alone in my observations, because even the cattle in the fields can sense the changes in the green around them. They munch greedily, one last taste before the rain rolls in...

Some of the animals have already wandered to shelter under the shadowed jade of the trees. Dark and mysterious, these greens call to me, too. I want to hide beneath them, quiet beneath their canopy. This is a moment in time when it is wise to wait. Let the rain come, let me sit here. Let me watch as the world becomes a rainbow of wet and green.

There's no where else to be, no other thing that needs to be done. I am here only to witness the birth of green from the blue of the sky.

It's so much more than a color, isn't it?

Describe her? I... could try, I guess. I don't know if you'll understand though.

She's the gust of wind that rushes through the open window, and blows the papers around the room. Do you know what I mean? That chaotic force, unexpected and disruptive, but exactly what you need at that moment? She sends you scurrying after the pieces of your life that are caught up in the breeze. She brings disorder at precisely the right moment.

She doesn't live by the rules. It doesn't necessarily seem fair, because the rest of us have to live by rules, don't we? I mean... that's how things get done right? But she doesn't-- she floats, she sails, she rides... and watching her is inspirational. It's impossible not to feel that twinge of envy, like watching a bird stretching far beyond our imagination. But, it's not an ugly jealousy. It doesn't eat at you. It feeds you, pushes you, questions you. It makes you look down at your own arms, and wonder if there could be wings there instead.

She sees things that other people don't. She finds the true nature of a thing, and she exposes it with a color, with a photo, with a word. She isn't afraid. She takes chances. She doesn't let fear, of failure or humiliation, or rejection, stop her. Because that's her true nature. What could be cliche, a long solitary walk in the woods contemplating the world-- isn't. Because that's what is really inside her. Her ease with herself is the most natural thing, it's something she was born with. A gift she isn't even aware she has.

Oh, she's not perfect. It's all too easy to see that she is moody and overly dramatic and takes herself far too seriously. But being around her makes you smile indulgently at those things. It makes you love her even more.

There are plenty of people in the world like me. I know this. It's not an entirely comfortable thing to admit to myself, but I can be honest about it. There are only a few people like her though. The rest of us gravitate towards people like her. We want our lives to intercept, at least occasionally, with these brighter planes. Maybe not too much, because it makes us feel inadequate in some ways... but just enough to revive us. Remind us, that life is more than what is beneath our feet. It is also what is above our heads, out there, soaring around in heights that make us dizzy and giddy and laughy...

I count that view a blessing. And I count this soul my friend.

Sometimes, we want to write the stories of our hearts with invisible ink. Those things we long to relieve ourselves of, the stories that reveal too much, they are the ones we want to write the most, but fear the greatest. Little bits of those hidden stories creep into our published works and we cringe. Did anyone notice? Did anyone see that secret theme of me that I tried desperately to conceal? The pen is wild in our fingers, rushing ahead of us, exposing the weaknesses, the fears, the confessions we have buried deep. The ink seeks to reveal us as we really are, and the battle is neverending.

But for the endless stories we don't want to write about ourselves, there are stories we don't want to write about others, as well. Yet, we find ourselves here, feeling unknown pains and joys of people we don't know, unable to stay away. Strangers we see on the street, their faces haunt us until we create the story of them.

Like you.

"I can't do this," you whisper into your wife's hair. You bury your face in her neck, and breathe her in. That scent, so perfect, so her, hints at desert wind and eucalyptus, and you ache at the sensation. You can't imagine how to breathe air that has no taste of her. You can't, but you will. That's what they've told you- hold her now, they said. It won't be long.

Do you know how much I don't want to write that story? And yet, here I am, helpless to avoid the pain you're experiencing, dreading the temporary ache that comes from your permanent condition. But I will stay. You deserve that.

Words, they are such a faint echo of the living. We cannot begin to match the truth of experience with such a simple thing as a pen.

It is a meager gift I give, I know, but it is yours. It is my prayer that in some small way, the telling of it will help ease the living of it.

I've admitted it, I love Halloween. And in honor of the chocolate binge sure to occur around my house late Sunday night, I am reposting "Chocolate Lamentations", an oldie, but a goodie.

Ahem.

Sweet, sweet chocolate, you know my name.
Call me less, I plead!
For countless warnings in my head,
I find I cannot heed!

Your siren call comes in the night
When none else will satisfy
No salty, bitter, or fruity sweet
Will answer your endless cry!

A moment on the lips, they say,
I've heard a thousand times,
So lock me in my house of shame
For all my chocolate crimes.

Tongue in cheek, I end this prose
With more than a heavy heart,
For others may suffice in day,
But chocolate rules the dark.

~Shannon~

I'm taking the plunge. Into the icy cold depths of commitment. And I'm not talking 'bout the marrying kind, because I've been there, done that, and this scares me more.

I've signed up for NaNoWriMo, at Jeannette's prompting. NaNoWriMo may sound like an adorable little Pokemon character, but it's not. (Sorry to the 12 and under set. You may find this quite boring, so I'll refer you here in the meantime. Come back later for more rubber chicken silliness.)

NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month. From November 1-31, the goal is to write 50,000 words, or 175 pages.

EEEK!!

Here's an exerpt describing the event:

"The ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly.

Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that's a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down.

As you spend November writing, you can draw comfort from the fact that, all around the world, other National Novel Writing Month participants are going through the same joys and sorrows of producing the Great Frantic Novel."

I can't begin to tell you how much I DON'T want to do this, which is precisely why I must. I have developed a phobia of the ending of my stories, because I'm a big fat chicken! This will force me to complete the process, no matter how bad the plot or characters. I'm not aiming for publishable material, I'm just going for that big finish line that says, "THE END".

Anyway, here's my icon for the event. See the brave squirrel in his acorn helmet? He really should be out gathering nuts, but he's hoping this will be his big break. The Viking horns are pretty intimidating, methinks.

I am worried that he's blue, though. Is he cold? Did his electricity get cut off because he got fired because he spent too much time writing? And where's his computer? Did he have to pawn it to pay his bills, because he can't hold down a real job? Where's his family? Did they abandon him because he quit making them dinner and washing their clothes? Oh Squirrel, is it worth the loss of everything you hold dear to finish this novel?

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to grab you like that, Squirrel. Of course you'll be fine. There, see, I put your hat back on and everything. All better. Write away.

Lord help me.

My moo goo gai pan
Fills my mouth with words and food
Delicious again.

“It wasn’t like anybody was hurt,” was my mother’s way of comforting me.

“I guess not,” I mumbled into the phone. I hadn’t expected her to understand, but I still felt that old pang of disappointment. “Look, I’ll call you later. I have to file the report.” I hung up and wondered to myself why I’d even bothered calling. It always turned out the same.

It took a few hours to finish up with the police, but it was straightforward. The arson team would be investigating the scene for the next few days, but they suspected it was faulty wiring. I’d get a copy of their report for my insurance company, and that would be that.

I stepped out of the police station and blinked against the blinding sunlight. I don’t have a toothbrush, I thought idly to myself. I wandered down the street, thinking of the bright orange flames that ate my house. I can’t stand not to brush my teeth. Had I left the iron plugged up? How much could a toothbrush cost? I had five dollars in my pocket, could I get toothpaste, too? Maybe my electric toothbrush had shorted out and started the fire. I laughed at that, and then, I couldn’t stop. I laughed until tears were streaming down my face, until I was doubled over in the street.

Somebody asked me if I was okay, and I waved them off. Fine, I yelled, I’m great, thanks. I just need a toothbrush, I laughed hysterically.

They probably thought I was crazy. Didn’t I deserve the luxury of losing it for a few minutes? My whole house had been reduced to smoldering ashes in front of my eyes. The house I had rolled pennies to pay for. I loved that house. Now it was a wet, black, sooty smudge.

But that loss was bearable. It was my things, the little bits and pieces that made up my life, that made me want to scream, It’s not fair! The ceramic cat that Jolie brought back from Italy, the Sammy Sosa baseball my dad had given me when I was ten, the rug I brought back from Mexico. I had always prided myself on not being materialistic; I was above people who were attached to their possessions. So why couldn’t I stop thinking about the beaded lamp shade I’d splurged on last month? Or the quilting pieces my grandmother and I had worked on and never quite finished, and the green chenille afghan on my couch, or the friendship bracelet from my brother? Here I am in a street, wallowing in loss like a complete lunatic, laughing when I felt like crying.

I looked up at the bewildered people watching me, and I gave a wobbly smile. I’m okay, I said, standing up. Really, the crazy girl is fine.

I stumbled around for the next few hours, stopping in somewhere to buy a toothbrush. I was pretty sure I needed some other things, but I couldn't think of what, and I didn't really care. It was dark, but I wasn't tired, and besides, I had no where to go. So I walked.

I ended up on the Antioch Bridge, looking out at the lights of the cars and the houses reflecting off the black water of the river. No light out there has my name on it, I thought to myself. I'm alone, and all I have in the world is a new toothbrush. Oh, and baggage. Yeah, I've got plenty of emotional crap. That didn't burn in the fire.

I didn't stop to think what I was doing. I leaned over the edge of the bridge, and looked down into the nothingness. I couldn't see the water churning below me, but I knew it was there. I held my hand out over the water and slowly uncurled my fingers. The toothbrush dropped, swallowed up by the darkness. I turned and walked away.

Sometimes, you have to let things go.

One morning, I woke up and layed in bed leisurely (alright, lazily) and wondered what it would be like if I woke up somewhere else, as someone else. It inspired a story that's surprised me, being the only love story I've ever written. (It didn't start out that way.) This one, well, it's just fun. I like Anna and Oleifr, and this story is easy to write, so I write it when I take a break from everything else. This part is somewhere around chapter 3, but I think you can catch enough to know what's happened thus far.

*****

He opened the door, and Bera entered the room with a cheerful smile. Are these people forever smiling? It's barely even sunrise! Anna thought to herself. But despite her attempt at irritation, she couldn't help but be pleased to see Bera. At least the woman wasn't threatening to throttle her, unlike her present company. Vile brews she could deal with. Idiotic men were something else entirely.

"I don't suppose you've got any coffee in that bag of yours, do you?" Bera's blank stare was answer enough. "Oh well, wishful thinking, I guess. Coffee would be heavenly right now." Better than that disgusting concoction you gave me yesterday. What was in that thing? She shuddered involuntarily. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Bera, but the drink you made didn't do a bit of good." Anna turned slightly green remembering the fuzzy things floating in the cup of "tea" she had been forced to drink in an effort to "cure" her. Please let that bag be empty this time, she prayed to herself.

Bera merely smiled, and settled into the seat across from Anna. "I am not surprised, truth be told." She reached into the satchel, and Anna gulped loudly. "I have cast the lots, and they tell me this sickness is beyond the power of simple herbs and roots." Anna let out an audible sigh at that. "Instead, I have carved this amulet with healing runes for you to wear near your heart, but please don't mention it to Father Phineus. His lectures seem to be getting longer and longer these days." She gave an exasperated sigh at the mention of the clergyman, and handed the necklace to the other woman.

Anna warily took the piece of jewelry from Bera's outstretched hand and studied the carving on the flat pale disc. "Is this bone?" she asked.

Bera nodded and pointed to the symbols that had been etched into the white surface. "See, here is the rune, ansuz, this means divine breath, to show you the order of your life. And there, that is kenaz, for clarity and understanding. This is perdhro, the most powerful rune for you, for memory and problem solving."

Well, I could use all the help I can get in that area, thought Anna. She let Bera tie the leather thong around her neck and she tucked it into the collar of her gown. Maybe it will do something for this headache, too. The throbbing pain had plagued Anna since the beginning of this whole mess, and it was getting worse. She rubbed her temples absently. Bera noticed, and announced, "Up. Out of this bed. A clear mind begins with a clean body. You need a bath." She wrinkled her nose. "Or perhaps that is you, Oleifr." Anna snorted back a laugh, and Oleifr glared menacingly at the healer. Undaunted, Bera shoved him towards the door with orders to retrieve water. He looked grumpily at the two women, opened his mouth to say something, then thought the better of it. He stomped across the cabin, grabbed a warm cloak and leather boots and left muttering something about stubborn wenches, or was that witches?

Smiling to herself, Bera removed a large basin from it's peg on the wall and placed it before the fire. Oleifr returned shortly with a huge wooden barrel of water, lifting it with an ease that surprised Anna. Without a word, he left, and Bera filled the iron cauldron and placed it back on the hearth to warm, humming merrily to herself. She added rosehips to the water and soon the room was filled with the inviting scent. As Bera worked, Anna took the opportunity to explore her surroundings. It was cozy, which puzzled her. It didn't seem to match the man, who was decidedly uncozy. Each item in the room was practical and useful, yet beautifully carved and created. Functional pieces were also artistic, and the craftmanship of these simple things rivaled art she'd seen in galleries. Tapestries hung on the walls, eloborate and colorful, and she wondered where they came from, and who made them, and mostly, who hung them. A woman? She dismissed her curiosity on the matter. It certainly made no difference to her.

Her fingers traced the elegant carving on a wooden trunk, following the interlocking patterns with awe. I bet he made this. She stumbled in surprise at the thought. No, not that oaf, she told herself. He couldn't make a... a... pancake! She laughed. I never was very good at analogies.

Bera summoned her to the bronze tub, and slipped out of the room quietly, much to Anna's relief. In the short twenty-four hours she had been here, she'd been poked and prodded and generally ogled by enough strangers. She was in no mood for an audience now. Anna eagerly sank into the steaming water, and submerged herself up to her ears. Her thoughts soon turned to her bizarre beginning in this strange place. As she soaked, she examined and discarded a million different theories about her appearance yesterday morning in what could only be described as a Viking village.

The only logical conclusion was that she had gone absolutely, certifiably, nuts. I'm probably wandering through the neighborhood in my nightgown right this very moment. She looked down. At least, I hope I'm in my nightgown.

She sighed. Either way, I think I'm in trouble.

*This is a true story, though the name has been changed in respect for my friend's privacy.

Ariel painted a solid wooden cube for me for my eleventh birthday. Each side portrayed some aspect of me in her eyes. A big yellow “S” on one side, a cross on another, a goofy face with glasses, a bright sunshine, and some other things that escape me at the moment. She was artistic and creative, and terribly complicated, even at that young age. I knew she had a sadness about her, but I didn’t know why. It was beyond my perceptions at that age to know that she was being sexually abused by a family member. I thought… she’s just sad. So I’ll make her happy. We made the woods our playground, swinging from vines, catching tadpoles in milkjugs, and hiding from the neighborhood boys in massive ferns. If we weren’t outdoors, we settled ourselves someplace quiet with sketch pads and drew women in wild and fanciful dresses, or detailed layouts for underground bomb-shelters. We talked about God, and the boys at our school, and what we wanted to be when we grew up. She ate chili with my family on Christmas day; she hunted Easter eggs at my cousin’s house. My grandmother was “Nanny” to her. Ariel was my sister, in all the ways that counted.

So the day she missed school, I immediately knocked on her door when I got off the bus. Her stepsister answered the door. “Go away.” she growled at me. I was used to her animosity. I didn’t understand it, but I shook it off like I always did. I wasn’t here for her. I was here for Ariel.

“Where’s Ariel? Is she sick?”
“Ariel doesn’t want to see you anymore,” she said viciously.

“What-“ I sputtered, “What’s wrong?”

“She tried to kill herself. Because of you!” Her words were shards of glass in my heart, cutting with a fury. I was mute before her anger, shocked and scared.

”Why?” I managed a horrified whisper.

“Because you keep trying to make her go to church and she doesn’t want to go anymore.”

I turned and fled home, escaping into my room before I crumpled to the floor. My heart broke in a way I’d never known. I did indeed ask Ariel to come to church with me every Sunday, and she came a lot. I desperately tried to remember if I’d pressured her in any way. I was sure I hadn’t, but what else was I to believe? I knew it didn’t seem right, that Ariel would feel that way, but the weight of the possibility was too great. I was bowed under with the guilt that I might have caused my friend, whom I loved like a sister, to want to end her life. It didn’t matter that it didn’t make sense.

We were eleven. How was this possible? How could I possibly undo whatever it was I had done?

My mom heard me, and opened the door, mistaking my sobs for laughter and she asked cheerfully, “What’s so funny in here?” I remember how absurd that sounded to me, how relieved I was to hear my mother’s voice.

In my mind, the gap between that instant and the next time I saw Ariel is nonexistent. But, I know that it was at least a week before I was able to see her. The bandages on her wrists were frightening and too adult for my childish mind. My gaze slipped away from them, to the pale glow of her skin, the hollowness of her eyes. I was grieved by the misery that radiated from her. The sadness I had known was there all along, had taken root, had claimed Ariel. But all I could think when I saw her was that we would fix it, we would wipe out that pain and she could be happy again because she was alive. My young heart had never known such despair and such relief mingled together.

Ariel never told me why she did it. I know it wasn’t because of me, for she grasped my hands in her weakened grip that day and assured me that all was well with us. As I got older, I had suspicions about the reason, but she could never fully voice it to me. I didn’t press her, because in my heart, I knew why she’d done it. I wish I had known then though, because I would have helped her, I would have done something.

Her stepsister, in her own pain and confusion and God knows what else, had wanted to hurt the one thing that was good in Ariel’s life. I dare not judge her for that bitter moment, because I imagine her circumstances weren’t much better than Ariel’s. I forgave her for it, the same way you forgive an animal for lashing out at you when it’s in pain. Suffering will make you do things you’d never do otherwise. I understood that, even then.

Besides, her attempt failed. Ariel remained a dear friend of mine for many years after that. She never lost the haunted look in her eye, never fully returned from that complicated and distant place. But, she also never lost her artistic and soulful way of living. She walked in dark places, but she painted the light into her life. Her art has depths to it that astound me, just like her spirit does.

I still have the cube she painted for me so long ago. I pull it out every now and then, surprised by its weight after all these years. I look at myself through her eyes, what she saw in me, how she defined me, what our friendship meant to her. And I am grateful all anew. Ariel may have been the one who needed an escape, who needed a friend. What she doesn’t know though, is that in the process, she taught me how to be a friend. I wouldn’t be who I am without her, without that cube. Without that day.

That’s a gift I’ll never forget.

Ahhhhh....

That's the sound of me relaxing. Which is what I'm doing about my writing. I've realized something in the last few weeks. I need to write less, and listen and watch more. Fully aware of how cliché this sounds, (and saying it anyway!), there are stories all around me, waiting to be written. But, I can't do that if I'm not looking for them. Writing is not just about putting a pen to paper and stringing together some nice sounding words. (That’s the heart of my epiphany, folks!!) Being a writer is a way of life, a state of mind. Though you may not have a pen in hand, you never cease to be a writer, because you never stop observing life. It's not just something I do; it's what I am. That's so hard to say, because you worry that people will think you're pretentious or have delusions of grandeur if you say "I'm a writer". But it's not about that. It's not me being any of those things. It's just me being me. God put this love of writing in me for a reason. To record, to capture, to save. Duh, huh? I guess I should have known that, but I didn't. Now I see that I have the chance to preserve the world around me, to voice the intricacies of life and the people living it. Wow. How cool is that?

I've bought a rather lovely, brown leather journal to carry around with me, just like I'd imagine The Greats to have used. I'm inspired just looking at the thing! When thoughts pop in my head, I'll jot them down. When I see that cowboy in his beat-up car waiting at the stoplight, I'll write about him. When I see the lady beside me at the gym trying to hide the fact that she's crying, well I'll write about her, too. It's not for anything in particular; there are no limitations or expectations for this journal. Its only function is to help me learn to SEE better. I know this will, in turn, help me to WRITE better, but you know what, I don't even care about that right now. What comes will come, and that is sufficient for me. Right now, I only want to do the thing I feel called to do, and that is enough.

The rest will take care of itself.

I tend to get introspective, and occasionally blue, on Sundays, and I am not surprised that this post reflects that. Forgive a little self evaluation, if you will.

[writing exercise]

Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about.

When all the external things in my life are taken away, when I am bare of the titles and roles I fill, I begin to cast my eyes this way and that, looking for any distraction. A good mother? I am. A good wife? I think so. A good sister, daughter, aunt? Yes. I believe that could be said of me.

But take those things away, and leave me standing alone in a room, hands idle and no task to prove my worthiness- Well, that disturbs me. There is some place inside me that is fully my own, and I fear that what lies there is not acceptable and not deserving because it is not good. Oh, it's well hidden. And if I bring it to light, people who love me are quick to say, oh, no, you're being hard on yourself! You're worthy of love, of respect, of the blessings you've received-- don't think so poorly of yourself. God loves you, so you must love yourself!

But, I. I am the one who knows. Even if I confide some of it to you, it's the gentler version, so as not to shock you, to shatter your illusion of me, because there is, after all, my pride to think of.

I'm the good girl. Just ask anybody. Even the rebellious moments of youth, were not, in fact, so bad. But it's hard to carry that righteous neon sign all the time. Sometimes, I want to come clean and say, you know what? I'm not good! I'm prideful! And selfish! And care too much what the world thinks of me! You don't really know me, because I don't really know me because I'm too afraid. Afraid of what is really there when all the trappings of life are gone, when I have no excuses to look away from the person I really am.

But, when I am writing, I am brave. Those internal struggles find their way into my words, and they are exorcised, they are weakened. I am alone with the pen, alone with my soul, and that's getting easier.

My one hope, my one grace, is that I am disturbed. I am not content with the state, with the inside and outside unmatched. I am driven to find the balance, and as long as I am searching for it, I know it can be found.

Not looking for argument here, okay? Don't post that you think I'm a wonderful person-- or you miss the point entirely. Give me some credit for knowing myself. Instead, go to your blog (or even here in my comments), and write about what disturbs you.

It's really quite liberating. [/writing exercise]

Today's assignment: write for ten solid minutes. Start with one sentence. Then write the next. And the next. Don't think ahead about the direction, the story, the plot, just write one sentence at a time and keep your fingers moving.

**
There was a gap in the wall, and the edge of the paper was sticking out. I stuck my finger into the dark space and wiggled it around, trying to dislodge it. I finally managed to get enough out to pinch between my fingers, and I pulled. It was yellowed, but surprisingly intact. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I think part of me hoped that it would have disintegrated, dissolved into nothing, just like my heart had when I’d shoved the paper into this crack so long ago. I swallowed hard, and gently opened up the letter. My hands were shaking slightly, as I read the words I had carried in my heart for too long.

“Jessie,
There is no easy way to tell you that I have to leave. I wish I was man enough to face you, but we both know that’s not the case. Maybe, one day, I will be. Please forgive me, although I know I don’t deserve it. I will pray for you every single day. Peter”

I didn’t blame him now, looking back on it. But at the time, it was all I could do to keep breathing, keep existing. The anger I’d felt when I discovered his letter was almost as deep and raging as the anger that consumed me when I learned I had cancer. A broken heart and a broken body, I couldn't decide which was worse. It was not a time I care to recall with great detail. But, time healed my body. And, to some lesser extent, it healed my heart.

So, why come back? Why revisit a moment of such utter and complete despair? This piece of paper has been lodged into this wall, and into my heart, for too long. It is time for hidden hurts to be exposed, faced in the light of the day. What good is a healthy body if you have a heart that has forgotten how to love?

I folded the letter again, and placed it in my pocket. I looked back at the hole in the wall that had hidden my pain for so long. “Thanks,” I say. "I can take it from here."

You are only an ancient family name to me, removed by over a century from my own life. Yet, without you, I would not be here, and I owe you--- something. Yet, this surprises you, I’m sure. You would not feel you are owed anything. After all, you abandoned your children. Abandoned. Your. Children. You severed your life from the family tree, as if you didn’t even exist. You left them in the care of their father, and you never looked back. Not once. Two children, of your own body, carried around the pain of that betrayal their entire lives. It is the only legacy that we have of you, the only fact handed down to the generations that followed. I know you only as the Woman Who Left. I am saddened for you because of this. Because no matter why you made the choices you did, this harsh memorial is no fate a woman would seek. No fate a mother would seek.

I feel some kinship with you, though. I can't say I understand why you did what you did, and you'll find no approval with me. But, there are moments in my own life when I crave solitude, and relief from my responsibilities. Did you face those thoughts? Did you lose yourself the way I have sometimes, the way all women do? I wonder about you. I wonder how different I am from you. Would you look at me and see some glimmer of yourself? Are my weaknesses familiar to you?

I know I could never kiss my babies goodbye, and walk away from them forever. I knew that the moment I held their little forms in my arms, stroking the sweet, soft skin of their cheeks, smelling the intoxicating scent of newness. How then, did you? What drove you so far from that maternal nature? Did you hold your own sons to your breast, and vow to love, protect them, swear you’d never forsake them? Tell me, warn me, show me the folly of your ways. I would guard myself against the weaknesses you fell prey to, if you will name them.

I would not. I will never. Did you say those things, as I do?

The things that make us different, are they greater than the things that make us the same? I pray that is so. Your story is gone, the reasons, the excuses, all faded into oblivion. We will never hear them, never understand. All that remains of you is that single act, unexplained, and condemning.

The children you left grew into men. They were strong and brave, and loved kin and country. I don't know if you knew that. I hope you did. But they missed you. They suffered. The wouldn't speak of you, not ever. The pain of your abandonment was an inheritance that is still remembered today. But, there are those of us who've gleaned a lesson from your legacy, and that is why I write this. It is what I owe you. I have been touched by the tragedy you wrought, and it strengthens my resolve. It shaped the woman I became.

You were The Woman Who Left, and because of that... I will be The Woman Who Stayed.

If you spend much time at APOG, you know that I have an abiding love for Louisiana. You'd think I was even born there. But, you'd be wrong. (Fancy that, huh?) I sprang forth from the rich soil of Mississippi, where magnolias and manners abound! I have been feeling a bit disloyal to the Hospitality State lately with all my ramblings about LA, so I thought I'd post some of the reasons I love Mississippi, too. Ah, you’re surprised at this, right? You’ve only heard bad things about Mississippi? I’m not surprised. It’s easy to focus on the poverty and the social problems that have troubled the state for many years. But, it is a great tragedy to overlook the quiet dignity and beauty that graces this land. Mississippi has a gentle, sensual manner that soothes her social and economic wounds, if you will only look.

One of my favorite sights as I drive the country roads of Mississippi is the garden. Long rows of produce grace the hillsides beside homes, carefully tended in the cool of the day. They yield ripe vegetables that fill bellies all year round, still canned and put up like the old days, filling the pantry, and shared with neighbors. A perfume of southern aromas rises from heavy laden tables—fried chicken, steaming roasted potatoes, hot-buttered corn bread, field peas, slices of ripened tomatoes and cucumbers, warm pecan pies and cool lemon meringues, and sweet tea to wash it all down. These cherished recipes are family heirlooms, shared with each generation, their value immeasurable. The food is the heart of the Southern gathering, but the true joys are found when the plates have been cleared away. The dominos come out and stories from the old folks are told or retold. Family stories and lore are planted tenderly in young minds. Eventually, everyone migrates outside, retreating to porch swings and rocking chairs. A game of horseshoes or volleyball starts up in the shade, and the children play in home-made forts and castles. When everyone is sufficiently recovered from the big meal, a juicy watermelon appears and the slices deliciously drip and disappear amidst smiling faces.

Kinships are strengthened and renewed in the simple act of sharing a meal, but it’s sharing the time that really matters.

The state moves slowly from season to season, gliding across the year in all her finery. Rolling hills draped in lush climbing kudzu, the sound of crickets on hot summer nights, the scent of honeysuckle wafting on the breeze; these are the shared memories of all Mississippians. Our childhoods were painted with the reds of magnolia seeds, the greens of clover and mimosa leaves, the silver of minnows in creeks, the purple of blackberries, the pink of azaleas. Our minds are filled with the deltas, bluffs, riverbeds, hills, marshes, and beaches- the places our parents grew up, the places we grew up, the places our children grow up—all rich with history and stories. Our history. Our stories.

Mississippi is strong because her people are strong. That strength comes from our connections with each other, and inevitably with the land. The roots put down with our families sink deep into Mississippi soil. They are not so easily transplanted.

--Louisiana may be in my blood, but Mississippi will always be in my heart--

I'm wrestling with my writing right now. I'm caught in a battle of wills, frustrated with a story that won't "go". It chooses instead to stubbornly dig it's heels into the ground, resisting all manner of prodding and nudging and outright shoving. I'm not sure why I even bother at times, except that it's like an itch that I can't quite scratch. No, it's more irritating than that, at least at the moment, she says unkindly. It's the twitch in the corner of my eye that gives me no peace.

Writing is... a compulsion. That much I've accepted, even embraced, and rejoiced over, despite my current complaints. But, having decided it's something not likely to change about me, I'd at least like to do it (somewhat) successfully. I'm willing to put some muscle behind it, I really am, but I'm not sure how.

My conclusion is that I am in desperate need of a teacher. Someone to take the Big Red Pen and make those critical marks on my paper, someone to indifferently slash away the fat of my words and ideas, leaving only the lean. I need direction and instruction that comes from someone far more talented and experienced than me. How do you hone the power of the pen without it? How do you tempt those inner stories out into the open, give them legs and see them run? Or even WALK BRISKLY - shoot, I'm not being picky at this point. I just want, at some point in my life, to type the words "The End".

That seems utterly out of reach at times.

And, oh yes, I WILL take a little cheese with my whinin'-- thank you! Lovely of you to offer!

Anyway, the only thing I know to do as I await the arrival of my mentor (who will reveal him/herself in a dazzling display of light and prophetic brilliance VERY SOON, I'm sure of it), is to just keep writing. Write until my fingers are frighteningly numb and my characters all hate me. For the next two weeks, I plan to wake up an hour earlier, before the short ones rise, and pour some coffee down the gullet and make myself bleed ink. I shall, I say! Who knows what quality of literature will be produced in those bleary eyed moments, but maybe it will get me through the hardest part.

Well, I'm off to do the Things That Need To Be Done.

Hope everyone has a fruitful and relaxing weekend!

Yeah, sorry about the untitled status-- it just hasn't come to me yet! Anyway, you can read part one here if you need to catch up.

The sun settled warmly on Cara’s bent head as she sat cross-legged in the over-grown field. Her hands effortlessly braided long pieces of rye grass into a wreath, knotting wild flowers into the strands as she worked. Her fingers flew deftly in lively rhythm, dancing in the familiar task. When she finished, she walked a few steps to her father’s grave with the offering. The heavy wooden cross bearing his name stood somberly, waiting for her. She sighed as she swept aside a faded and withered wreath, and looped her newest creation in its place. Stretching herself out on the raised ground, she gazed up at the clear sky and began her usual conversation with Pappy.

“Mama said I shouldn’t come see you anymore,” she said in a deflated voice. “She said it’s been long enough, and you would understand.” She paused and watched a little wren hopping in the brush, gathering bits of leaf in its beak. “She thinks I’m crazy. I know I’m not, though.” The bird cocked his head and twittered at her, making her smile. “Somebody has to tell you what happens at the house, Pappy. Like when Jillie fell off the silo and broke her arm, or when Everett set the chicken coop on fire. Who else would tell you?” The wren preened his feathers proudly and fluttered off into a nearby tree. Cara yawned and closed her eyes, listening to his love song. “That’s why I came today, Pappy. I had to tell you about Mama.” Her voice softened and her breathing relaxed as she basked in the afternoon light. “I think Mr. Clayton is sweet on her,” she said drowsily, “and he’ll probably ask her to marry him.” She grew silent, pondering what that would mean in her life.

The sounds of the summer day lulled her to sleep, into dreams of the days when Pappy was still alive. She saw him through the window as he kicked the dirt off his boots, and washed his hands in the bucket outside. He walked in and sat at the kitchen table, taking a glass of water from Mama, and gulped it down. This was Cara’s favorite dream of Pappy, as he came in from a long day of work in the hot sun. His smile was dusty and easy, and endless.

When Cara awoke, the sun was setting and the little wren had flown away. She wished the bird had stayed to watch over her father, so that he wouldn’t be alone when she left. It was a childish thought, and she knew it, but didn’t care. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, and kissed them, then placed her hand to the wooden cross. Leaving the kiss there for Pappy, she followed the well worn trail back home, hoping that Mr. Clayton would be gone by now.

"I've got a strict rule about holding hands on the beach," she said.

"Oh really? And what's that?" he replied.

"It's to be done at all times."

He laughed as he twined his fingers into hers. "I always was a stickler for the rules," he confessed.

"What is it?" I asked curiously, fingering the vial with my name on it.

"That's a small question with a large answer," replied the gray man. "It's the distilled essence of your spirit, I suppose. It's what makes you... you."

"So, we all have one?" I asked, marveling at the millions of bottles nestled in the sand. No bird flew in this white sky, and the waves tiptoed onto the pale shore in quiet rhythm.

"Yes, every man."

I uncorked the bottle, and peered over the rim. A sapphire liquid shimmered brightly in the glass and I wondered where such a thing was born.

"Careful," advised the gray man. "You have only one."

“And you take care of them?”

“In a manner of speaking. However, the ultimate responsibility belongs to each person. The course you choose in this life, your words and deeds, either enhance or diminish what’s in that bottle. Some become water, void of taste and color. Others sparkle like jewels in amber and pearl and ruby. And others, sadly, thicken into sludge and muck.”

“Why is mine blue? What does it mean?”

The gray man peered into my eyes, with a quizzical expression. “Don’t you know? You created that color, only you truly know the reason.”

I smiled to myself as I replaced the cork. Kneeling in the sand, I nestled my bottle back into its place. “There was a time,” I whispered, “that I almost forgot.”

I turned from the beach, and from the gray man. I traced my footprints back the way I had come, having learned the lesson meant for me. I walked until the bottles were far behind, and the sound of gulls once again filled the air. I looked up into the cerulean sky, thankful.

We tread the shores of our dreams for many reasons.

In my early years, someone put an empty journal in my hands and said, "Write."

So I did. I composed poems, girlish and emotional. I wrote letters to God. I hid my secrets in the pages, the loves and hates that lived in my heart. I found and lost myself a thousand times, in a thousand words. There is no better definition to my life than what can be found in those compositions, even to this day.

Reading them is a humbling revelation. It exposes the weaknesses that I couldn’t see at the time. It reveals inner strengths that have come and gone over and over like birds to warm weather. There are more lessons to be found in the past, in those crinkled and ink spotted pages, than I had intended.

Yet, for some of the bitter, there is plenty of sweet. Watching the people I love grow through those pages, becoming the people they are today, what a delight! To remember the silliness of childhood, the awkwardness of youth, the fumblings of adolescence, and the bloom of adulthood- I chronicled not just my own path. I carried everyone around me into those books, and their stories became part of mine.

What a gift that empty journal was. It directed me down a path that changed me, and taught me. I see in those written strokes that I am Flawed and Imperfect. And yet, the beauty, the joy of writing… there is always a blank page to be filled. A new chance, a time for evolution into something better. What gift is greater than the promise of new beginnings and unwritten destinies?

So now, this is your invitation. The empty journal placed in your hands. Endless blank pages, waiting for your words, regardless of age or ability.

I say, Write.

Fortunately, the stars were shining brightly in the field that night, and the girls had no trouble picking their way carefully through the tall grass.

“Shh… I think I hear them,” whispered the smaller girl. They ducked down behind the weeds and peered into the darkness until they spotted the figures framed in the moonlight. Two men bent over a large tub, and a third was filling mason jars with a ladle from a second tub.

“They’re m-moonshiners,” the girls said in unified horror. “I can’t believe Pappy would do something like that!” Tears gathered in disbelieving eyes, and the girls sunk dejectedly back into the grass.

“I knew we shouldn’t have come here. Mama told us not to go poking our noses into this! Why do you always have to go and ruin everything?” asked the older girl hotly.

“Cara, don’t get mad at me! I'm not the one moonshining or lying to his family!” said the younger girl defiantly. “Besides, I couldn’t make you stay in bed. You wanted to come.”

“I’m not mad, Jillie. Well, I am, but at Pappy, not you.” She sighed. “Come on, let's go home. We know the truth now. I don't want to watch this anymore.” The older girl grabbed her sister by the hand, and they edged away from the troubling scene.

Cara took one more look at her father, her brows creased in frustration, and she fought the urge to confront him right away. She knew daughters weren't supposed to question their fathers, especially a man like Pappy. His word was law in the Folsom house, but she'd come up against him several times in youthful rebellion. He had quickly set his oldest daughter straight, and the rule of the house endured. This time was different though. Moonshining was wrong, Pappy himself had expressed disapproval of it in the past. Tomorrow will be soon enough, she thought to herself, dreading the moment she'd have to admit she'd left the house in the wee hours of the morning. Even more though, she feared the look in his eye when she confessed what she'd seen him doing.

Cara watched him stir the tub with a large wooden spoon. She nearly turned away, when a sudden movement behind him caught her eye. Squinting her eyes to focus in on the motion, her heart lurched as she realized that one of the other men was pointing a shotgun at her father’s back. She opened her mouth to yell a warning, but it was drowned out by the sudden reverberating shot that rang out in the night. She watched in dismay as he fell forward, tumbling over the vat and onto the ground. Jillie’s hand slid out of hers and the younger girl cried out as she ran forward to her fallen father.

Cara propelled herself after Jillie, fearful that her sister would meet the same violence, and terrified that her father was already dead.

“What have we here? The old man’s brats?” asked one of the scruffy men angrily. He yanked Jillie up by her hair, and held her as she kicked and screamed at him. “Get that other one,” he ordered, as Cara flew to her sister’s rescue. She was quickly caught up in big arms, and she nearly gagged at that odor that assailed her.

“You shot my pappy!” yelled Jillie. “I hate you! You’re a bad man, and –“

Her words were cut off when he clamped a dirty hand over her mouth and growled in a menacing voice, “If you want to end up like your precious pappy, you keep talking, missy.” He jerked her cruelly and her small whimper tore at Cara’s heart.

She yelled at Jillie to be quiet. She knew these men. They were hired hands that skulked into town at the beginning of the summer, and had found work on the Anderson’s farm. After a few run ins with the local boys and inevitably the sheriff, the men had earned a reputation for being bad tempered and mean. Everybody in town had avoided the pair, recognizing that trouble followed them like their bad smell. Even the Andersons kept their distance, and had only hired them out of desperation. The town had been holding it’s breath until the end of the summer, hoping and praying the two brutes would leave after the harvest, with as little harm done as possible.

Cara’s mind was racing as she considered her options. If they didn’t escape, she was certain they would share their pappy’s fate, if not worse. Cara knew that men like this didn’t care how young a girl might be, and it was only a matter of time before truly evil thoughts occurred to one of the murderers. Fortunately, Cara was a quick thinker. She remembered the hunting knife she had in her pocket, the birthday gift she had begged for and finally received, despite her mother’s protests that knives were for boys. It was never out of her reach, and she was thankful for her persistence at that moment. Because her arms were pinned at the chest, her hands was near her pocket. Careful not to draw attention with the motion, she slid her fingers into the fabric, and encircled the blade with shaking fingers.

The men laughed as Jillie tried to wiggle out of reach, and Cara knew their time was running out. If she was going to make a move, she had to do it quickly. She watched the men, looking for her opportunity, when she saw Jillie nodding at her in the direction of their father’s body. Cara nearly shouted in joy to see that it was not there. He must be alive! She rejoiced at the thought, and her eyes darted around looking for signs of him. In that instant, a heavy shovel came crashing down out of the dark onto Jillie’s attacker, and he landed with a thud. Cara seized the moment of confusion to thrust her knife into her captor’s thigh. Her hand was immedietely wet with the man's blood, and he grunted and let go of her, long enough for Cara to grab her sister’s hand in her own bloody one. “Run!” yelled her father weakly, and the two girls took off into the tall grass, looking over their shoulders at him, utterly torn. He roared at them again, this time loud and fierce, and the natural instinct to obey their father sent them fleeing through the fields.

The shotgun blasted in the shadows again, and this time, both girls knew their father would not be able to save them. They ran harder, racked with fear and grief, fervently wishing they’d never left the comfort and safety of their shared bed. With that simple act, they had forever lost the solace and innocence of their childhood, and the one man that had provided it for so long.

***

~~Not the end~~

“You take everything so personally,” he said carefully.
“Yeah, I know. It’s my tragic flaw.” She replied, with no suggestion of sarcasm or ire. She traced the rim of her brandy glass, and stared out the window into the night sky. “It’s not easy to be me, sometimes.”

He reached out his hand, and let his fingers glide through her long brown hair. As he watched his fingers disappear in the dark waves, he thought of all the reasons he loved her. She radiated something indefinable that had mesmerized him, captivating his senses completely. He was introduced to her and in greeting, had taken her hand. At the brief contact, he had felt with a stunning certainty that this hand was formed for his. The revelation shook his normally composed demeanor, and he retreated into silent awe until he could collect himself again. As he watched her laugh and smile through out the night, he reveled in his secret knowledge. He vowed to live his life in pursuit of the moment that she would recognize the same truth.

It had been, in many ways, a difficult path.

She was like a wind in his life. At times, her presence was a peaceful and gentle breeze that surrounded him and refreshed him. In darker moments, she was a tempest that shook the foundations of his soul, challenging the strength of his being. He had learned through the years, when to bend in the storm and when to stand fast. His careful navigation of her elemental spirit had saved her from herself a thousand times, and she knew it.

She turned her cheek into his hand, and looked at the man with the soft brown eyes. “I don’t deserve you, you know.”

He smiled, and tucked a stray lock behind her ear. “Yeah,” he whispered, “I know.”

Her laugh was sweet, and wrapped itself around him like a warm mist. He bent close and as he kissed this woman, this force in his life, he thought to himself, It’s not about getting what we deserve. It’s being deserving of what we get.

**