https://purpletoga.com/books/it-takes-a-village/
I am excited and thrilled to be included in this anthology collection of stories, essays, and one poem (written by yours truly) along with a short story I have written. Here is a link to preorder. The book is scheduled for release on Mother's Day.Meanwhile, enjoy the day.
A Walk Through Pilgrim
at Tinker Creek
My husband
and I read nightly or rather he reads to me from a book we have selected
together. Sometimes, it is a book he is wanting to read but is waiting to share
the experience with me. He is always spot on when it comes to knowing what
might please me. A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek is a book we had on the
bookshelf and not having anything else we started reading. My mind was taken on
a journey, I was familiar with some things I had experienced in my own
childhood and with the other experiences of the author, Annie Dillard, I had pause
to think. Since my husband and I have a great deal of education concerning
biology, both plants and animals, etc., it started out as an interesting read. But
it made me wonder am I where I should be? In my life, in the world, and the
universe. I had forgotten to look. I have just been traveling through the days.
When I was
younger, I was more introspective concerning my place in the world, but I did
not worry about the next minute, hour, or day. Instead, I would spend hours
with my belly hugging the ground watching ants go in and out of the mound, rest
on my back watching clouds move through the sky and go for long walks watching
everything I saw. I was complete.
Come to
think of it, I still do not worry. I have great faith something will happen and
it is all good though sometimes a bit rough about the edges. It is the edges
getting me down on occasion until I remind myself “This too will pass.” I still
possess a wonder about the world. From the various songs of the birds in the
morning to the baying and barking of dogs in the distance, I find myself
wanting to know what they are saying high in the treetops or low in the now
greening bushes. The dogs are of equal interest, are they alone in their home,
yard, or kennel? Is the animal waiting to be fed? Or sad because their person
had to leave them home? Then there is the silence. I like it. The peacefulness
of a deserted street early in the morning. I can hear the birds better, I can
notice the chill of the wind, and hear the beginning patter of the rain
falling.
I marveled
at Annie Dillard’s descriptions of what she saw around her. It is something, I
could not do as I lack the knowledge of the life of various animals and
insects, mostly, it is experience. I left the innocence of nature for college
and the busyness of being there. I left the river, the fields, the mountain,
and the hikes along the ridges. The elk across the river in their winter pasture,
the frost on the inside of my bedroom window and the icy, snowy trek to the
outhouse in the night. Instead, I was discovering a whole new world in which I
saw The Wizard of Oz for the first time in color when Dorothy reached
Oz. I found out I could be accepted without much attention placed on the tone
of my skin. Growing up indigenous in a small community was not without difficulties.
I survived.
Life is
survival. I am quite accepting of the heaven in my small circle of existence. I
am grateful when I wake up, after all I am still here and isn’t that the root
of it all? Being still here.
The Struggle is Real
I
have started writing again and finally sending some of what I do out into the
world for others to see. It is an ongoing struggle with distractions hounding
me, chasing me around, and being plagued by nap attacks. But what can you do? Finally,
I gave in to a title which I have no idea where the story is going, the
characters on the stage, and the reason for writing it. Is a mystery. No, not
the story though I suppose everything we write is a mystery one sentence after
another. I guess I need to keep plugging along until I can determine what I am
doing.
The
Body
As
murders go, it was not the worse. The body was cold, limbs a bit twisted as if
falling in motion as an attempt to get away. It would have been processed by
the locals, except for the fact a member of The Authority had been present. The
officer was on loan for a particular reason, what was considered a lack of
performance at the last incident. Called an incident because things were
lacking normalcy, feathers, everywhere. A lack of a body but lots of blood,
fluids scattered throughout a suite of five rooms. The Authority had been there
before anyone else could arrive and this particular officer had contaminated
the scene and neglected to wear booties. But the worse offence was a tissue
which had fallen out of the pocket of the officer, it was covered in his own
body fluids, snot from his nose, complete with a nose hair. Allergies will get
you all the time.
Agent
Accent of The Authority was not pleased.
She was currently investigating a quite puzzling case with overtones of
the abnormal. But what is one more puzzle? She examined her booties carefully
and pointily glared at the slightly trembling Authority officer on assignment
to a normal branch of duty. Another officer moved the tape baring entrance so
she could enter. Her eyes flickered over
the scene, the normal police, emergency workers had been removed and her own
team was in place including the disgraced Authority officer. Agent Accent
stifled a sigh, he was her problem now.
The
victim had been a woman with augmented body parts, not overly done but rather a
way to hide what would have had shown clearly, if you knew what you were
looking for. Agent Accent sniffled the
air but only smelt the tang of red blood, the emptying of bowels, and beneath
was a floral tone, hard to distinguish from the more potent scents. She walked
carefully about the body, noting the palm of the left hand turned outward as if
it was a final attempt at warding off what was coming. Agent Accent wanted to
close her eyes and look more deeply at what might be lingering, a ghost, a
glimmer, an essence but first, a look at what had triggered needing her
presence and the team from The Authority.
The trembling,
disgraced officer now assigned to this case came forward at her beckoning.
“Show me.” Agent Accent was referring to the starred marker on the floor and
next to wall nearing the front door. A discolored spot was on both. The young
officer licked his lips and lead her carefully to the possible evidence, a clue
perhaps to what might have done this. What, not who? The spots on both the floor and wall were
maybe body fluids from an unnoticed nick or cut on the perpetrator.
Christmas Morning
We celebrate
Christmas as we like getting presents.
Who doesn’t? We don’t quite have the excitement to get out of bed to
rush to check out what has been left under the tree. At our age there are few surprises. Still, the man grumbled a bit when I asked
him to run a tub of water for my bath.
“But it is
Christmas,” he said.
Okay, there
are surprises under the tree for him. I am probably the only one not too
surprised at what is there for me. After all, I, carefully guide him to various
little shops pick out what I want and left him in the caring hands of a friend
working in one of the shops to wrap the goodies. Or as we shop for groceries
and what nots, I place in the basket items of interest and once home, I place
them strategically upon the bed for him to wrap.
Once again,
the age thing. I admit I did not
remember the details of some of things I had picked out over a month ago. Therefore,
this morning, I was excited when I tore open some of the packages. This year, I
neglected to pull out our stockings, the first time in 42 years. I had gotten them
for our first Christmas together. There was a stuffed monkey in the man’s striped
red and white stocking. I don’t know
what happened to the monkey but I remember the happiness of being with the one
I loved on Christmas morning.
Each day is
a blessing, a miracle reminding we do not have to wait until a special designated
day to celebrate. Let us celebrate the
miracle of life. We are breathing. Enjoy.
On that
note, here is something, I wrote over thirty years ago.
Sleeping Under the Stockings
Sometimes the amount of excitement was so strong, that no coaxing could
convince the children to crawl between the blankets. It was after all, the magical night, the
night before Christmas. Tired parents placed cozy blankets around the three
children as they sat close to the glory of the dazzling tinseled tree. There was no fire in the fireplace tonight
for the children had begged for the jolly elf’s sake. The house was warm for the fire had burned
brightly all day. In a second room, a
pot-bellied black stove was banked and it would warm the house throughout the
night.
Stockings were hung on
sturdy nails that were driven into the mantel.
Each one had been carefully knitted by grandmother with loving
hands. A plate of tempting molasses
popcorn balls was placed on a three-legged wooden stool which sat close to the
slowly cooling fireplace. Carrots and
apples sat on the floor, ready for the magical spirit to take to his waiting
reindeer.
The mother and father
kissed their beloved little girl and two boys, wishing the nodding heads sweet
dreams. The gas lights on the walls were
turned down. The soft remaining light
gave the silvery clad tree a mystical beauty.
A beauty that seemed to grow and fill the room. The sandman quickly took the children to the
perfect dreamland.
Emily was first to
awaken in the stillness of night. She
gazed at the beautiful tree and looked to see that the popcorn balls were safe
on the wooden stool. The room was glowing
softly from the feebly burning gaslights on the walls. The moonlight shone gently through the wooden
paned windows to rest on the floor and rugs.
Emily stared at the moonlight coming in the windows and suddenly she sat
up and rubbed her eyes with wonder. In
the moonlight, sitting on the floor was a small angel.
Emily reached over to
her right and pinched Ben awake. Then
she turned over to her left and pinched Shawn to wake him. When that did not work, she pulled on his
arm to shake him. Both boys were
groggy. Emily whispered to them to be
quiet and she pointed to the angel who was still sitting on the floor.
The angel was
glowing. As the angel glowed the room
became brighter and brighter until it was nearly as bright as the day. The
angel was humming, softly as a light breeze through the tall lilacs that stood
by the side of the house. Standing up,
the angel started to pirouette about the room and in the soft moonlight. The children were entranced by the lightness
of the angel’s movements and without knowing it they began to dance by the side
of the heavenly being. Their hearts were
so light and filled with happiness that without knowing it, the children
started floating in mid-air.
They continued to dance for quite some time until the angel stopped with
a sigh and sank into a graceful pile on the floor. The children collapsed breathlessly next to
the glowing creature of heaven. Carefully, Emily reached out her hand to touch
the cheek of the angel. The blessed
being, laughed and stood up. Then
bending over, the angel kissed each of the children on the tops of their
heads. Placing a finger on its lips and
nodding its head, the angel beckoned to the children to follow across the room
to where the nativity scene was displayed on a low table by the window. The lovely presence pointed to glowing
display which sat in the moonlight.
Before the children’s eyes, the tiny figures became alive. The figures started to grow until the room
was filled and Emily, Ben, and Shawn watched with joy as Mary held in her arms
the holy child. Joseph, stood by her
side, and welcomed the three wise men with their gifts. In the stable, the soft lowing of cows and
the bleating of the goats and sheep echoed the joy of the angelic choir that
was softly singing Hallelujah.
It seemed to the children that the room had disappeared and that they
were truly at the stable where the child slept peacefully in the manager where
his mother Mary had placed him. As they
looked to the sky, the children saw the glory of the shining star of Bethlehem
above the stable where the child was born. They kneeled in the straw with the
angel at their side and gave the pure prayers of children in worship to
God. Their little hearts were filled
with the holy love and joy of God. The
heavenly choir’s songs of joy grew louder and filled the children to the brim
with peace.
The scene before the children grew dim, the holy figures grew small, and
the nativity display sat once more upon the table in the soft moonlight. The angel led sleepy children back to their
beds on the floor and gently placed blankets about them. Quickly, the little ones fell back to sleep
and the angel kissed each one upon their foreheads.
The divine angel stood up, and glowing into a brilliance that flooded the
room began to fade away. As the loving
being faded away, the angel turned to the fireplace and winked at red clad gent
who was leaving his wares beneath the tinseled tree and to those who were
sleeping under the stockings.
I was busy
cutting up a watermelon and thinking about the drought, and my poor little tree
in the front yard when it hit me. Watermelon, water, tree. I
changed gears from putting the watermelon in the city compost bin to finely
slicing the watermelon. I was going to
water my tree with watermelon. Of course,
it is not the deep soak, a tree at the end of summer was needing but it was
something, right? The water would drain out of the melon, into the grass and soil
and somehow nourish the tree with life giving water. It took me five trips with my little filled
blue bowl of watermelon slices, partially crawling under the tree bent over so I resembled the Hunchback of Norte Dame. I flung the precious cargo
against the tree. By the end of my
efforts with an aching back I wondered what I was doing. It was an act of love.
My husband's only remark was, “So you are fertilizing the tree.” Nothing about my noble and
extensive effort to save a tree, feed the bugs and insects. “Well, the raccoons will like it,” was his final
remark before he headed into the house. Some of us are the dreamers, the
inspiration behind the dreams and others simply headed into a house for dinner.
Often, I find myself deep in philosophical thought and filled with a fantastic belief I can move mountains, save the world, work on changing the weather and without a doubt have another piece of chocolate. It happens in the kitchen. During the period of slicing my vegetables and working on cooking, I am filled with gratitude for the bounty before me. I delight in the colors of the different carrots, peppers, tomatoes, and sample them as I go. I marvel at the firm flesh of potatoes. I am grateful and I feel one with universe. I am in a Zen moment.
The real magic happens at night as I start figuring out recipes in my mind as I rest in my bed waiting for sleep to overcome me. Not all are masterpieces, truthfully, none are anything to boast about, or share the ideas on Facebook. Simple, hearty, and healthy. I wish my mind could always be so. There is so much excessive junk in the news. It can be wearing on the spirit.
Spirit, hmm,
it is a mouthful whenever you say it or a brain overload when you think it. I believe it to be the real me.
Not this body I am in. This blob of organs, muscles, and bones in a unique
structure capable of being a miracle each day. Spirit, I am it somehow. Hidden
like the redness of a watermelon beneath the green striped rind. The only
difference is the watermelon doesn’t worry about what it is, it simply is. For
the most part, I don’t worry either but it has taken over half a century for me
to reach a point where I can say “This too shall pass.” In the end, I will be
like a watermelon thrown beneath a tree undergoing a second life and it will be
okay.
Eternal Sleep
There is a
humble bumble asleep in one of the cosmos flowers. In a lovely pink one, the
little creature rests on a petal. Or, at least it is what we thought. Three
days later, the now named corpse is still there laying in silence. Untouched by
the early morning mist, the light wind blowing, part of the bee must be glued on
or somehow the flower, the pink cosmos is clinging to the bee’s remains as an
afterthought, a tribute to a job well done in the fading days of summer.
It is
appropriate the bee has spent its final moments on this beautiful flower with the
symbolism of tranquility, peace, innocence, and love. Having picked a pink
flower to rest in, enabled this little one to be in universal harmony. I think it is lovely. Unfortunately, I don’t
think I am going to find a large enough flower petal or petals to rest in to
drift off into an eternal sleep. I am okay with the idea. Maybe some flowers in
the room if I am aware before passing too far to the point of no return. Who
knows in thirty years.
I went
through a stage of wanting to rid my house and home of excess clutter and
things. What I really needed was not to focus on anything. Our son will have to
organize the party of getting stuff hauled away. I will be beyond caring. I do
think of my beloved husband and hope he will not be the one dealing with the
memories sacred only to me. As time passes, less and less is as valuable to me
as simply breathing in and out and being aware of it. Miracles, I am surrounded
by miracles.
I have taken
up a new habit which does not have anything to do with breathing, meditation,
or any other possible idea I have in order to involve myself to evolve, to
grow, or become. I am wearing a
different pair of earrings each day. I feel a bit flirty. I like the swing of
the long ones when I turn my head. The
man, my husband, asked me if the extra long wires of one pair poked me. I told him they would if I napped in them. He
would know this if he wore any.
Being
retired, I no longer dress for work, you know, a special haircut, earrings, a
new blouse because it is fun to share with friends and co-workers. I decided I
missed my earrings. I miss messing with my hair, braiding part of it with the
rest loose and hanging. So as part of my
day, I think about what pair of earrings to wear. I will admit it will probably
not be a daily thing. As I sit here
typing, I realized I had forgotten to select a pair for the day. I got involved in chopping vegetables,
figuring out what next to put in the soup pot, snacking on fresh ripe plums,
nibbling on crisp bell peppers, and sipping a cup of tea as it cooled. I was
busy. Almost as busy as our little friend, the bumble bee in the cosmos flower before
the end. I am thinking of getting up and going to look for a pair of earrings
to finished off the day but then there is the dishwasher to unload, I should
probably wash the soup kettle, make another cup of tea and snack on the fresh
wild blackberries a friend bought me.
Living my
life is catching up with me. I could take a nap and then wait for the miracle
of waking up.
