I remember cranberry staining my fingers; the needle seemed so large as I carefully centered it to pierce each bright berry, followed by creamy white kernals of popcorn. The popcorn often breaking in two and falling onto my lap, where greedily I would pluck them up and contentedly chew on their fractured forms. The hint of cranberry juice on my tongue as I licked my fingers clean before trying again with another kernal.
I remember cartoons playing before us with brightly colored scenes, all red, green, silver and gold as the characters we knew and loved so well did their remembered movements across the screen. The nostalgia of it all sinking in deep, as warming to the soul as hot chocolate after a snow-filled day of sledding.
I remember those garlands we made wrapping around our tree: the heady green scent of the pine entertwined with the sawdust from it's freshly-cut trunk. Those strands of red, red berries and fluffy white popcorn that would be hung outside for the birds once the holidays were over and done.
I remember laying in bed, so excited for Santa to come, yet my eyes heavy with sleep the moment my head touched the pillow: my security blanket firmly grasped in hand, it's warm woolen scent filling my nose as I drifted off to sleep, my dreams filled with prancing horses and hopes that Santa would bring me new books.
I remember the excitement of stockings, filled with oranges and peppermint sticks and, one year, pretty new barrettes; my brother playing with new Matchbox cars and zooming them around the floor.
I remember the year when the fantasy broke, the truth about Santa told to me by another child, and my mother sadly confirming it as truth. I remember how hard it was to keep pretending so my brother could enjoy the magic for one more year.
And through those years, new strands of cranberry red and the popcorn white bore silent witness to it all.
I miss those days, or at least I think I do. Many of those holidays have blurred over the years, so who can say for sure. I remember a lot of pain and loneliness around my childhood; things I would rather not go through again. But Christmas... I think I would love to have just one childhood Christmas again.
As we decorate our tree this year I will hang garlands of cranberry glory and popcorn puff: not strung by my hands, but rather fabricated in some far off country before crossing ocean, mountains and desert to reach my Christmas tree.
I wonder if it will bring memories of Christmases long past, or will it be just another gaudy decoration for a plastic tree. The freshly cut pine of my youth now a fabricated scent trying, in vain I think, to be reminiscent of trees long ago
My wish for this year?
More memories from my childhood, please. Even if they would best be left alone. Just one dream-filled night of Christmases past, my brother and I still with heads filled with possibilities and anticipation. Those days I would love to recapture. If it isn't asking too much, maybe dreams of summers running free, swimming at the river, the scent of hot pine sap as the temperatures climb. The sound of the wind in the trees around me and the scent of woodsmoke in the air as autumn comes around.
How precious those times are, now that I am growing older. Why couldn't I have recognized that back then? I don't believe that youth is wasted on the young, for only the young are carefree enough to openly wonder and hope and dream where so many possibilities are open. I warm myself in the memories of standing by the woodstove, carefully toasting homemade bread with it's cheerful warmth. I remember so much of the good, as well as the bad- how I wish I could have told that younger me that the good will always balance out in the end.
But she is there and I am here, and the blur of time and forgotten memories lie between who I was and who I now am.
And I am grateful, so very grateful, for who I am and to finally know my worth.
But still, Dearest Santa, if you read the letter of this good little girl now all grown up- would one Christmas dream be alright?
Monday, November 27, 2023
Friday, August 25, 2023
There Is No Ferry In A World Without Oceans
There it lay upon the nightstand, glistening wetly as if freshly plucked from the sea, and she knew if she were to touch her tongue to its porous surface that she would taste that salty brine even though the nearest ocean was hours away.
It always returned, this volcanic chunk of basalt. Always. Like some twisted lodestone unerringly driven to come home. Each time it was discarded or sold off (no longer done as it was too hard to explain how it eventually disappeared from a collectors collection only to reappear in her possession again) or destroyed it would play with her, staying away for days or weeks or months. Never a year though. It was always kept locked away, but that didn't stop it from turning up in random places.
It was the wetness that disturbed her. She had been sure this time it would not have returned, having dropped it herself and watching it sink into the fathoms. One would think so far from shore it would struggle to free itself from the muck of the sea floor and finding it's way past sea slugs, fishing nets and territorial borders to her very room. Even if it had surely it would not still be wrapped in that sheen of briny water.
She had no idea of how to break the hold it had on her, a Faustian bargain not of her making. She could feel the years of her life stretched thin like the skin above her thin wrist, so pale it was nearly transluecent. She would have cursed that ancient ancestor who had sealed her to this fate, but knew that they were damned enough already. She had read the journals, matriarch after matriarch, doomed to live out her hundred years of perfect health while the stone claimed it's due. Every seven years it claimed a life, a male of the line. They never knew who would be taken, be it son, nephew, cousin or uncle, the male line of the family were fair game and ripe for the taking.
She was determined to be the final victim of this damning cycle. It was years still she would be forced to endure before her time on came to a close, but she knew she could no longer wait for time to release its hold upon her. So she made a plan and set it into motion. She left the day and the time up to those hands she had given her token thirty pieces of silver, now all she could do is wait. Waiting was easy when one knew her days of suffering had almost reached their end.
And then it came. She did not resist as she and the stone were shoved into a box, the lid nailed shut and the sound of chains dragged across the surface. She endured the bruises as she and the rock slid into one another as the box tilted first one way and then the other as it was lifted carelessly and carried away. She had no idea and was not concerned about where they would end up, only rejoicing that her demise was one of her choosing and that she was nearly free.
The sensation of falling and the jarring thud as the box was thrown into the waiting pit knocked the air out of her, and she could hear wet sounds pouring down. A thin seam of wet concrete forming above her where the box and its lid met. What bliss, she thought. There is no way out of here for you now, she told the stone, and could almost feel it hunkering down and sulking, while loose dirt was shovelled in. When it finally went quiet she could imagine that there would be no trace left above to indicate where they lay.
So she lay quietly, ignoring the bruises and the urging of her bladder and waited for the air to go stale and send her drifting into oblivion. She had no idea of how much time had passed when she first felt movement at her feet and a soft scraping noise as the stone rubbed against the roughness of the wood.
There is no getting out, she told it, a strange and disturbing laughter coming from her chest, muffled in the close confines. Its just you and me now and always.
But the soft noises continued, and the scent of fresh sawdust tinged the staling air. Oh stop already, she told the stone. You'll wear yourself away to nothing digging through, that's concrete around us, there is no getting through it.
The box was too small for her to wiggle around and grab the rock, so she would just have to endure the noise until she passed beyond caring. She should have specified someting larger, and as she shifted her hips she couldn't help but think how she should have also mentioned padding or at least a pillow for her head. Still, a little discomfort was a willing trade for her early release from daily life.
The air grew stale and still she lay, fully conscious and growing annoyed at how long this was taking. Shouldn't she be at least growing tired or dizzy before the suffocating end came, but still she lay there, eyes open though she couldn't see anything anyway, and that persistent rubbing motion next to her right foot.
Not much time left, she told it, though a panic was slowly growing in her chest and she tried to clamp it down. There wasn't enough room in the box for her to fall to hysterics now. And still the steady scrape of stone to wood, and she realized she could now smell damp earth. The rough scrach softened to what she imagined an earthworm heard as they tunneled past one another in the garden.
Its gotten out of the box, she realized. It went underneath the concrete and was making its slow progression through the disturbed earth. She wasn't so bothered that it was making an escape as surely she hadn't much time left to her, trapped as she was. to worry. Let the rock become someone else's burden, she told herself, and make ready for your soul's release. It wasn't as if she was going to be trapped here with the damned thing for eternity anyway. Surely she had minutes only left to suffer with it.
The stone paused, turning as if to look back the way it had come. You have misjudged this, it said, no anger or malice in its tone. I may free myself and come and go as I please, you have no such luxury open to you. But you, had you but known the parameters of the bargain, shall remain. The bargain holds that you live, and live you shall until the hundred year mark is reached. Be content in your new home, for it shall be yours for many more a year still. And it turned back to its slow forward progression, inching towards the surface and the sunlight beaming down upon this spot of earth, a sign nearby proudly announcing the opening of a park opening in the fall.
But she had no way of knowing where she was, only the cold realization that she would spend decades in this cramped box with only the stone dropping by from time to time. She filled her lungs with what air was left around her and screamed and screamed until the air was gone and she was left alone and silent, hands fluttering around the tiny space around her as the years wore on around her. She could faintly sense the passing of time overhead in the soft thumps of children's feet overhead, their screams of delight muffled and unintelligible.
The stone came and went as it pleased, the men of the family still dying every seven years as agreed so long before, and she waited, knowing one day the end would finally arrive, it had to. The bargain had been made and would one day bring her release. But then the stone disappeared. She had no idea how long it had been since its last visit to her, but it didn't come. It must be close, she told herself comfortingly, it must be close to my soul's release, it can't keep me here forever, but without any sort of marker she had no way to count down how long she had left.
Time moved on around this tired little plot of land. The thump of footfalls changing over the years as the world above moved from cultivated playground to a derelict neighborhood where street thugs now loitered. One day even those were gone and she was left truly alone, the silence broken only by the persistent beating of her heart. Surely soon, she thought over and over again, it could not have forgotten me. Surely it won't be long now, not realizing that she had already done so for millenia now.
The world overhead strangely silent, a thick red dust constantly churning in the stiff breeze across a landscape erased through time. the sun only a faint glow that penetrated the atmosphere of a dry and empty planet.
It always returned, this volcanic chunk of basalt. Always. Like some twisted lodestone unerringly driven to come home. Each time it was discarded or sold off (no longer done as it was too hard to explain how it eventually disappeared from a collectors collection only to reappear in her possession again) or destroyed it would play with her, staying away for days or weeks or months. Never a year though. It was always kept locked away, but that didn't stop it from turning up in random places.
It was the wetness that disturbed her. She had been sure this time it would not have returned, having dropped it herself and watching it sink into the fathoms. One would think so far from shore it would struggle to free itself from the muck of the sea floor and finding it's way past sea slugs, fishing nets and territorial borders to her very room. Even if it had surely it would not still be wrapped in that sheen of briny water.
She had no idea of how to break the hold it had on her, a Faustian bargain not of her making. She could feel the years of her life stretched thin like the skin above her thin wrist, so pale it was nearly transluecent. She would have cursed that ancient ancestor who had sealed her to this fate, but knew that they were damned enough already. She had read the journals, matriarch after matriarch, doomed to live out her hundred years of perfect health while the stone claimed it's due. Every seven years it claimed a life, a male of the line. They never knew who would be taken, be it son, nephew, cousin or uncle, the male line of the family were fair game and ripe for the taking.
She was determined to be the final victim of this damning cycle. It was years still she would be forced to endure before her time on came to a close, but she knew she could no longer wait for time to release its hold upon her. So she made a plan and set it into motion. She left the day and the time up to those hands she had given her token thirty pieces of silver, now all she could do is wait. Waiting was easy when one knew her days of suffering had almost reached their end.
And then it came. She did not resist as she and the stone were shoved into a box, the lid nailed shut and the sound of chains dragged across the surface. She endured the bruises as she and the rock slid into one another as the box tilted first one way and then the other as it was lifted carelessly and carried away. She had no idea and was not concerned about where they would end up, only rejoicing that her demise was one of her choosing and that she was nearly free.
The sensation of falling and the jarring thud as the box was thrown into the waiting pit knocked the air out of her, and she could hear wet sounds pouring down. A thin seam of wet concrete forming above her where the box and its lid met. What bliss, she thought. There is no way out of here for you now, she told the stone, and could almost feel it hunkering down and sulking, while loose dirt was shovelled in. When it finally went quiet she could imagine that there would be no trace left above to indicate where they lay.
So she lay quietly, ignoring the bruises and the urging of her bladder and waited for the air to go stale and send her drifting into oblivion. She had no idea of how much time had passed when she first felt movement at her feet and a soft scraping noise as the stone rubbed against the roughness of the wood.
There is no getting out, she told it, a strange and disturbing laughter coming from her chest, muffled in the close confines. Its just you and me now and always.
But the soft noises continued, and the scent of fresh sawdust tinged the staling air. Oh stop already, she told the stone. You'll wear yourself away to nothing digging through, that's concrete around us, there is no getting through it.
The box was too small for her to wiggle around and grab the rock, so she would just have to endure the noise until she passed beyond caring. She should have specified someting larger, and as she shifted her hips she couldn't help but think how she should have also mentioned padding or at least a pillow for her head. Still, a little discomfort was a willing trade for her early release from daily life.
The air grew stale and still she lay, fully conscious and growing annoyed at how long this was taking. Shouldn't she be at least growing tired or dizzy before the suffocating end came, but still she lay there, eyes open though she couldn't see anything anyway, and that persistent rubbing motion next to her right foot.
Not much time left, she told it, though a panic was slowly growing in her chest and she tried to clamp it down. There wasn't enough room in the box for her to fall to hysterics now. And still the steady scrape of stone to wood, and she realized she could now smell damp earth. The rough scrach softened to what she imagined an earthworm heard as they tunneled past one another in the garden.
Its gotten out of the box, she realized. It went underneath the concrete and was making its slow progression through the disturbed earth. She wasn't so bothered that it was making an escape as surely she hadn't much time left to her, trapped as she was. to worry. Let the rock become someone else's burden, she told herself, and make ready for your soul's release. It wasn't as if she was going to be trapped here with the damned thing for eternity anyway. Surely she had minutes only left to suffer with it.
The stone paused, turning as if to look back the way it had come. You have misjudged this, it said, no anger or malice in its tone. I may free myself and come and go as I please, you have no such luxury open to you. But you, had you but known the parameters of the bargain, shall remain. The bargain holds that you live, and live you shall until the hundred year mark is reached. Be content in your new home, for it shall be yours for many more a year still. And it turned back to its slow forward progression, inching towards the surface and the sunlight beaming down upon this spot of earth, a sign nearby proudly announcing the opening of a park opening in the fall.
But she had no way of knowing where she was, only the cold realization that she would spend decades in this cramped box with only the stone dropping by from time to time. She filled her lungs with what air was left around her and screamed and screamed until the air was gone and she was left alone and silent, hands fluttering around the tiny space around her as the years wore on around her. She could faintly sense the passing of time overhead in the soft thumps of children's feet overhead, their screams of delight muffled and unintelligible.
The stone came and went as it pleased, the men of the family still dying every seven years as agreed so long before, and she waited, knowing one day the end would finally arrive, it had to. The bargain had been made and would one day bring her release. But then the stone disappeared. She had no idea how long it had been since its last visit to her, but it didn't come. It must be close, she told herself comfortingly, it must be close to my soul's release, it can't keep me here forever, but without any sort of marker she had no way to count down how long she had left.
Time moved on around this tired little plot of land. The thump of footfalls changing over the years as the world above moved from cultivated playground to a derelict neighborhood where street thugs now loitered. One day even those were gone and she was left truly alone, the silence broken only by the persistent beating of her heart. Surely soon, she thought over and over again, it could not have forgotten me. Surely it won't be long now, not realizing that she had already done so for millenia now.
The world overhead strangely silent, a thick red dust constantly churning in the stiff breeze across a landscape erased through time. the sun only a faint glow that penetrated the atmosphere of a dry and empty planet.
Tuesday, June 13, 2023
Pieces of Me
I leave pieces of me everywhere I go; molecules connected to the places I once was, was loved, and even some to those places I never want to see again. Some are locations I can no longer go, lost to time and tide, like keys to a door I can no longer access as the locks have changed, preventing me from revisiting where I once played, breathed and dreamed. A past I was too young to recognize as swift and fleeting.
I can't help but wonder of those pieces of me left behind. Do they quietly watch the passage of time, noting the changing seasons and years passing but wishing I could return, and if I did, would they even recognize me as the person I am now?
How strange to picture the breaths I exhaled and the pieces of my heart left sprinkled across the landscape of my life. Are those very breaths still being carried on the wind? If I searched would I find my heart and flesh embedded into the very soil I loved and trod across barefoot as a child?
Are traces of my heart buried in the sediment and layered in time like some ossified skeleton of ancient beasts for a future scholar to find? And what must that stranger think, breathng in the breaths of me through time?
Are these scents that trigger a memory merely the adult I am now rebreathing past exhalations, holding them warm and fluttering within my chest to wrap me in nostalgia like a forgotten but much-loved comfortable sweater?
What a Pandora's box of desire to wish these keys that invisibly tie me to my past, present and future cannot be taken from a pocket and used whenever I would like. To take a peek at what will inevitably become my past or to linger in a distant memory of splashing through puddles and bathing in the scent of a long-forgotten storm stirring in the wind and making the trees shiver and sigh.
But then those keys that would open up old dreams also lead to the nightmares that are best left buried in the moments they belong, no longer haunting me with the pain they inflicted and the ghost of old torments, like a spiderweb touching your face as you stumble in the dark. Can you really have one without the other? Likely not.
So here I sit in quiet reflection as a treasured moment of time caught up with me, marveling at its clarity, though I am sure that the golden edges rimming them now were not present at the time they were formed.
Maybe keys are not needed after all...especially if they keep the hurt at bay.
Its the dilemna, isn't it: if you give a mouse a cookie? Well, if you hand this girl a set of keys please be sure to have them carefully labelled or provide a map. There is too much idle curiosity in me to resist taking a peek and getting caught in the mire as it all escapes across the scattered landscape. possibly to be lost forever.
Is there some ancient bloodhound who can track the course of my time upon this earth, snuffling its way from memory to memory? Perhaps he can pause in his course puzzling out what caused yet another piece of my heart to be left behind or so many tears to fall and help to collect the tangled remains.
I can't help but wonder of those pieces of me left behind. Do they quietly watch the passage of time, noting the changing seasons and years passing but wishing I could return, and if I did, would they even recognize me as the person I am now?
How strange to picture the breaths I exhaled and the pieces of my heart left sprinkled across the landscape of my life. Are those very breaths still being carried on the wind? If I searched would I find my heart and flesh embedded into the very soil I loved and trod across barefoot as a child?
Are traces of my heart buried in the sediment and layered in time like some ossified skeleton of ancient beasts for a future scholar to find? And what must that stranger think, breathng in the breaths of me through time?
Are these scents that trigger a memory merely the adult I am now rebreathing past exhalations, holding them warm and fluttering within my chest to wrap me in nostalgia like a forgotten but much-loved comfortable sweater?
What a Pandora's box of desire to wish these keys that invisibly tie me to my past, present and future cannot be taken from a pocket and used whenever I would like. To take a peek at what will inevitably become my past or to linger in a distant memory of splashing through puddles and bathing in the scent of a long-forgotten storm stirring in the wind and making the trees shiver and sigh.
But then those keys that would open up old dreams also lead to the nightmares that are best left buried in the moments they belong, no longer haunting me with the pain they inflicted and the ghost of old torments, like a spiderweb touching your face as you stumble in the dark. Can you really have one without the other? Likely not.
So here I sit in quiet reflection as a treasured moment of time caught up with me, marveling at its clarity, though I am sure that the golden edges rimming them now were not present at the time they were formed.
Maybe keys are not needed after all...especially if they keep the hurt at bay.
Its the dilemna, isn't it: if you give a mouse a cookie? Well, if you hand this girl a set of keys please be sure to have them carefully labelled or provide a map. There is too much idle curiosity in me to resist taking a peek and getting caught in the mire as it all escapes across the scattered landscape. possibly to be lost forever.
Is there some ancient bloodhound who can track the course of my time upon this earth, snuffling its way from memory to memory? Perhaps he can pause in his course puzzling out what caused yet another piece of my heart to be left behind or so many tears to fall and help to collect the tangled remains.
Saturday, May 6, 2023
All the Light that Shines
I'm not entirely sure which I would prefer, but you'd be safest to bet on the endless night.
And even during that harsh and brutally cold season, the Northern Lights dance, with enough luminance to make things normally hidden in the night suddenly visible due to the Boralis' unearthly glow.
I would love to see them again. I did once, as a child, off in the distance and faintly glowing, obscured for the most part by trees. Where we lived in Northern Washington didn't get the lights usually back then. Or if we did, it was sure to be after I was already tucked into bed, probably with a smuggled book and a flashlight.
But sun, moons, stars and dancing ribbons of light are not what I especially wanted to talk about.
Did you know that parts of our seas light up at night with a biolumination caused by a species of photoplankton that love to eat the algae that occurs with the dreaded red tide?
Deep sea creatures, feeding so low that sunlight does not reach here, have bioluminescent bodies. It isn't enough to make the ocean floor glow, but there are sparks of light gliding in the deeps.
Caves are often known to harbor bioluminescent algae and bacteria, which glows deeply underground, clinging to rocks where nothing else would normally thrive.
So what does any of this have to do with this week's Midnight Sun theme?
Everything really. You see, if you look hard enough you can usually find that there is light present- be it spiritual, mental or physical. No matter how dark things may seem at times (and we all certainly have our moments of despair and trials that we fear will overwhelm us). Especially in the darkest times keep looking, and you will find a light. Maybe its simply a small candle, flickering in the dark, and sometimes it is as large as the full moon, reflecting light to us from a sun we cannot see at the moment. You can find it burning in the hearts of our fellow brothers and sisters around the world, even if some choose to hide it away from the world.
And for the photo... I debated on sharing it or not. It's certainly not one of my best, as it was one of the first shots I captured when I went digital. Still, I do love its capture of light and how even the lesser moonlight can diffuse and illuminate the path before your feet on nights when your own light seems dimmest.
Keep looking even if right now you only see the dark. The light will be there.
Midnight Sun - Haiku #2
Red Harvest Moon Rise
Pass through Earth's shadow aflame
Like a Midnight Sun
Thursday, January 19, 2023
Baking With Bob
Today's Personal Truth comes courtesy of the word FLESHY.
I have been baking and cooking a lot lately. For so long I didn't have the space to really work, but now I am in a home that has just enough room for me to get around in my wheelchair, I have slowly gotten into the rhythm of making dinner at least. I still get overwhelmed with larger occasions- a small Thanksgiving for the three of us here wiped me out for a couple of days. Still, I am so grateful to be able to patter around with the pots and pans again.
I tried getting adventurous with bagels, which turned out delicious, but looked horrible. I need to try again until I get those down, but my heart set its sights on sourdough, so to sourdough I went.
Or tried.
It seemed so easy. Equal grams of all-purpose flour and filtered water. Keep in a loose-lidded jar and feed it the same amount daily. And at first it went according to plan...Bob, as I had named him, slowly loosened up and became bubbly and seemed on-track to becoming a tasty yeast to begin baking with, but I had started with about half of the amounts the recipe called for. Realizing I would need more starter if I was to really get into sourdough baking, the recipe mentioned how you could always double the feeding. Problem was, I doubled his feeding before the 5th day, and stalled him out. Bob went from bubbly yeasty smelling to a loose puddle that refused to rise and smelled a bit like wallpaper paste.
Poor Bob.
He doesn't have a fleshy body, but I still thought of him as his own little entity. Every morning I would make sure to feed and water Bob and rotated him to a clean jar afterwards.
Not a pet, but definitely a lively little blob that I looked forward to playing with.
So after watching him struggle I decided to start again. I mixed a new starter batch, using the proper amounts this time, and we'll see how it goes. It will still be Bob, I hope. I poured the old starter out into the garbage, but at the bottom there was still a yeasty smell, so a bit of that was drizzled on top of the new mix.
Bob 2.0
Fingers crossed that this new batch bubbles up nicely and Bob will pull through his current slump.
If not, I'll just have to accept it and buy a starter mix... I hope I don't though. After all, sending away for a mix means that they could send me just anybody- a Daisy, Dom or David. Bob is who I want to bake with, not some stranger, but I am patient. I will give poor Bob every chance I can to perk up before I take that step.
Why do I care? Well, its not sentiment, not really. I have always wanted to be more self-sufficient. Not monitarily, but capable-wise. I can make butter from cream, know how to make jams and how to can produce. I know how to sew (somewhat- I admit following patterns is not fully in my wheelhouse), and creating my own yeast rather than depend on jars from the store fits right in there.
So we will see where this goes. If I can't make a go with Bob, well, then I'll have to just work to keep someone else's starter alive and thriving. I love being able to get into the kitchen and wheeling out again with something fresh and homemade cooling on the counter. I feel more like myself again with every dinner or loaf or cookie I make. I may be handicapped, but, for once, I feel a little more handicapable.
And why the name Bob? I was reading a fun novel by T. Kingfisher when I first mixed my boy up. It's called the Wizard's Guide to Defensive Baking and in it the plucky heroine (who works for her aunt's bakery) has a friend in the vat of starter they keep in the basement. Her starter's name? You won't need three guesses, but yes, his name is Bob. He's quite the character for how little he's in the story, and it's not like he talks or anything, but I fell for that odd little character and decided I needed a Bob of my own.
I'm sure it sounds silly, but then again, I do tend to be a bit odd with my tastes. Mmmm... just think of the tasty ciabatta that might be in our future.
C'mon Bob, we need to pull you through.
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