She leaned on the balcony and strained to see the stars. That’s all she wanted in this moment. She wanted to rest her eyes on something beautiful this night but alas it looked as if it were not to be. The clouds hung low over the skyline and nothing pierced the veil save the twinkle of a plane’s lights every two minutes or so. There were nights Natalia loved living in the city, times where she couldn’t believe her fortune to be living here at the center of all things. Then there were nights like tonight, when her feet yearned to run through a grassy meadow and her heart longed to hear the laughter of a brook as it ran past. Tonight, Natalia wished she could rest her eyes upon the heavens and see the stars strewn across the sky in all their glory. But tonight her ears were full of wailing sirens and the lights from the building across the street trumpeted in her face and laughed in mockery of all her dreams. Natalia sighed as she folded her arms around herself. She closed her eyes and let her imagination take her far away, back to her girlhood home. She could see the cottage at the end of the driveway, she could see the garden that lay at the back of the yard. She could smell the woodsmoke ascending to the heavens and she could hear the clucking of the chickens too. If she let herself sit long enough with her sorrows, she surely would hear his voice next. Instead, all she heard was the drone of another plane across the city sky.
Tag: prose
Visions
I want to see the northern slopes one more time. I have seen them in my dreams of course, more times than I can count. But I want to see them with my own two eyes. I have been promised this is not too much to ask and I hold on to that promise dearly. I want to see the white-capped hills stark against the vastness of the sky. I will walk on that well-trod path and let my feet carry me swiftly onwards towards the stile. Then the wild grassy fields that shall let me walk to the very feet of those mountains for which my heart longs. I will run my hands through the tall grass along the path and fix my eyes on the prize. But then I remember the scars I bear and I bow my head in shame and weep. Then I remember the one who calls me friend, the one who has been scarred too. I weep all the more. It is too much that I should be loved as much as this. Even to the end.
It is time now. I delight in the vision that is set before me. I see the mountains grow larger now. Oddly enough, the sky seems no less vast. The weight of heaven presses upon me, but gently, as the hand of a father upon his son’s shoulder. I see now a little cottage at the base of the foothills. There is a little vegetable garden next to it. And a fence surrounding all. A figure rests upon the fence and looks in my direction. He waves his hand in greeting and then beckons me forward. I smell woodsmoke on the breeze and…is that beef stew? A feast it seems is in store. I walk forward towards the man who waits at the door of that little cottage at the base of these northern hills.
Hourglass
Oh how quickly they all turn against me, these treacherous thoughts of mine. I once predicted such a rebellion yet I never thought it would go down like this. My defenses down and my heart broken, I lift a glass to my lips as I ponder the train of events that has led me to this perilous cliff. But looking backwards does not bring much profit, to be sure. All it does is stoke the raging emotions and fears that even now rise in my throat and threaten to overwhelm all else. What could I have done differently? So many things cry the voices in unison. But how was I to know? I did my best. Too bad so sad. Now you pay the ferryman and hope. I do hope that the toll is not more than I can bear. It may be. Yet I fear to linger here in these perilous waters. There are warmer, sweeter climes ahead. Onwards, dear one, onwards. I forget what lies behind and press on. I take a swallow from the glass. Bitter on my tongue yet a song in my heart. My heart has cracks in it but forged anew I feel now in the melancholy of this night. I cry to the one who knows my name. I whisper a prayer to my Father and ask for mercy now. I cry to my Lord Jesus and say you know, you know. I whisper a bare groan to the Spirit and say oh please pray for me. Renewed my thoughts rise to the heavens as I look out over those solitary shores.
Ashen
White hands strayed across the piano keys and whispered soft to me. Do you feel the thunder humming? Do you hear the sizzling of the wires as they pass messages up and down the years? Do you see the lights off the northern coast gleaming through the fog? Do you smell the woodsmoke of the bonfire that crackles on that Hawaii beach? I wish I could write a story that would encompass your trials and tribulations and yet still hold you safe within its arms. Yet my ability to do such is outmatched by my vivid vision and I fear that anything I write will shrivel in your presence and turn to stone under the stars. Yet perhaps even that stone will stand the test of time better than some other scribbles and perhaps the star-washed etchings will someday bring tears to a pilgrim’s eyes. So should I not attempt it and see what this feeble hand can bring forth? Should I not at least break out my notebook and try? I put my hands upon the keyboard now and cry to heaven. I get on my knees and pray for aid this night. Why do you call me to account now for what I haven’t written? Why do you look at me with such tender compassion when I know my failures are even now within your sight? Oh I must with diligence press on for that for which I’ve been called to do. Do I believe it possible that I can craft this gem of steel and starlight? Do you? Please don’t text me asking for an answer. I walk this path even now wondering what I shall say at the end of all things. Thankfully I don’t need to present a justification. The price has already been paid. Do you smell the scent of roast chicken cooking? Do you see the light of the candle on the coffee table that flickers this night? Do you hear the tapping of the keyboard as I write this prologue? Do you feel my arms around you holding you as you cry? The lightning struck outside and I turned the record over.
Nostalgia Met
She picked up the stack of pictures from the end table and flipped through them. Most get a cursory glance. But for a few of them, she paused and gazed steadily into the faded eyes that look up into hers. These pictures that live outside of memory and screen – what stories do they tell? Is it really a land that time forgot, a lost realm that belongs only to the dreams of those aged few? There is one picture in particular, a candid shot of a group of friends in front of a lake. Storm clouds crowd the frame and the three youths glow with the vibrancy that seems self-evident in the moment captured. One boy laughs as he half raises his hand in jest while the other looks away across the water. The solitary girl gazes at the lens and squints, mouth half open as she wonders if the button has been pressed. The moment lost in the past and now lost in the present as it is shuffled to the back of the deck and the women sat down on the edge of the chair. She wondered what she was thinking then. Those clear eyes and that unfiltered invitation. Why was her hope then so much smaller than her dreams? She closed her eyes and touched her brow. There were wrinkles there that marked her prayers. And in her dreams now she heard the piano playing the melody she ached to hear.
Carry On
I am grateful for the small and simple beauties of everyday life. I think that all that know me well know this well enough. Some may call me boring – the Lord knows that some have! Yet I don’t mind this ascription, especially when it very well may be true. I will take the charge and carry on and enjoy my book of the evening as I sit in the candlelight. I am not denying the fun that can be had in a grand adventure or the adrenaline thrill that may accompany a new experience in climes abroad. Once in a while, these have their place. But for tonight, I am thankful for the small things. Perhaps this comfort comes from the larger and greater comfort that my feet are firmly planted on the rock on which I stand and the reality of my place in a symphony that has been written long ago. And so as the music soars out against the rafters and the birds tweet along with the part they have been assigned, I nod along assured that I need not fear when I hear of wars or rumors of such things because I know that I am my God’s and He is mine. Instead I pray for strength for today and good cheer as I walk along this pilgrim path and ask for fortitude that I may remain faithful still. And I walk along the viaduct noticing the way the sunset light touches the foothills and smile to know that I need not worry that the third movement will carry along uninterrupted. Soon the climax, soon the bowstrings will in their anticipation quaver and the trumpet sound one last time. For now I’m simply grateful for this small moment in my armchair.
Paradise
I stand at the shoreline and relish the feel of the cool sand upon my bare feet. I look out over the early morning waters and take a deep breath. The breeze washes over me and reminds me of the long ago time on the Oregon coast when the birds sang low and the bonfire of roses burned. Now I have no such stark reminder of the sacrifice that has been made for me. Instead it is only my inner muse that chants the song and keeps my hands steady in anticipation of what comes. I lift the lamp to my eyeline and let it hang there a moment or two. It swings slightly and the flame bounces merrily to and fro. There is still oil enough. I have prepared. I have done what I can. Though nothing I have done matches what was done for me. I lower the lamp and shift my stance slightly. It has been a long wait, though not as long as the walk that came before. Over mountains and across prairies and on paths bordered by wild grass have I traversed this long night. Now for some reason I do not tremble. I have been given food to eat that has upheld me body and soul. My last sandwich is in the pack and I do not plan on eating it. It is a sacramental reminder, turkey and swiss and mustard on good rye bread. Now I do not need it. A gull cries. I open my eyes and see a boat break upon my sight. The waves lap against it and I need no further call. I step into the water as my eyes begin to fill with tears one last time.
Lampstand
She rose from her chair and walked to the window, trembling. The rain still pattered down upon the sill yet the thunder had long ago ceased its grumbling. The sky had begun to lighten. He had promised, he had said he’d be there before the end. But that was hours ago now. Her phone was silent and still. She turned her back on the window and went over to the coffee table and lit the candle. The room was clean of course, though she still let her eyes dart to all the corners to verify for the seventeenth time. Why did it matter though? She did not know how this conversation would go, this face to face. She sometimes stumbled with her words and he always seemed so confident. Perhaps this time her words would be clear and her face would be calm. Perhaps this time she would know what to say in the moment. But what would he say? Would he approach in humility and purpose? Or would he come full of himself and hollow of all else? Her insides writhed and she sat down on the edge of the sofa. She didn’t know what she wanted. She looked over at her phone on the chair. It had lit up. She couldn’t see from that angle if it was him. She rose slowly to her feet and swallowed once. Then outside footsteps and his profile at the window as he passed. There were flowers in his hand.
Glimmers
Ah majesty! she sighs to herself and proceeds immediately to trip upon a loose rock in full sight of the rest of the tourists wandering about afore the castle. Well that will make me memorable at the very least. Thankful that no ankles had been sprained nor knees skinned, Emily gets up to her feet grateful that her pride had long ago rolled its eyes and withdrawn into some deep dark cave. She was a lost cause after all. A little bit of Irish dirt clung to her jeans but other than that, no damage done. And even the dirt was only a souvenir at the end of the day.
Now Emily walks off the path and onto the grass, approaching the edge of the cliff, the view that had caught her eyes moments before and so precipitously tossed her to the ground. There is something inherently majestic in the way the three realities collide. The solidity and gravity of the cliff and the ground under her feet sound forth in pompous solemnity. The whimsy and fanciful airs given by the sky and its train of clouds scurrying to and fro whistle jauntily in their place. And of course the sea. The wild angst and sheer power of the waves below her soar forth as strains of the violin, haunting in their beauty and aching in the rawness of their tears. So a symphony is born. The cliffs, the sky and the sea. All a part of something greater yet to be.
There is a sparkling in the air as the waves crash into the cliffs and throw up a spray into the sky and proclaims that this moment has arrived and that in its very temporal nature there is a beauty that signals the eternal of the divine. Emily doesn’t recognize all this in words, at least not in this very moment. Later she would write upon it in full, at least as much as her conscious mind can comprehend at a moment far removed. Yet now, though words escape her and only a silent exclamation hovers in front of her lips, Emily comprehends now more fully than she ever will again. The spirit within her resonates as if strummed by an invisible hand. And perhaps it has been. There is in this moment a knowledge that she has witnessed a creative act that is far beyond her. Emily stands at the edge of the cliff and whispers a prayer. It is good for her to be in this place and worship. It is good for her feet to stand upon this solid earth as she gazes upon the sky that stretches over her and the sea.
Tra-la-la
My thoughts burn within me and I wonder what that signifies. If I am but a faded construction of mis-matched cloth and paper and scraps of wood, isn’t it possible that a flame of a thought may be slightly hazardous to my health? Perhaps it would be safer if I kept my spirit cold, dashing bitter water on any thoughts that dare to peep of the far shore. Safer yes but perhaps not as wise. For safety is as safety does, yet wisdom speaks of what she knows and beckons for me to come closer now. I do not think I dare refuse her. This is why I seek for truth and beauty despite the slime and mire of the frantic shouting that is on all the screens we scroll. Might truth and beauty be one and the same? I think so now. This is perhaps a bit simplistic, even reductionistic one might say. But maybe we can acknowledge that truth is not truth if it does not have the air of the beautiful. The false prophet can well cloak their foulness but it will come out in the end. And is beauty truly beauty if it is all a lie? Remember Oscar Wilde’s tale. Ugliness will out in the end. There is a relationship there that I think the wise acknowledge. So please don’t feed me grime and gristle in my daily bread. I would rather eat plain fare and drink cold water and rejoice in the fact that I am growing closer in likeness to the original that I was cast after. I follow now on pilgrimage, plodding yes but plodding true. The dirt rises up in my steps and I refuse the side-paths even though they do have such winsome signage. Neon and steel may once have caught my fancy but I daresay I know better now. I’ve fallen on the way and yes you’ll see mud marked down my left side. I have a scar or two on my face and I cannot deny the grey that is in my hair. Still yet? I have a dream that fills my soul and a word that burns within me. I press on for that greater prize and my eyes water as I think on heaven’s gate and the man that will be there to offer me a greeting. I cannot wait to ascend the hill and hail the master. Soon, my friends, soon. For now though, the path winds on and ever on. And there is even beauty on the way.
