Tag Archives: fiction

Come in, the water’s nice

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Photo Courtesy:  This flickr photostream

Standing high above a precipice am I.  And the people below are chanting and calling my name- Jump, Jump they say.  A nagging feeling tugs at me like a string in my back attached to the oak tree a few feet behind me.  The string is saying no and my toes curl under with every sound uttered from their lips.  A rush of fear consumes my body as I peer over the edge at the water below.  But they look like they are having so much fun, bobbing buoys saying come on in… the water’s nice.  If I can just leap once, and then the free fall where there will be no turning back.  The only thing left at that point will be to anticipate the splash.  The submerge.  Of first the feet, and then the water as it climbs up my legs and tickles my abdomen, and the water climbs up to my neck and head and envelops every hair bursting from my scalp as the water overtakes me.  I did it.  I jumped.  When i float back to the surface and resurrect from the watery grave, there they are.  All their smiling, encouraging faces knowing i had one last act of bravery within my body.  We dog paddle around the lagoon with legs and arms in the cool clean water.  The drops of water roll off my arms back to whence it came.  One jump inspires another and another.  I can jump again.  The joy lies just beyond the fear.  Fear pulsating in my ears like a deafening voice can be quieted with just one calm step.  Jump they say.  Jump. Jump.  i wasn’t ready for the plunge.  But in that moment between terror and reckless abandon was a split second of sheer bravery.  So I seized it and ran.

In the Future…

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Photo Courtesy: Florida photostream

Where do I see myself in the future?

I see myself in a cottage by the ocean, where the waves are lapping up against huge rocks and the sun is setting.  I can hear sea gulls having a conversation about the weather or the latest thing they read.  I’m swallowed by a sweater that’s entirely too big for me and my feet are tucked up beneath me in my Adirondack chair painted seafoam green.  I am touching a journal with hundreds of empty pages just awaiting to be dressed in lyrics, poems, stories and imaginings of my mind.  It’s quiet by the ocean.  It’s peaceful by the ocean.  And the night air closing in is pushed by the wind, encouraging her to be better and stronger than she was before.  The horizon provides the center, the balance, the anchor for my eyes.  My formerly brushed hair is now lifted off my neck by the wind and brought around my eyes and caressing my cheek and with each breath, I take in more healing, salty, sea air.  I think I begin to understand why the doctors at the turn of the century recommended a stay near the beach for its healing properties.  I lie back, close my eyes and just be.

~lme

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Photo Courtesy: This flickr photostream

A lonely cabin perched upon the side of a hill suddenly illumined by the light of morning with rays dancing against the imperfect and raw wood siding of the house is etched in pages of my mind.  It was only a house, and the life, the home, the heart was inside.  Simplicity garnered felicity in my surroundings.  The windows allowed the light in as a welcome guest with curtains of sheer cream that blew effortlessly in the summertime.  There were but three rooms; a bathroom, a bedroom and an open community room with a stove, a loveseat and a handmade wooden table with four chairs nestled around.  Within the corner of the community room sat my favorite piece of all.  It was a writing desk full of ideas, sketchings, dried flowers, bottles with sand from all over the world, a wren feather, and pens for me to craft my favorite places on earth and other worlds.  I was never so happy as running free and wild in my imagination where no harm could befall me unless I allowed it to be so.  The most glorious time of day was just before sunset when the world felt warmer with the sun bestowing a blessing of orange, yellow and red in rays upon the grass, the sod roof of the cabin and the garden resting up for it’s debut in spring.  The anticipation of the changing seasons and the simple pleasures of a life lived were enough to make me gratefully content.  Mealtime was something to be treasured in both the preparation and the crafting of dishes with hands that had long worked to gather the vegetables, knead the dough and lovingly set the table.  Evenings at the cabin were spent in simplicity, reading by the fire, taking a moonlight walk in the woods or telling stories composed of memory or make-believe.  Maybe it was the stark, eggshell walls with few pictures hung.  Or maybe it was the way the wind whistled through the leaves in the live oak fifty feet from the front door.  Perhaps it was promise of adventure in the woods not far down the hill that held a sense of mystery and wonder for me.  But something about that little cabin in the woods was bathed in comfort, felt strongly of acceptance and possessed a spirit so in line with mine that I returned year after year.

~lme