All Knowing

It’s been awhile since I’ve sat down to “free” write much of anything worthy of eyes and time. So, here goes a draft of something that has little relation to anything, other than a fledgling writer’s recommitment to practice her craft~

Perched upon a twisted branch, nestled deep within the tree top’s canopy, a raven hid. Beneath its view, a woman lay sprawled upon the mossy floor. Tousled locks, the colour of spun gold, fanned over the green that bedded her body. She was covered in tapestry, its richness deeper and bluer than the ocean that smashed beneath the hillside cliffs at the forest’s edge.

It was the glint of diamond pinned at her neckline that caught the Raven’s eye.

 

 

A woman’s body, once an empty vessel, was filling. Was she drowning? One hand slid over her heart. The steady rhythm, a comfort. She stirred, grateful to be alive.

What all knowing presence had snuck beneath her skin? Its comforting warmth now surging through her veins; its wisdom trickling down in whispers, “seek and you shall  find.”

Full lips parted and she drank the words as quenching to her hollow as a downpour over parched earth. As a seed unfurls, she felt herself transforming back to life.

Once again, the voice spoke. This time the words were audible, “You are not alone.”

A flash of black broke through the verdant canopy. Eyes wide, she knew the answer to her question.

This ephiephemy hadn’t come about in easy fashion. Rather, it had been a journey of twists and turns, thorns and roses, darkness and light. Steeped in the brew were moments of glimmering truths.

Beauty is found within shambles. A gritty truth she understood. Glances back through time, a particular poem cut from a Daily, a chipped, floral tea cup, a photograph and an untold story. All small, cracked and torn moments forged to memory.

She stood, a forearm shielding her forehead and faced the dark fury. A lone voice commanded, “Be not afraid.”

She straightened. The others had circled, an army of silent souls. Sentries, they stood guard.  Step for step, they had matched her pace along this journey, only pausing when she had collapsed, to rest her cheek upon the carpeted forest floor.

Cranberry Sugar Sugar

Scrub.

DIY Heaven
DIY Heaven

Pamper yourself with ingredients you may already have on hand.

I’ve adapted a sugar scrub recipe to soothe and exfoliate skin– a simple Cranberry Sugar Scrub that you can make at home. It’s the perfect DIY to make with a teen.

Please check the ingredients, in case of allergies.

I purchased my ingredients and oils at Trader Joe’s.

TraderJoes.com

You will need,

1/2 cup of Coconut Oil, partially melted

1 cup of sugar

1/2 cup of frozen cranberries

4 drops of cinnamon oil or an essential oil of your choice*

  • I have used Peppermint oil.

2 small Mason Jars or jars of your choice* I sprayed the lids white.

Place the frozen cranberries into a blender and press “Pulse.” Continue this setting until the berries are bitty.

Into a  bowl, add the sugar and cranberries. Mix together by hand. Add a few drops of essential oil. Stir the oil into the sugar berry mixture. Pour the semi melted coconut oil into the bowl. Combine all ingredients.

Spoon the sugar scrub into jars and seal.

Store your Cranberry Sugar Scrub in the fridge. Chilled, it should keep for seven to ten days. For skin use only.

Give a jar to a friend.

 

Layers

~ vintage blanket
~ vintage blanket

 

It snowed this weekend and the world became just a bit more enchanted. Layers of water and ice glistened over the street. Ribbons of snowflakes tumbled and bedecked the boughs beyond my window. Lights twinkled, evermore bright, as darkness dropped a veil atop the blanket of white. A hush settled upon the land. The world was beautiful to behold.

I’ve learned to look closely, to appreciate the layers of a life.

Everything layers. The snow that buries treasure. The cut pine boughs that house an errant spider. The branch of Winterberries that feed the birds. The words we write; the silences we keep.

Look closely.

My eyes scan the room to view a mother’s treasured sideboard. Once it stood stained and polished, waiting for Sunday. On that sacred day, she’d set out the silver and china serving dishes. Her best effort. And we would celebrate family.

Look closely.

A patina of paint and wax covers the oak sideboard. The top sanded, the edges worn. The silver stands in a cast iron urn, a twist on up cycling.  The china serving bowls rarely make an appearance. I see the candle burning down. A daughter’s attempt to hold on, let go, to illuminate the night.

Look closely.

My fingers lift a gilded frame. The sepia photograph is of a woman. I trace her portrait.  She is standing on a deck, leaning against a railing, looking out to sea. Dressed in her finest clothing, her fingertips hold a hat. A lady always wears a hat. She was a believer in proper etiquette. Beyond her rolls the Atlantic.

Look closely.

I recall her eyes, shades of indigo grey. Behind their depth is another layer. Doubt. I imagine her pausing, pondering, “Should I leave England?” I dust off worry and discover bravery. Carefully, I lift another layer to expose joy ~ he is waiting for her to cross an ocean.  On another continent, he goes about his life, planning, constructing, beholden to a dream.

Look closely.

A certain magic fills the room. A whispered breeze kisses my forehead. I see my Grandmother; she is still beautiful. Time has gently taken its toll. Her once bright eyes have paled. They  glimmer, wet pools of faded blue. Her finest dress, threadbare. A pin of pearls is elegantly placed beneath the collar of her blouse.  Beside her armchair a weathered curtain hangs, the faded Irish lace rustles.

Look closely.

Everything is layered, weathered, chipped, cracked and broken. Be still. Pay attention to the forgotten. It is within glorious imperfection that we find beauty. Lift the layers gently, see beyond the cracks. Everything and everyone has a story to tell. The magic of the world works in whispers. You only need a heart that feels to see the wonder that surrounds us.

Hush

Sunday

Beyond her window, the world rests

Stone still

Hushed

IMG_3136 (1)

As snowflakes tumble

It’s quiet out there

Her eyes look up

For a moment

Imagines herself a child again

Hands raised

Twirling, wondering

beneath a halo of white

While the world stands

Stone still

Hushed

And it is achingly beautiful there.

 

 

A Softened Moment

flocked in snow
flocked in snow

in a softened moment

under a veil of grey

snowflakes tumble

tipping my world

each flake, a scattered memory

a reach across time

you, always choosing december

to withdraw and return, to withhold and offer up

the spoils and riches of a life

yet within this silent moment

envisioning you near

choosing to believe

in everlasting love

 

my footsteps circle, pause

eyes cast toward the heavens

palms lifted to receive

your gift

 

between worlds we stand

witnesses

to never-ending love

 

 

 

 

 

Stream of Consciousness

Lyrical words for a rainy morning.

 

Alone, in the darkness, her silent tears slip; only the stars listen.

Far, far away, on the other side of time, someone catches and collects her tears. He tucks the vial to his heart and waits till the moon rises, ripe in an inky sky. Standing atop a grassy knoll, he uncorks the tears and tosses them heavenward. Momentarily, the sky flickers with light. Shimmering, the released tears scatter to earth as rain.

 

A Modern Day Fairytale

Fury and force heaved and shattered all that dared defy their presence. With exhaled breath, they battered the stalwart evergreens. Tree- tops spun. Boughs snapped and fell.

I knew it was a matter of time.

In the distance, a low rumble shot like a freight train through the land. The faint thundering of hooves grew louder. Beside me, a squirrel scurried for shelter. Overhead, a raven screamed a spell.

A veil hung, ominous and sheer, separating earth from the heavens. Deafening silence overtook the land. The faintest sound was the pumping of my heart. Even still, I was not afraid.

Leaves spun, suspended in air. Shades of red through orange, shapes of maple and oak teased my outstretched hand. Pinecones scattered and rolled across the mossy carpet beneath my feet.

From a clearing he appeared, lit beneath the hunter’s moon. I watched ringed fingers grip and tug the reins. The stallion reared, muscles taut, its coat damp and shiny, head twitching side to side.

On the charge’s back sat the royal one. A body clothed in leather, eyes the sparks of flint, a rugged face devoid of emotion.

It was then I glimpsed his truth. I saw one hand lift, watched as his fingers stroked the mane. The steed lowered its head and stood like stone.

The Storm King lifted from the saddle. Dark, dangerous, beautiful and mysterious he kneeled before me and bowed.