It Was Love

Lately I awaken, the dream remnants lingering cast like a veil over form. An unanswered question hovers. Pushed aside, betrayed; shame surfaces. The frightened young woman deep within whispers, I must be flawed, something is wrong with me. The adult reasons, Perhaps not. Perhaps it was as simple as you didn’t fit in anymore.

 

I am his daughter, patiently holding silences. Chosen memories safe, I snug the precious moments, choosing to believe magical qualities endure. Perhaps not, perhaps fooled into believing an illusion of love.

 

I want to let him go; there are moments I turn and face the skies, a silent scream of anger for one who betrayed. Believing words that ring hollow. Never an illusion the memories stay, resurfacing at the moment between something to believe in and nothing. The unanswered question remains.

 

It is hard to trust. Pausing to view the world, once I ran to greet it, cautious now. Someone said,

“Find a way to let it go.”

When I find that way, it will be final. The world will darken a shade as I face the truth.

A hardened heart will alter. So you see, I hold on to him, cherish what I knew, all for a belief in love; I loved him so.

 

 

 

Broken Wings

 

 

The recently released Maleficent retells the classic fairytale, Sleeping Beauty, with a twist. The viewer gets to follow Maleficent’s point of view, step inside her complex mind and once tender heart to watch as she shows the events leading up to evil darkness. It is my all time favourite fairytale.

http://movies.disney.com/maleficent/video

 

In the beginning we see a joyful, spritely Maleficent, Princess and Protector of the Fairyland Moors, joyously winging throughout her kingdom. True to fairytale fashion, along trots a charming Prince. Maleficent possesses human qualities; she possesses an affectionate heart that she entrusts to a flawed Prince, a charming yet disconcerting combination of assets.

 

The pivotal, foreboding moment is the scene where the vulnerable Maleficent awakens upon the forest floor to discover her coveted dark wings cut off by the hand of the Prince, a man she loved. As her fingertips reach up to stroke the stump of a feathery soft wing, the reader senses impending doom. Betrayed, a haunting scream echoes throughout the moor, sending forth shivers of angst throughout the kingdom and beyond.

 

Betrayal

  1. Betrayal is the breaking or violation of a presumptive contract, trust, or confidence that produces moral and psychological conflict within a relationship amongst individuals, between organizations or between individuals and organizations.
  2. Betrayal – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Betrayal

 

The saddest thing about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies; it comes from those you love. There are degrees of betrayal, small slip ups to ever-increasing pulsations of anger, jealousy and rage. Greed is the deadliest betrayal and unfortunately too common a reason for a despairing action. Evil takes hold of mind and heart.

Of course light must trump darkness. Maleficent’s heart softens by a raven’s loyal friendship and enduring love from the child she betrayed at birth. There is madness. Our imprisoned Prince can’t escape the voices of his conscience or his yearning heart’s desire for Maleficent. Alas, the crown has tipped; it won’t be happily resolved for our doomed Prince.

 

As true to fairy tales, there is a happy ending.

Lana Del Ray’s hauntingly beautiful lyrics, “Once Upon a Dream”

We learn from fairy tales about good and evil, of how choice, especially greed affects another. We can choose to live from the heart.

 

Disclaimer

~ I know, I know. Stereotypes must stop; in life Princesses betray Princes. Hollywood are you listening?

The Letter- word press 101

You stumble upon a random letter on the path. You read it. It affects you deeply, and you wish it could be returned to the person to which it’s addressed. Write a story about this encounter.

Today’s twist: Approach this post in as few words as possible.

 

We pass on the forested trail.

“Good morning.” She doesn’t look; a letter tumbles.

“Wait!” She runs on.

The clearing reveals a meadow’s rapture. Winter’s veil lifts.

Lily of the Valley rings a massive stone, the granite hollowed. Dampness chills. Someone else before.

Unfolding the letter I read,

It’s over.

 

 

Find Something…

Find something beautiful today, no matter how small.

xBouquet from me to you

Gratitude

Beauty

Gratitude. Years ago a thoughtful neighbour brought me a clump of peony roots, dug from her colourful garden, divided for another.  On a walk, I pause to admire the show of beauty blooming so splendidly in her garden.  My eyes covet the peonies, the genus Paeonia, buds wrapped tight, stalks gently holding the shy, unfurling blooms.  Some garnet, pink, and as if this isn’t enough beauty to behold, two weeks later, the white flowers show, shining through the dark night.

On the cusp of autumn, she placed three small bundles at the doorstep. They patiently wait, still, wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine, for me to discover.   Cradling the bundles, I take them to my garden, gently hand them to the earth.  Planting the woody clumps into the soil, I wonder at the magic these simple bundles of wood and roots would conjure.  Seasons changed, the little woody clumps slept snug underneath an earthen blanket.

The following spring the roots anchor, stalks push through the soil’s surface, evolving into small bushes covered with compound, deeply lobed leaves. Three garnet peonies bloom on one of the bushes. Two weeks later, the second bloom opens to reveal the purest white petals. Years later, these small clumps have mothered five beautiful bushes.

Gorgeousness. Some believe peony compounds have the power to heal.  Inhale their fragrance, touch the soft petals with a finger tip, breathe in as your heartbeat slows under this intoxicating spell.  I wonder at such beauty.  

A Dream

Her words written on an email~ I had a strange dream last night.  Tell me more, I wrote back.  These are her words.

I was sitting on a beach, tracing shapes into sand, watching as the grains shifted, the sand bits refusing to stay put, rearranging themselves, she wrote. A man came into view.  He looked to be in his early seventies and was wearing a navy cloth baseball style jacket; the same style that he used to wear.  Do your remember that jacket, Grace? The man stood and watched, met my stare.  I saw compassion in his weary eyes.  The man did not speak, merely stood in front of me.  It was surreal, as if time had stopped.

There were no words exchanged between us, no need to check the reasons, expose the painful events and emotions that tore us apart.  There were no scores to settle.  We simply met on a beach and faced one another. Then he turned and walked away toward the sun’s rise.

Dad came to say, “good-bye” to me.  He waited twenty years. 

Musing Matters of the Heart

“I have not broken your heart – you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine.” 
― Emily BrontëWuthering Heights

 

Some days I wish for do over moments in life, a pause button that we press, especially when it comes to matters of the heart.   Do overs are fleeting and we often miss them.  It bewilders me when I hear of family discord, cruelty, and neglect.  “What’s done is done,” “Leave the past in the past,” or even, “Who cares?”  With matters of the heart, it can be difficult to accept those unhelpful words, impossible to reconcile the loss.  That’s betrayal’s legacy, deep loss. The world continues turning, we move forward, busy, preoccupied, until in time we find ourselves pausing, searching for answers. A fleeting do over moment, a chance to say what we need to say or do what we need to do.

 

If only we could empathize with another in that moment, appreciate the point of view, feel  the sadness, experience the pain.  If we could sit on our anger, appreciate that words wound.  Quick to judge another, we assume we know the reasons why as we point fingers to blame.  The other is our enemy. We are satisfied with ourselves, we shut the door.

 

Could we listen to the inner voice that whispers~ Be kind? Could we comfort the saddened soul, connect to their sorrow?  It is easier to blame.  We allow betrayal to cut deep and we mock. The wound festering until the truth is revealed when we eventually meet face to face.  A do over moment, opportunities provided by the universe to set our souls to right.

Look into my eyes.  I am your sister, your friend, your neighbour.  I am your mother, your grandmother, a member of your community. I am your daughter.  We are all family.

Don’t waste an opportunity to extend a hand, offer a kind word, listen to a voice.  Through loving kindness we can heal.  Simple true words.  Connect to another in that precious do over moment.

 

 

 

Ancestry

The ad captures my attention~ discover your past, your family’s story.  I begin a quest to discover the history of my family, to know their stories. Regrettably, it never occurred to me to enquire about family when I had the chance.  The relatives I knew kept silences and secret whisperings locked away.

An ancestry membership started me on a journey to discover my past, to discover the men and women whose spirit, hard work, and resilience contributed to my DNA.  Like Alice, I fall down the rabbit hole to emerge in England.  Perhaps this partly explains the allure of floral and chintz.  I cannot pass a vintage thrift shop; I must enter and wander the aisles, linger with the china tea cups and saucers.

Cabbage roses capture my attention. Closing my eyes, woodland hares and rose bushes come into focus.  A calico cat peeks out from behind a stone shed, its stealthy body poised, yellow eyes set upon a morning robin, watching as the bird alights atop the country garden’s netting.  Sweet peas inch up the strings, their perfumed fragrance intoxicating, carried on a gentle breeze.

A paper bag princess, royalty eludes me! Instead, I discover a fascinating world, its simplicity steeped within the doctrines of the Church of England and the land.  I am descended from working class people; tenacious spirits, the farmers and carters beckon me to pause and pay respect.  The great, great, great-granddaughter of hardworking men and women who tilled the beautiful pastoral lands around Shropshire, England.  I wonder if an everlasting thread connects us still. At times, their presence fleeting, their faces mirrored back. Perhaps these old souls smile when they view my humble garden, the sunflower seeds and tightly rounded sweet peas unfurling from seed coat jackets.  Maybe they tenderly gaze back from the faces of those I hold dear.

I stop to study the women’s photographs.  I note beauty and grace, the comforting resemblances to those now here. Standing tall, their proud high foreheads face the camera.  Beautiful dark eyes share the untold stories, the stories of strength and courage.  These courageous women, many sent to work as domestics while still children, some missionaries in China, others interned. Many grieved babies lost to consumption and disease.  Many lost husbands.  All had mouths to feed.  These tireless women, their beautiful, haunted eyes beholden to the emotions, sorrow and joy. Beholden to the land and the seasons.

When in doubt, I imagine these women sending forth heart beats fueled by a fierce strength and unrelenting resilience. Loyal to family, sheltering one another throughout life’s storms, imagining the opportunities, if only wealth or education had happened along their paths.  They forge on, some daring to dream of a future with opportunities and choices for those waiting in line.

Discovering a family’s past, uncovering the mysteries and facts, I set my compass down.  It is an honour to gently sift through the stories, unveil the lives of ones so true.  I take away their gems and stones to polish and shine.  I gather strength from their life stories.  I cherish who I am.

 

 

 

Under A Blood Red Moon

Love to my way of thinking, is the emotion one feels when they meet someone who makes them be what they want to be. We feel love toward someone who shows us the light, who pushes us to become what we have always wanted to become but may have never realized. We love the person who makes us love ourselves.” 
― Mina HepsenUnder the Blood Red Moon

http://www.space.com/25250-a-tetrad-of-lunar-eclipses-starts-in-april-video.html

Nasa explains this breath-taking phenomena better than I do.  Please click on the link to find out all to know about the early morning total eclipse of the moon.

Under A Blood Red Moon 

I awake at four a.m. and gaze out through the unveiled window.  It is the moon that captures my weary attention.  It hangs suspended, a brilliant white light, full and heavy, in an inky black sky. A wispy cloud passes by, as if a wayward remnant from a beribboned banner cut.  A silken piece left after the  announcement that the greatest show of the universe is unfolding.

In the Bible, it is written that God uses the moon and the stars to send signals to earth.  The moon held power over the people.  It brought about their fears and swayed imaginations.  Superstitions surround the topic of the moon.  Beware~ those who sleep under a full moon run the risk of insanity or blindness. Worse yet, the magic conjures to turn one into a werewolf; fear not, you are safe from harm.  This occurs only if the lunar event  falls on a Friday.

I have slept under the blood-red moon, awakening too late to view the total lunar eclipse or tetrad.  I catch the last stages of this spectacular lunar event.  For a few minutes I am able to glimpse the shadow of red, surrounding the edges of la luna.  Our collective hearts beating back to one another.

During a blood-red moon, one is viewing every sunset and every sunrise around the earth at the same time. It appears as if earth’s reflected back by the brilliant moon light.  We, the human population, are given a brief opportunity to view each other’s worlds, however fleeting the moment.

It is impossible not to be awed by this spectacular celestial event.

If you missed this lunar event, mark your calendars for October 8, 2015 when once again the earth will experience a total lunar eclipse.

Full lunar eclipse. Moon 5 photo 3

Iron Goddess Mercy

Mercy    

 

 

The quaint teashop in the village drew me in through the door.  Upon entering, I notice the tidy order to the space.  Inside, a peaceful calm exists compared to the bustle of the shoppers outside. Golden canisters, nestling exotic teas, neatly line the aluminum shelves.  It is as if they are watchful, standing guard over the quiet room. Sunlight streams through the windows, illuminating the glass vessels and teapots.  I am here for a purpose, on a mission to search for a tea memory.

 

This memory formed from a story that began many years ago.  It began like this. At least once or twice a month, my father would gather my sister and I up.  It was Saturday, our day to visit Vancouver’s China Town. There was great excitement as we readied for the celebration ahead.  We would lift our best dresses from hangers and step into them. Twirling through the kitchen we would spin, our socks leading us through pirouettes and turns. It felt like a party.

 

My father, handsome in a white short-sleeved shirt, copper toned pants, and brown brogues would lead us to the car.

“Time to get out of town, girls!”

Along the way, he would stop at a candy factory to buy us a bag of Rock Candy. The candy was beautiful to behold and even sweeter to savor, the sugar and crunch divine.

 

Swinging the car into an alley within the city, my father would inch it along the narrow, darkened lane, shaded by the shops and buildings.  Garbage cans lined the edges of the alley.  Men in white undershirts with aprons tied at the waist stood and smoked or laughed behind the row of restaurants.  A child peeked through an open window, curious about the little girls riding in the long, shiny car. A dog barked. The car would park and rest in a reserved stall located behind a garage.

 

Scuttling along the street, we would follow our father until we reached the door of a small restaurant. Entering, an ancient man would shuffle over and lead us to a table at the back of the restaurant. This is the same man who would one day hand me a wooden abacus, the very same one that he always used to calculate our bill at the end of the luncheon.  I still have it, tucked safely within my grandmother’s china cabinet.

 

The men would be waiting, seated around the table.  We filled the empty spots.  My sister and I sat silent and watched the waiters carry platters of exotic food, our senses overwhelmed by the sights and the smells.  The men would laugh and drink, catching up on business.  Our father would order us ginger ale.  We never knew the names of the men.  We never spoke except to one another.

 

A tureen filled with chicken soup arrived, the chicken feet with claws floating in the broth. The men would laugh as my sister and I politely declined to sample.  We waited for the rice and sweetened sauce of tomato beef. A waiter would pour us tea. The hot, sweet tea soothed. It was the tea’s unique aroma that arrested me.

As the meal came to its end, I would wait to discover my fortune, tucked away inside a curved, fragile, almond shell.  Carefully, I crack the shell and unfurl the thin, white scroll to reveal a truth.

You are an adventurer traveling on the highway of life.

Time passed and the meals in China Town ceased, dining out with my father came to an end. Perhaps I became interested in new events; perhaps my father became involved in other interests.  Still the fond memories of being in his presence stay.

The woman in the teashop smiles and asks,

“May I help you find a tea?”

“Could you? Let me describe it to you,” I reply.

“I know the one,” she says and reaches behind her to lift a golden urn from the shelf.

“It is an oolong tea.  Iron Goddess Mercy.”

The woman lifts the lid from the urn and offers it to me.

“Inhale,” she says.

I know in an instant that this is the tea of memory, a tea with a fitting name, Iron Goddess Mercy. A name that signifies indefeasible strength infused with kindness, compassion and grace.

Today the rain is relentless in its torrent.  Spring is hiding behind the edges of the forest.  It is a day for Mercy.  I fill the aluminum kettle with water and place it onto the stove’s element awaiting the water’s reluctant boil. I lift the tea tin from the shelf above the stove and open the lid, inhaling the leaves inimitable odor. Next, I place a small amount of the tea into the waiting infuser.  Placing the infuser into the teapot, I pour the hot water over the furled and balled leaves.

“Wake up, Mercy,” I whisper.  The lid rests upon the teapot; I know to give her time to mix magic.

I pour the tea into a mug and slowly sip the sweet flavor.  The rain steadily falls outside the window.  Inside, in this moment, I am warm for I have found my tea memory.

 

 

 

 

 

Layers

531

Layers

When I recall my father I remember is eyes, the long almond shaped lids, their colour and clarity.  His eyes were the darkest green, unnatural actually, animal like in their brilliance and sparkle.  His hair was raven black, combed straight back from a high forehead.  These attributes were his best features along with an attractive expression.  He had youthful good looks and boyish charm which others found appealing.

“Never trust a man with a weak chin line,” my mother would later comment.   I would have to agree, she would know.

There was a presence about my father when he entered a room.  Aware that he possessed beguiling charm, he would captivate the crowd.  To say he had presence was an understatement.  My mother would sew her clothes from curtains and remnants, my father would have his suits hand measured and stitched by Modernize Tailors in Vancouver’s China Town.  Some claim that a great suit can make a man and it certainly was my father’s motto.

“Roy dresses better than the President of the company,” my mother would comment.

My father had aspirations of becoming a President of a company and reputation was everything.  He studied the look of success, choosing the basics of style for the era of the 1960’s and 70’s.  Suits made from the deepest navy blue cloth, burnished browns, or charcoal slate were his choice of fabrics.  He was slim and of regular height, the careful lines of tailoring made him look taller, the hand stitched jackets fitted to his strong frame, padded through the shoulders.

The pants were straight, pleated, and hung perfectly from his waist.  It was my father’s shoes that I admired, his brogues.  I would watch him as he slowly twisted the lid off the tin of shoe polish, gently pushing the soft cloth into the polish and applying it to the leather, the polish sliding across the top, back, and sides of the brogue.  After a bit, he would take out a clean cloth and polish the shoes to a brilliant gleam. It became my job to polish and shine his shoes placing them on the mat beside the basement door.

In his closet hung wool fabrics for winter and lighter mixed blends for summer.  Sometimes, I would enter his bedroom and open the closet door.  The suits would be neatly lined up, colour blocked, hanging in wait from wooden hangers. The blends and the tweeds beckoned touch; there was a luxurious depth to them.  The distinct scent of cigar drifted away from the clothing.

When my father began to vanish, he’d take items of clothing piece by piece as if they were evaporating.  Was he trying to trick us into thinking that he was still present?  Perhaps he was momentarily off course, his compass a suit in the cupboard, a direction finder for when he found his way back home.  I would realize he had finally left when opening the cupboard, it would be empty, the biting scent of cigar, gone.

Spring’s First Kiss

 

Sign of Spring!

Sign of Spring!

Spring’s First Kiss

 

 

     It is a glorious morning!  Tip toeing to the window I behold the splendor that awaits discovery outside the walls of this house.  Looking up towards the heavens, I behold a sky, awash in shades of blue grey.  A thin, long, after thought of a cloud stretched from here to there, as if with arms outstretched, much like a child’s posture of delight when the first flakes fall.  Today is a joyous announcement, a celebration of nature designed by the heavens above for the earth below.

“Winter is over! Welcome spring’s first kiss!”

For spring is shyly peeking from behind the corner of this winter world.  The vernal

Equinox when the plane of Earth’s equator passes the center of the Sun,

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Equinox

this gravitational pull, turning and tilting earth’s equator into place, almost ready to face the sun’s light.

We wait patiently for the sunbeam’s rays to warm us and gently whisper, “grow” to the curled up seedlings and the tender sprouts that sleep beneath a blanketed soil.  These coaxing whispers from the season urge all new beginnings to show off their emerging beauty to a forgetful world.

The twittering birds alight upon the feeder to discover a feast of seeds and suet.  Their joyful choir, the sing-song notes sent dancing forth through my open window.  The simple melodies urge us to follow the joyous lyrics.

It is a time for all life to bravely step forth into this wondrous world.   Behold the beauty that enchants us captured by spring’s first kiss.

The Art of Trying

“We may struggle, but we don’t quit”

ALMANDYNE

A storyteller who writes and scribbles, and calls it art.

MovieBabble

The Casual Way to Discuss Movies

MyStoriesWithMusic

GETTING CREATIVE- combining my short stories with the music I make (read the story and you’ll find the song), making audio stories (for those of you who prefer to listen), posts about my music, poems (or really, really short stories as I like to call them 😉), throwing in some quotes for inspiration and sometimes I try to draw something too (not very successfully I might add) 😊.

The Sound Sniffer

Sniffing out the best new music

A R C H I P E L A G A L

islands and in between

SCENTS MEMORY

Wear what you love, not what they say you should like.

Goal Digger

Be Positive, Patient and Persistent...

Sauce Box

Never get lost in the Sauce

SKYLARITY

Paradigm Shift, Mindfulness, and Personal Empowerment

Little Fears

Tales of humour, whimsy and courgettes

Corkboards and Coffee Houses

Reflections on Writing

Bonkers

Is there no way out of the mind? Of lazy litanies and trying to make sense on the way down the rabbit's hole...

Your sentence here.

Give me a sentence. I'll write you a story.

HeartSphere

Conversations with the Heartmind

At Koko's Place

Simply a lifestyle blog! Come along with me...

deepspiritleading

Reflections on spirituality in everyday life

Minister Is A Verb

Let your passion be directed by reason. Take Action!

The Art of Trying

“We may struggle, but we don’t quit”

ALMANDYNE

A storyteller who writes and scribbles, and calls it art.

MovieBabble

The Casual Way to Discuss Movies

MyStoriesWithMusic

GETTING CREATIVE- combining my short stories with the music I make (read the story and you’ll find the song), making audio stories (for those of you who prefer to listen), posts about my music, poems (or really, really short stories as I like to call them 😉), throwing in some quotes for inspiration and sometimes I try to draw something too (not very successfully I might add) 😊.

The Sound Sniffer

Sniffing out the best new music

A R C H I P E L A G A L

islands and in between

SCENTS MEMORY

Wear what you love, not what they say you should like.

Goal Digger

Be Positive, Patient and Persistent...

Sauce Box

Never get lost in the Sauce

SKYLARITY

Paradigm Shift, Mindfulness, and Personal Empowerment

Little Fears

Tales of humour, whimsy and courgettes

Corkboards and Coffee Houses

Reflections on Writing

Bonkers

Is there no way out of the mind? Of lazy litanies and trying to make sense on the way down the rabbit's hole...

Your sentence here.

Give me a sentence. I'll write you a story.

HeartSphere

Conversations with the Heartmind

At Koko's Place

Simply a lifestyle blog! Come along with me...

deepspiritleading

Reflections on spirituality in everyday life

Minister Is A Verb

Let your passion be directed by reason. Take Action!

The thinking girl's guide to life

Written by Janine Clifton

I'm a Writer, Yes, I Am!

Martha Ann Kennedy's Blog, Copyright 2013-2019, all rights reserved to the author/artist

The One Thing I know For Sure

A soft place to fall, some poetry, some stories some random thoughts but most of all a place that I hope blesses those who stop by.

Souldier Girl

Poetry from a heart on fire

V-Twin Life

Bikers Life, Bars, News, and Events

EMPOWERING WOMEN

Relationships, Words of Hope and Inspiration, Empowerment

I didn't have my glasses on....

A trip through life with fingers crossed and eternal optimism.

Dr. K. L. Register

Just a small town girl who writes about Christian stuff.

a POP of red

A blog of utilitarian DIYs, fantastic food, and much more

The Crafty Mummy

DIY, Crafts and Handmade

Words.Become.Legacies

My thoughts come to ink

prairiebazaar

Vintage, Upcycled, Handmade

SOLM Designs

Elegant, Simple & Fresh Design

re:retro

collecting retro