Tag Archives: Beginnings

The One Reality


As she drew the curtains to let the sun in, her Big Ben door chimes rang out. The bay window afforded a view of her front door, but no one was there. The bell rang again, this time, with a strikingly sweet diinnnng! She entered the hall to find that her roof …was gone! The sky seemed to envelop her, sucking her in; no boundaries, no past, no future, no time – just – unfolding present. The deepest blue she had ever experienced evolved into a permeating nurturing pink – a conscious intelligence that knew every moment of her and it loved her without limit, without judgment, without expectation of any kind.

Behind her hundreds of “her” people had gathered, and their arms thrust her with such enormous speed – Whoooosh! Like child on a swing – it took her breath away, though she had no sense of breathing, only of the white light – closer and closer – it should have blinded her eyes with searing pain, but didn’t. She couldn’t look away. It, too, knew her with complete, perfect, and even amused love.

All too soon, from light years away, a pin prick voice called her name. Immediately she began to fall and the light, still brilliant, grew smaller and more distant, and she knew it was consciously letting her go.

“Don’t send me back! Please,” she cried. A sound – a loud, sharp CLAP dropped her and she was back, standing at her open front door where a ragged stranger was asking for a glass of water.

“Of course, come in,” she said and gently ushered him to a chair. At long last, she truly understood: the only reality and the only real choice is love.

Last May on Whidbey 062

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Filed under Fiction, Flash & Micro Fiction, Spiritual wisdom, Uncategorized

Resurrection


As she waited to hear back from the hospital she found herself thinking about her brother’s bedroom – magical, mysterious, and strictly off limits unless she knocked and received permission to enter. A rare treat that he gave only when she promised not to ask too many questions….

“Brucie, what’s this?” she asked, fingering a fishhook from the tin box on her brother’s workbench.

“Put it down. If that gets stuck in your thumb, I’ll have to push it all the way through and you’ll cry like a girl.”

She examined the sharp point and barb, then dropped the hook and picked up another one. “What’s it for?”

“Fly fishing.” Her brother set a small hook in the workbench clamp. Taking two scarlet feather fronds from a cardboard container he placed them against the hook and spiraled golden silk thread round and round the ends, flush to the base of the curved steel, transforming the hook into an alluring winged insect.

“Wow, that’s pretty. What do you do with it?”

“You tie it on your rod like this…” Retrieving a spool from his tackle box, Bruce threaded nylon through the fishhook loop, then tied a knot and cut the line in one deft movement. He tossed the hook into the air and flicked the line back and forth. Light from his workbench lamp glinted against the shimmering gold and scarlet.

She forgot it was merely feather and steel and sat mesmerized by the dancing insect that responded to her brother’s hand.

“When this lure strikes the water,” he said, “the trout thinks Supper! He leaps to the surface, gulps the insect, and snap!” Bruce jerked his wrist. “That’s when the fish becomes my supper,” he said with a laugh.

~ * ~

It was the jangling telephone that dragged her back to the here and now. After the call she sat in stunned silence. “He’s gone,” was all her sister could say.

She imagined the neurosurgeon tying silk stitches, closing the hole where the tumor had been. The surgeon’s thread was shimmering gold.

At the corner of her vision, something flickered past the window drawing her attention outside. There an incredibly beautiful, scarlet dragonfly danced in the morning sun.

“Hi Bruce,” she whispered. “How did you do that?”

dragonfly2

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Filed under biographical, Fiction, Flash & Micro Fiction, Non-Fiction

Naming


Choosing a title for my blog was like naming my child. Having some familiarity with her development inside my body, I thought it would be easy to name her. It was, at first.

Thinking she was a boy, my husband and I quickly settled on a boy’s name that rolled off the tongue, had no negative connotations for either of us, contained an attractive nickname possibility, and the initials promised an auspicious future, according to my numerology friend. When our ‘son’ was born, however, he turned out to be a girl, so another name had to be sought. A new list formed and grew; names were researched, discussed, considered and tossed. Finally, agreement was reached and our last creative act in the forming of our daughter’s fate (if you believe in such things being attached to names) was complete. The name felt right, as if she had always existed, and after the first few hours of knowing her, neither of us could imagine life without her and her name in it. It seemed as if she had always been there between us, waiting for us to make her happen.

This morning when I got over the initial stage fright of joining a public forum for my first blog, I faced once again, the same feelings about naming my child. The thoughts I write have been formed inside me; words made of bone, flesh, muscle and nerve. While I want to release them and give them an opportunity to express creatively that which they need to say in order to live, I’m also aware of my desire that they be accepted, respected and perhaps even loved by those who look upon them.

I see other bloggers with the eyes of a new parent who suddenly understands how other parents feel, and how precious their child is. Like taking my infant to pre-school and watching other parents’ worried faces as they drop off their toddlers. I catch their eyes and smile, hoping their child won’t eat mine, but become her first playschool friend. I let go of her hand, feel her excitement as she runs towards the playground, and the pen in my pocket – the one that I used to hold and control – breaks under the pressure of my worrying thumb. I finger the pieces unconscious of the freed ink spreading into cloth, while my daughter, freed into the world of her cohorts, runs to explore, challenge and enjoy.

As I labour these thoughts, nurturing the words, encouraging their growth, I reach the point where it’s time to let them go.  I release them in the hope that they will be accepted, respected and perhaps even, loved, by some. This broken pen writer has just given birth.

Photo courtesy of James Bruce, Timberscombe, Somerset, UK

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Filed under Non-Fiction, Uncategorized