a little older, a little wiser, more housed, more clothed, a little more aware of how fast the time goes. I’ll no longer be changing diapers, but perhaps changing little views into grand ideals and maybe hearing big news of graduations, and engagements, and of new roads they’ll choose. My hands that have held and carried and wiped little faces will clasp in prayer as they walk in strange places. My mouth that has guided and chided and kissed small cheeks will do with mostly phone calls for weeks and weeks. My two eldest will have gone on to colleges and new lives, my youngest will resist kisses and instead offer high-fives.
In ten years, I’ll be a little older, a little wiser, more housed, more clothed, a little more aware of how fast the time goes.
Free time. Time that’s FREE! Is there any greater luxury? Moments of quiet sitting. Minutes of contemplative reflection. Of listening to the music only you can hear. Of singing the song your soul longs to sing.
My leisure time is spent getting reacquainted with myself. I sit on my bed, under a fluffy blanket and let the daydreams take me on a journey back to me. I let my mind wander free, and it buzzes like a bee drinking the sweet nectar of promise, of dreams, of what I still could be.
I delight myself in the thoughts that are authentic and true, the ones unshaken by the damage that the world can do, when we let its problems sink in too deeply.
I sit and breathe. By the glow of my little window, I breathe in the quiet peacefulness, and I breathe out the darkness of unrequited loves and disappointments.
And then when I am me again, wholeheartedly, only then do I reach for a book to read, a song to listen to, or a loved one with whom to speak. I grasp the things that will enhance the enjoyment that I have found in that beautifully rare time of respite and repose.
Leisure time is a treasure chest, and it’s most valuable gift to me, is me. Bucket filled; energy and good nature restored, I can once again pour into my family, and into my work the best parts of me, the parts worth sharing with the world.
It shows up time and time again in my writing, so it must be my favorite word. It runs neck and neck with the word love, which I have previously described in depth and will continue to do. But this post is about that beautiful word: beautiful.
I use it to describe the radiance of the sunrise, and the nostalgia of the sunset. It describes the patience of my husband and the essence of my children; their very being. It describes my garden in bloom, the feel of the wind on a warm day, the sound of the ocean, the sight atop a mountain, and the smell of the air after rain. It describes an unselfish act, and a kind heart. In my novels, my main characters always see their love interest in this way, and the sentiment is echoed back from love interest to main character – beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Thou art beautiful.
Lord Byron speaks of one who “walks in beauty, like the night,” and John Keats declares that “a thing of beauty is a joy forever.” While, Ruby Archer is quoted, saying “beauty is a bloom that dies”. Both Keats and Archer uphold the beauty of truth. Emily Dickinson wrote of one who “died for beauty” and was laid to rest beside truth. And Shakespeare speaks of a beauty made more beauteous by the sweet ornament of truth.
It is a truth that many poets spend an inordinate amount of time contemplating the beautiful things and the meaning of beauty. Yet it is a thing desired, a thing pleasing to all.
Beauty is a subjective truth. It is deduced by the one whose gaze has met something pleasing upon which it may rest and have no desire to look away. Is it fleeting? Perhaps. If the thing that is beautiful may one day fade – like a flower, or like a face. Can it be enduring? Yes. There is nothing so enduring as beauty wrought by Divine Hands. And there is the beauty that beautifies, a thing that seen or experienced changes the beholder for the better and forever, like seeing the person you will marry for the first time. Like meeting the person who you will love and who will love you in return. Like seeing your newborn child for the first time. Beautiful.
My favorite word may be beautiful because of it’s close relation to love. I chose not love because it is more than a word to me, but I chose beauty because as both word and fact it describes well all the things that I love: my family, my friends, my country, my pursuits, my God, the character of the just, and the natural landscapes of the world. All these are beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Thou art beautiful to me.
When a human being acts like a human being. When they see someone in trouble, in real trouble and their instinct is to help, without thought of convenience, unselfishly giving off themselves to help someone else.
We see it after every natural disaster. We see that strong moral character that comes so close to being Divine, that deep-rooted instinctual reservoir of love that reaches out to the lost, the hopeless, the injured, to rescue them from the terrors of this world.
I have cried at people being pulled from the rubble of an earthquake. I have cried at people banding together to catch a person falling from a building on fire. Tears accompany my laughter when miners are released from a cave in, or a lost child is found against all odds. Tears of joy bathe my face when someone is rescued from an abusive relationship, trafficking, or from homelessness.
We have all heard these stories. Why do they touch us the way that they do? It’s because death, early death, untimely death, and unnecessary suffering is still an enemy, and love, unselfish, beautiful love is still a solution. Love is the hero and we welcome it when we see it. Our heart longs to welcome this cherished friend that meets a need with a helping hand.
And it’s not always people, it’s animals too. I watched a dog being rescued from a canal filled with water and guess what? Yup, I cried. A group of men grabbed the ankles of another and lowered him down to pulled that animal up to safety, and I cheered them, and I applauded, and the emotion swelled over and I cried. Death did not win that day. Love did.
I mourn the fact that rescue is necessary in our world, but I rejoice when I see the efforts of mankind on behalf of mankind. Because it reminds me of my saviour. Maybe not overtly, but somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I am being given an example of Agape love. We are connected by a common breath given of God, and when we see one person actively saving another, we are witnessing an echo of the Divine. The tears that follow are as sacred as the act of rescue itself because it is an acknowledgement of that common breath, that uncommon love that connects us all.
Love is an intricately woven mantle made of golden threads. Soft and warm like cotton. Fine and beautiful like silk. Luxurious as cashmere.
A loving hand drapes this fine material over the shoulders of her lover, declaring him King of her heart. He takes a similar mantle, as beautiful and smooth as a velvet, as rare and fine as Vicuna, and places it faithfully upon her shoulders where she wears it gladly, in acceptance of his high regard for her.
Their love for each other is beautiful, and all can see how well they wear it, how elegant the fit.
Despite the mantles they wear, they are now servants, delighting in bringing each other closer to the heavens through gentle ministration, careful attention, mutual affection, unfailing respect, and grateful service. Each gives. Each receives. A faithful reciprocity that wraps them both in royal robes, covers them in it’s warmth, and protects them from the harshest elements.
This is love applied correctly.
Yet, in the hands of many, love is a dishrag; dirty and filled with holes. They misuse it.
This precious fabric has often been given without careful consideration, at great cost to the giver. Yes, it’s true, the one who receives it without knowing it’s worth, may grow to know it, and soon wear it worthily. But far too often (far, far too often), they instead devalue the giver, disrespect the relationship, and so drag that fine material over the rocks, and through the mud, until it is utterly ruined.
What happens you ask? What happens when love is misused? I’ll tell you a story in brief. Listen carefully to a tale of woe. It won’t take much time.
He tossed the word at her and she reached for it, reached up to her tippy toes and scooped it up where it fell. He said it. He said: ‘I love you’, so it must be true. ‘I love you. I love you. I love you. I do.’ He said it so many times, it lost all meaning, but she held on to it. Tight, with both hands and she gave him it’s essence, it’s truth, while he gave her only the word. She gave him the mantle of golden thread, and in return he put on her back an invisible cloth, made of nothing but lies. It was so heavy, it dragged her down to the ground until her face was covered in grime, and in tears.
Now what will she do? She has given away her love to someone who has no use for it, someone who took shears to it. Shredded it. Tossed it down. Stepped on it. Now, she feels ripped apart like the mantle, discarded like the cloth, that was once so beautiful, but that now lies filthy, used, abused, torn in her hands.
She has only one option, and pray to God, that she knows it. She must go to the cloth-maker. Her garment needs to be cleaned up and rebuilt by the master. None other will do. Her heart and worth must be restored with exquisite patience.
The mantle may once more be placed in her hands. Whole and lovely. Vibrant and opulent. Elegant and highly-priced. Beautiful and new. And trust that this time she’ll be more careful in her choice of who to give it to. She must. She now knows the cost of the fabric of love. It is no cheap material. She now knows it can be said without being felt. It can be uttered without meaning. Oh yes, this time, she will choose more wisely. This time she’ll be more careful with ‘love’.
Objects that are considered necessary when held brand new in the store in their shiny packaging, seem to become less significant once owned, once used, once placed alongside other things of varied usefulness.
These objects may end up in the town lost and found, or abandoned on a park bench, or lying in the dirt along some path, or snagged on a shrub; perhaps forgotten, or perhaps thought about briefly before being replaced.
Or they ended up in new hands, taken to another home to be loved again by someone else. Children especially, with their philosophy of ‘finders keepers, losers weepers’ are wonderful, or else maybe unconscionable, at re-homing lost objects.
The thing that I had lost, though, had not lost its shine for me. I loved it still. I needed it still. It was unforgettable; irreplaceable, and I had to find it.
These thoughts ran through my mind, as I retraced my steps in search of my little, pink and silver, shoe-shaped key chain. I looked at the broken link where it had always been, and I felt a frisson of panic descend with icy fingers along my spine. Its value far exceeded the amount of money that had been spent acquiring it. It was my only connection to something else I had lost, or rather someone I had lost.
At every place revisited, I visualized my lost treasure. At every place revisited, my heart sank further and further as my search turned up empty. I was now approaching my last stop, and a painful knot of dread twisted in my stomach. I had an awful feeling that my keychain was truly gone, and with it my crutch, my connection to another time; a better time.
I pulled into the same parking spot that I had occupied earlier that day, and hopped out of the car. I immediately dropped my gaze to the ground, scanning as I walked. Please, please, please… was the mantra in my head.
Up ahead, further along the boardwalk bordering the Temiskaming lake, I heard voices; children playing; dogs barking; bike wheels clicking; shoes slapping the boards, or crunching on the sun-bleached, stick-strewn sand.
I ignored them all. My gaze was fixed downward, as my eyes swung left and right in search of my lost treasure.
Later, I would consider it fate, but perhaps it was simply instinct, as one voice separated itself from the white noise, and became distinct from the rest. It came over to me and lodged itself firmly in my consciousness. It was firm, deep and gentle.
“What have you got there?” it asked. A response was uttered in a soft, youthful voice. “Isn’t it beautiful? Can I keep it Daddy?” My feet stopped, and I turned towards the voices. My gaze flew up to take in the scene before me.
The little girl issued the request in a breathy voice filled with awe. Her voice held a hint of excitement and wonder, and her tiny hand held my keychain. It glinted in the light as she held it up to her father’s inspection. He looked at it with curiosity, and she looked at it as if it were a pot of gold, or a picture of the mother she had lost earlier that year. Her smile was radiant and her eyes shone, as did her father’s as he dropped to one knee and looked back at her. He reached out, and soon they were both holding it, delicately, as if they instinctively understood it’s fragility.
In that one glance, I saw my predicament with crystal-clear clarity. Faith was looking at my keychain with a look that reflected its peculiar specialness, and I would soon be taking it away from her. I told myself I should move quickly. The sooner I removed it from her grasp, the better it would be. The more easily she could forget she had ever held it, but I stood rooted to the spot.
Time kept ticking forward, but I was frozen. The weight of the decision before me anchored my feet to the ground. I could reclaim what was mine, or let it go to someone else who had lost much more than I had.
The End
Today’s writing prompt and the news article that I found sparked the story above. The article (pictured) spoke to me, because I am always losing things and wondering where they might have ended up. 🙂
A righted wrong. A nostalgic song. Love’s pure light. A starry night. An empty road. A singing toad. A swirling fog. Moss on a log. Sun’s first ray. A brand new day. A pale pink sky. A butterfly. A hug so long. A compassionate tongue. Words of comfort. A touch that heals hurt. A loving look. A good book. Clean, clean sheets. Sweet, sweet treats. Flower-dotted lawn. White-spotted fawn. A nice, long walk. A really good talk. The scenic route. Erased doubt. Baby’s smell. Ocean’s swell. Upside-down frown. Worry laid down.
There is a concept that states that one must have had pain to truly appreciate pleasure; one must know hatred to understand love. One must know hunger to grasp what it is to be satisfied. One must have seen war to fully appreciate peace. This bothers me: that light is only understood as the opposite of dark. It bothers me because I believe that it was heaven’s plan that we have only the joy, love, peace, and fullness. I believe humans were never meant to endure pain, hatred, war, or hunger and all the myriad other dark realities we face. It bothers me that my children arose perfect from my womb, and now bear scars, both physical and mental, because of their vulnerability to the tragic side of life. It bothers me that we experience pain. It bothers me that we experience loss. It bothers me that we experience heartache, and it bothers me especially, that deep down, we not only accept these as realities of life, but we believe these things to be necessary to living. I wish it weren’t so, but wishing is not getting, and so I continue to chase the joy, love, peace, and fullness, ever knowing that the pain and its dark companions wait for their turn to touch my life, and the lives of my loved ones. And knowing that when they do, I must not scorn them, but learn from them.
An egg is gently removed from a hen house. Cradled in a palm. Placed in a carton. Stacked gingerly in a refrigerated truck. Carefully unloaded and methodically restacked in the grocery store refrigerator. It is then cautiously removed from the refrigerator by a shopper. Placed on the top shelf of the grocery cart, and then carted slowly through the store to the checkout. See it now on the wide, black belt moving with deliberation to the checkout out clerk. Now in it goes into its own bag. Handled with care. Placed in the car. Driven prudently home. Placed with care in the refrigerator. Ahh. Finally. It has arrived unharmed. The egg is safe, secure, home. What happens next? The egg is taken from the refrigerator. It is smashed against the rim of the frying pan. It’s gooey innards are splashed against the interior of the pan. Its essence momentarily mingled with hot oil until congealed. Cooked. Then consumed.
Now see the chick. Back at the henhouse, an egg left behind hatches. Out of the broken shell tumbles a baby bird. Cold. Wet. Unfeathered. Vulnerable. It comes trembling forth. Another baby chick pokes at it with a delicate beak. Its Mama sits on it, steps on it, bounces into it. It may fall from its perch in the coop. It is hungry. It is unsure. It seeks food. It seeks warmth. It instinctively seeks security, but instead, it gets LIFE. The chick grows. It runs. It plays with its chick brothers and sisters and cousins. It climbs. It pretends to fly. It falls. It gets back up. It sings. It coos. It yells loudly. It dives in the mud. It plucks at the grass. It chases a grasshopper. It chases a butterfly. It falls. It gets back up. Its feathers grow. Its body grows. It runs through the rain. It chases the dog. It changes its mind. It runs from the dog. It pretends to fly. It falls. It gets back up.
One day, the chick will become a full- fledged chicken. What happens next? Life may bring her death at the hand of the farmer, or by the mouth of a fox. She may be taken to market and sold. She may be kept as a pet, or she may be killed, cooked, eaten. Or perhaps the chick will grow up to be used for laying eggs, just as its own mother was. Who knows? Who knows what life will bring? Who knows what providence, or fate may have in store? The chick does not know. The chick does not care. So until its path is traveled to its absolute end. Until her journey is completely, and utterly over. She will pretend to fly. She will fall, but she will get back up.
Life offers no one security, so within reason, I choose adventure. A timid life is no life at all. Fly.
Silence, stillness, and memories; when aging is healthy. The ability to listen. Sympathy, empathy, and understanding. The capacity for selflessness. Appreciation for beauty, art, and construction. The deep desire to connect with another mind. The yearning for soul to meet with soul. With age, the thoughts move beyond the self to the infinite. The desire to please self is replaced by the desire to be of use, and to find one’s place among the celestial bodies. Questions about life get better with age. So do the answers. Purpose grows with age. Ambition appears with age. Dedication, loyalty, meaningful friendship. Sacrifice. Love gets better with age. It is more understood as a choice, independent of feeling or appearance. Character, resilience, gratitude, all these get better with age. Inner beauty. The quality of conversation. Reason belongs to the aged. Wisdom requires years.
Musings of Roxanne LoMarc 