SwallowTales

2011-10-15T14:33:00.000-07:00

Rania curled up on her sofa with a pen and ink, soaking up the comfortable silence and lamplight. Raven was probably asleep already in their room- she'd kissed him goodnight then slipped out to write a while. She tapped her pen on the arm of the sofa, pausing to watch her ring glitter in the low glow. Four tiny set diamonds in a ring that shone silver, and a plain band nestled next to it. Engaged, then married, in what likely seemed like haste to outsiders, spanning months instead of years. But the months had been spent writing to each other, honestly, fairly, and not in playing heart-games or spinning light banter. She trusted the man she had married, with all her heart. She wondered sometimes if he knew how much that meant to her, to be able to trust - to look over and see him, and know that he would still be there after months and years....

She stared absently at her hands. How many other friends had she hugged and said goodbye to? Raven had had his share, but he also knew that Rania came from an inheritance of wanderers. He knew, and perhaps was tired of her remembering, that many of her dearest friends were still just as footloose as she had been. She heard snippets from them, every now and then. "Searching for work," "looking for meaning," "on the road again." Sometimes the words made her think about her long-idle traveling bags. It had been months since she had left the country. She had ranged farther and farther afield, exploring and trying to take in this new home of hers. Maybe somehow she could find enough unfamiliar to keep her feeling alive. In the old days, what wasn't new was short-lived. One learned to see the new as a good thing, and the old as unreliable. These new days, what was new was almost a threat, and needed to be understood or at least faced well. The language was becoming more and more natural to her, and she noticed and chafed at mistakes in a way that she would never have scolded others for. But what did she ever scold others for?

After enough hard goodbyes and last smiles to last a lifetime, she vowed one day to Raven, "For the next year, I will only make friends with small children and fellow workers." He smiled, and hugged his Rania, knowing she didn't totally mean it. She smiled back, knowing deep down how uneasily much she did mean it. She had certainly done a better job with keeping herself bright, helpful, and in motion instead of moody and anxious over things. She shook her head. Over people. Things didn't make her so nervous. She'd realised with surprise, last week, that she actually had collected a few 'normal' friends. Some fellow workers, with whom nothing but work and weather was discussed, in a practical fashion. Another friend or two with whom to visit stores, and enjoy hot drinks while talking about language and God and being married. So far, none of these new friends had seen her in tears. She had seen none of them in tears either. Surely it was more practical like that?

She sighed. There was just no comparing life. Raven wrote once that he didn't want her to live in two worlds. She remembered getting tears in her eyes over that. She had been torn for a long time. And just now, as she was weaving a fabric of her new life together, some of the same pulls as before emerged. She didn't know what to do about them. If she was stronger- smarter - more loving, surely she could find a way to double-weave; surely she could bring together the former threads with the new ones, and make it an even stronger, more beautiful piece? She only didn't see that she was strong enough. Rania had failed before, and the fabric ripped sorely, for her and for others. She took the responsibility on herself these days. She'd tried to share it, or lay some on the other threads before, only to be told she was hiding away. She'd never been good at distinguishing fine lines, and took some of the rips to heart. Of course, that didn't mean no one else had. Multiple rips, all around. It was just that she was worried to start weaving again. What if she ripped the new threads? What if she tried to weave in the old ones and failed?

The pen rolled off her lap and hit the floor, startling her. When she bent down to pick it up, the blank pages on her lap fell too. She picked them up tiredly. She had tried, last week, sending out a few pages and attempting a slow mending. She'd stayed up late tonight, hoping to hear something, even if it was just a few words telling her she wasn't a hopeless fool for trying. Maybe she was. Maybe she was more of a fool - if she looked deeply enough- for thinking that if she tried hard enough, she wouldn't disappoint those who couldn't help but blame her for ripping the fabric in the first place. Her mother, or the other women in her circle, would likely have good advice for all this. "Leave it behind" or "give it time." She had tried to do both. The giving time had only made the ripped fabric twist back against her, reproaching her for being apparently caught up in a grand new life to drop a few moments to what she had claimed was important to her. The leaving behind.... She had just, only just, come to peace with how things were, before the post had arrived, before questions floated through the air again.

She had just come to peace with the past when it collided with the present again, and left her confused again. 'You give up, you give up too easilyyyyyyyy..." hissed the wind outside. They had said that too. She stood up abruptly. She also held on too easily. And when there was less reason, apparently, than for her to give up. If she was as cynical as the world demanded, she would say she had been played for a fool. If she was as optimistic as she had been not long ago, she would say there was still *hope*, that with time and words all would be healed and well.

She sighed and carefully-neatly- stacked the stationery on a shelf next to her books. She had not grown cynical, but she had not stayed hopeful either. She looked around at a room that was too cosy and welcoming to foster frustrations or harbour doubts against old friends. It was time for sleep. She always thought too much, late at night. She drew on her slippers and pushed away a double-edged thought - "You used to think too much with them too- no wonder they lost patience." She pulled her robe tight around her, against any more musings that could be disloyal, or true, or false. Or all three.

"Time to sleep," she said firmly, if quietly, aloud. There was more to life than endless questions. She was not giving up - she was learning to weave one cloth. And if the old friends were woven into the border instead of the pattern - if they only allowed themselves on the edges - so be it. It was good to have their colour in the weaving, whether in delicate or in bold.

2011-10-04T06:31:00.000-07:00

Robin picked his way smoothly through the underbrush to the river, being careful to leave no trace behind him. That had become second nature to all of the band, hunted as they were, but he found today an especially appropriate time to not be found. He had received a letter from Marian, and he wanted to be left in peace to read it. His friends had said plenty last week, more than plenty. Good, solid comments that pushed him to think and to be honest. And he had been grateful, not even grudgingly so. Today, however, he wanted solitude.

He wove his way through the hanging willow branches to a large rock, half sunny and half shadowed. His thoughts buzzed around inside his head as distractingly as the dragonflies above the water. He didn't think straight where Marian was concerned, hadn't in a long time. No wonder she still thought of him as needing to grow up. He pulled off his worn shoes - the roughly tanned leather was nearly in holes - and dangled his toes in the water. Of course he could be grown up when he wanted to be, it was just more enjoyable not to be. And there had been times when Marian happened to see him making decisions, leading his men, or logically executing a plan. Those times were just very, very rare. When he was around her he wanted to enjoy life, wanted her to enjoy life. There was so much glee to be found by poking fun at situations, telling stories, or pulling the Sheriff's nose.

He looked down and twiddled his toes in the cool stream. Maybe he should find more relaxing ways to enjoy life. More... adult. Reading her beloved books, taking walks and watching the world, enjoying the silence around a campfire or on a snowy day. He smiled and skipped a pebble across the river. Her and her snow, a love he couldn't understand. There were so many things about her he couldn't understand, not least, why she cared for him....

2011-09-29T02:48:00.000-07:00

Robin stretched out in a tree branch. Home. Sweet concept. Sometimes it meant a house, a roof, a bed and a fire. He'd been invited for so many meals with so many families through the years. Community, warmth, discussion. So much to learn, to share, to laugh about. He used to dream about having such a home with Marian. Constant presence, constant trust. Marriage, binding safety. There was something to be said for danger - the extra sweetness to each farewell, the extra blitheness at seeing her again. Perhaps he was not meant to marry, not destined to have anything more than the measure of happiness he earned each day, living by his wits and his bow. Continual fear of capture kept him sharp; continual safety might make him fat and complacent. Being married to Marian... who knew what that would make him?

He shook his head, pushed aside a twig poking his side, and finally decided to escape his thoughts by joining the others of his merry band at the fire. Silly to even be thinking of marriage. He and Marian hadn't spoken in a long time. She'd moved to London for a time, to undergo training as a lady of the court. Her father - ambitious and landed- had used his connections to secure her a place. It would be good for Marian, agreed everyone. Finally their beautiful lady would have a chance to make something of herself, out of the backwoods. In London, she would find the scintillating discussions and wealth of libraries she so sadly missed in Nottingham. In London she could be herself- clever, strong, unique. No more tiresome haggling with clumsy houseservants, no more lack of educated and lively acquaintances, no more enforced maturity as unwilling mistress of an old manor. Not that she hadn't enjoyed it at times, but it was much better for her to be somewhere where she could shine.

Robin was proud of himself for being able to be heartily glad for her, and not selfishly pine over her absence. He strolled up to the warmth of the flames, and wondered aloud if the warm weather was just as fine in London. Allan looked up innocently and remarked, tongue in cheek, that, "in any case, the spring's stormy weather seemed to have left with a certain person's carriage." Shaken out of his calm attitude, Robin turned on him with a scowl. Allan held up his hands in self defense (and only moved a little closer to the hulking figure of Little John.) "We all know you love her. But at least this way, what's done is done." Robin simply looked at him. By the look on Allan's face, he was trying to collect his thoughts in a tactful way, when Little John interrupted. "You oppose the Sheriff, you come home, you talk, you go to sleep. The next day the same." Robin wrinkled his brow. "I always do that. What does that have to do with Marian?"

Cecily moved quietly out of the shadows. He hadn't even known she was listening. She tucked her hand into Little John's, which gently encased hers. "You don't trust her thoughts for you," she said quietly. Robin wished she hadn't said anything, and tried not to lose his temper at her unerring insight. She gestured to his face with its warring emotions. "Is that not so?" Allan frowned at her, but the damage was done. "There he goes," he mumbled.

"I don't *know* her thoughts for me!" Robin exclaimed, and kicked a log. "You used to kick that log nearly every night in January," observed Much helpfully. "Then you stopped." "I stopped because it did no good! It never does any good to argue with her!" Little John gave a quiet growl of agreement, and Cecily pushed his shoulder, with no visible effect whatsoever. "Marian is a wise woman, not to answer you when you argue." "But why?" asked Robin, trying not to sound like a five year old. "Would it do any good?" Allan asked cheerfully, picking up his lyre.

"Maybe not, but at least I'd know what she thought." Robin subsided, and sat on a log to stare unhappily into the fire. "Maybe what she thinks hasn't changed, Robin," said Cecily gently. Robin mulled this over. "Then why doesn't she say so?" "Maybe she has. She doesn't need words like you do." Little John pulled Cecily close to him. "My excellent- and loquacious- wife has the right of it." He looked at Cecily, who finished his thought for him. "Some people can say five words a week and it is enough. As I found to my dismay during my induction into the band. He considered a nod appropriate praise for five hours of staffwork and a correction on my archery stance just merit for nine of ten bullseyes." "Some days you still stand as if your feet are planted," Little John chuckled, "but I have also learned to say, 'Well done.'"

Cecily added, "And I have learned to be grateful for his presence, with or without words, and to remember that he treasures mine. And you, Marian's presence?" Robin stood. "No," he said shortly. "There is never enough time to savour it. And I doubt that she enjoys mine. Before, it was different. Before, we shared life. Now she only looks at me and sees a runaway, and rightly misdoubts to trust me again."

"You have not run so much of late," observed Marjorie, making her way gracefully through the band to the spot saved for her by Allan. Robin sighed. Since when had his private turmoil become a campfire discussion? "No," he said, hoping only to bring an end to the talk. "I do not run so much of late from problems. But I am also unwilling to run into problems. I will be here when she returns, and I will not run from trust. But I will also not force it or demand from her what she will not give me. As Allan so pleasantly observed, when a certain carriage left, the storms subsided. She is all that is beautiful and good. I lay no blame at her feet, only at mine."

"You always do that!" cried Cecily. "Whether it is your fault or not, you grasp for blame." Robin hardly looked at her. "I grasp for answers, Cecily. I know she would not willingly hurt me. So any hurt or storms must come through my ways." He turned to go, but Friar Tuck stood in his way. "Have you prayed about this?" he asked, searching Robin's face. "I have. Often. God has given me a peace that, no matter from whence the storms arrived, I cannot hold onto them. I have confessed, over and over, that I have been proud, and needy, grasping and despairing. That I am one small human who takes too much on himself and indeed needs to learn to savour presence, with God and with my fellow man." He inclined his head before Tuck, or anyone else could ask, "Aye, and with Marian. When I see her, I will be content with what she offers, be that much time or little time, many words or no words."

"What will you offer in return?" Robin did not turn back to the fire to see who had spoken. It could be any, or all of them. They knew their leader too well to allow him to turn a phrase and then leave.

He sighed, and walked out of the circle of light. "I will offer who I am. A friend."

2011-05-14T03:13:00.000-07:00

Abby sat on her kitchen floor, in a rare idle moment, playing with Rex. Her flying dragon swooped around the light room and chirped, and she tossed him biscuit crumbs from her knapsack. She was supposed to meet up with some of the others for dinner in an hour, and, never good at sitting still for long, decided to use that time for clearing out her bag. Crumbs, a few bits of electronics, a scrap of newspaper Lester had dangled before her face that morning while drawling that their team needed to keep a lower profile and avoid report-worthy news. Fair enough. She frowned as she pulled out a chewed set of earphones - darn small creatures - and a tattered, mud stained notebook she'd kept for info earlier in the year and never gotten around to replacing. As she dropped beside her on the ground, a few photos fell out. She picked them up curiously... they must have been stuck in the back. She wasn't much of a photo and cheesy moments girl... someone else must have taken these and she'd gotten a copy. Her and Connor at Jenny's wedding, a hyena wrecked room in the background. Jenny composed again, and happier than she'd ever seen her. A good friend. Or something. How did you relate to people who had been your teammates, but weren't any more? She'd gone out for coffee with Jenny last month, caught up on old times. Jenny had made a few innocent remarks about how distracting men could be to a career, pretending she was paying more attention to her own wedding band than to Abby's face. Abby had said very little on that subject, though she knew that Jenny had picked up on Connor's accidental "We should get married here!" comment. Abby herself didn't know what to do with Connor at times, and it was generally just a good idea not to say things until one was sure about them. He did make her smile, and she was happy to have him back in the neighborhood, his cute sleepy face when they carpooled to work, and...

She shook her head. Cute as he was, Connor would have to make the first move before she would do anything about their relationship. Or lack of. Something Jenny would also have found interesting. Sarah, now, would have talked right on through. "How do you feel about him? How do you think he feels about you? You know, in ancient Egyptian times, the courtship rituals..." Abby had to laugh. Oh, Sarah. She missed her. Another friend lost in the past. They had worked well together, and Abby had appreciated her constant enthusiasm and creative ideas. And just her sweetness. Jenny had come a long way from the prim and pressed PR representative, but Sarah had an innate sensitivity to the people around her. Just like Cutter. Abby started looking through the small pile of photos and eventually found one of their team, from the old days. She missed Cutter the most. Sarah's death had happened while Abby and Connor were lost in the Cretaceous for a year, and was somehow easier to bear. Jenny had moved on, without closing the door. But Cutter had been ripped away from them, and there were so many more things Abby wished she had said. "Thanks," mostly. For bringing us together. For being your patient self, and listening to all our voices. Abby knew she wasn't always easy to get along with. She prickled, and talked too fast at times, and had built up a very solid world of her and her reptile friends. People were much more difficult to understand, and while she enjoyed the camaraderie with her coworkers, she wasn't the type to make many overtures of friendship.

That wedding day, when Abby and Connor and Matt were keeping watch on the anomaly, she expected to crash on a couch somewhere, guard against predators disturbing Jenny's special day. She would have done the same for anyone, and wasn't surprised by Jenny's practical invite to the wedding. But then Jenny had invited her and Emily up for girl time, and even loaned them pretty dresses for the ceremony. Abby knew she'd go back, help Jenny in a heartbeat. Emily, she didn't know as well, but she had wanted to help her too. Jess was sweet, but young. Very young. But nice. A new addition to a world where it had been her and Jenny and Sarah, with all the guys, for a while. But Sarah had died, and Jenny had moved, and it wasn't improbably that Jess or Abby herself would move on before long too. They had a great working relationship, and a lot of fun. Whether she actually wanted to be friends, and stay friends, beyond the occasional run in, she didn't know.

She sighed a little and leaned her chin on her up-drawn knees. How did you even work on being a friend? That whole taking time to listen, which Jenny and Sarah had done so well. Inviting silence, inviting trust. Abby was more of a problem solver, an idea lover. The idea of an official relationship or marriage with Connor was sweet, if confusing. But at least that was something you could work on together, like a working partnership with extra hugs and smiles. She knew it was more than that, of course, but it at least made sense, and friendships with the other girls... was confusing. What if she couldn't offer anything more than practical advise and an occasional shoulder to cry on? She scratched Rex's head as he perched on her shoulder. Rex was simple, and loyal. And she knew how to show him she cared.

She wondered if maybe she could learn that with the girls as well. It would take time, and learning to listen instead of offer solutions. It would take learning to be interested in their worlds, instead of only focusing on them while they were in the ARC or out on searches. It would definitely take more energy and trust than Abby Maitland was used to. But it might be worth it too....

2011-03-31T07:13:00.001-07:00

She wandered around her old home absentmindedly. The wee yorkie dogs played around her feet, curled up by her on the couch, just as if she hadn't been gone the last six years. As if she hadn't graduated college, started moving again, and not been back except one visit three years ago. As if the studying she was doing today was college level Spanish instead of grad school level history. Her friends often grumbled about getting older, and she normally laughed at them. Old and young are all about perspective. But today, she felt older too, somehow.

She sat in the same wicker couch by the window, looked out at the same neighborhood... it hadn't changed. So much in her hadn't changed either, and it was so easy to forget time and think she was still that 19 year old, who laughed at little things and kept big things locked inside. It reminded her of the Mirror of Erised- once you start to look inside, you forget how life really is around you and get lost in your thoughts. But being here, today, didn't show her what she most wanted in the world, just the world she had wanted, six years ago. She had been happy, and had a special place in the world, and good friends... she'd had a home.

She looked around at the comfortable, empty kitchen. How many hours had she spent here, studying, reading, keeping up with overseas friends via computer? It hadn't been perfect, but it had been warm and welcoming, a haven of her own in transient teenage years. She gave a wry smile. As if she was more stable now, six years later. She'd been in three countries in the last six months, said goodbye to one home last year and was about to do the same in three weeks. That is, if you could call a place 'home' when you had been there about three months. But this had been home, and she guessed it had only been two or three months. Something about having your own room and having a new life... something about feeling wanted.

She gave a small sigh, letting go of wistful thoughts. Memories were something to hold on to, not trip over. Three more weeks and then she'd be off to a new home. Traveling to a country that had been home before six years ago; looking there for a new house and being welcomed into a new circle of people. Getting married this summer. Maybe not coming back here for a year or two. But remembering this, the peace and welcome, the oasis between treks. Being able to offer an oasis to others.

When she came back, bringing more years of memories, would the house still look the same? Funny how time went on, whether you lived quickly or slowly.

2011-03-21T12:43:00.001-07:00

"We'll get you somewhere with a window," Matt said, in that understated way of his. "Somewhere more permanent."

She hadn't known how to react to that. The most she could come up was a sort of answer, in what she hoped was a graceful manner. "A window would be nice. Permanent will take some getting used to."

How long again had she spent in the wild, learning different rules and a different life? How long had she spent trying to keep herself and other alive... and then worrying about Ethan, even into this new world... it felt like an eternity. An eternity without time to breathe, relax. So long since she'd been that young curious bride, looking at the shimmering door to other worlds. She felt old.

The new shape, pace, and people of the new world were a lot to keep up with. Dressing herself in odd clothes, trying to follow the rhythms of the newer English they spoke. Her... captors? Adversaries? ... Friends? She wasn't sure how she seemed to them either. A nuisance? Excess baggage? Displaced person? It helped to at least be allowed out of their buildings and to smell the air and see the sun, without fear of predators. At least, less fear of predators. Matt tried to protect her, and while she resented the need to be protected, she was grateful that he tried. Grudgingly at first, but more so as she saw that underneath the duty, he did seem to care. And that he wished her well, not simply kept out of the way.

His offer of a window meant a lot. Not everyone would think of small gestures like that. Matt was hardly a sentimental man, and she knew he would have first weighed the safety and wisdom of such a move. As well as what he and his team would be communicating, in offering permanence.

A careful welcome. For which she was carefully grateful.

2011-03-07T18:05:00.000-08:00

Robin paced back and forth underneath one of his favourite trees. He had slept in its branches, drawn idle designs on its bark with his knife point, eaten below it with friends. Tonight, he found no peace near it. The evening breeze mocked him through the branches, and he could hear Marian's low, furious voice. "Oh, everything's a choice. Everything we do. Grow up."

He had grown up, he thought in frustration. He was no idle lord's son, the kind she despised. He lived off his own bow, asked comfort from no man, and took care of those who came to him for solace and justice. It was not as if she was the only one working to feed those with no food, to shelter the innocent from the sheriff's cruel whims. Just because he worked in the the open and had small patience for slow plans and waiting, was that so wrong? Did she want him to become something he wasn't? He had thrown everything he had into being there for the people he cared for, and it still wasn't enough.

"... And what about the people you are so honourably protecting? Who will protect them when you're dead?"

He hit the tree in frustration with his fist. Why did that even matter? Why did she care? How many handsome nobles looked after her graceful self? It wasn't as thought he meant that much to her, or anyone, anyway. He was a fighting man. If he died in the fight, so be it. He cared little for his own life. That it go to serve others, so be it.

A little mollified by his logic, he climbed up to the topmost branches, a favourite spot. From there, he had a rare glimpse of some of the village roofs. He refused to look toward the castle where Marian was, probably still angry at him. He took a rare moment to relax and look around at the land he cared for. He'd loved the East as well, in a different way. Some days the sand still drew him, even if he wouldn't admit it. And there was sometimes a sense of unrest that tugged him somewhere new, that somehow lived in harmony with the love he felt for this green place. Sometimes Marian looked at him in a way that made him nervous, almost guilty, as if he'd fallen in love and married some dark skinned girl while traveling. He hadn't. But if he had, perhaps it would have felt like this. Wanting one thing while being welcomed by another. His tent in the corner of a sun scorched field in the Holy Land- was that any more or less home than this tree here in his beloved England? Marian would see it as treachery, likely. When he was gone she understood it as footlooseness, yet when he was here she never told him he was a good, steady man.

He shrugged and smiled wryly. As if he could be a good steady man. But she could trust him, even if he was not. She could trust him to be him. At least, he had thought she could. The way she smiled at him, some moments, gave him hope that she could see past the rough clothes and absentmindedness, through the dreams and recklessness, and just love him for him. He would never be a solid man. He had hoped only that he might still be strong enough for her to hold on to. Tonight shook those hopes though. She had minced no words in saying that his loyalty was a sham, that his words were nothing but sparks in the air. His heart had lit up when she walked into his cell that day to rescue him, and she had thrown cold water on it.

"You could have stayed here in the first place... if you'd cared so much about your precious people. But you didn't."

He'd heard the hurt below the anger. In a rare serious moment for him, he hadn't made a joke, argued back, tried to soothe her.

"What is this about?"

"It is about you saying that you care about the people of Locksley when the truth is that you ran off to battle, thousands of miles away."

He'd reached out to touch her cheek, and she'd slapped it away. Those moments, it had been just her and him, and he knew the memory would stay crystal in his mind. The rest of the day went quickly. They'd talked, she'd helped him escape, he'd made his way back to the forest. Adrenaline and relief carried him through the rest of the evening, with a small measure of glee that he had shamed the sheriff on the way. He knew he might hear a scolding from her on *that* later as well, but it was worth it. He was who he was. And now, back in his tree, he was a very tired man. The emotions of the day dripped away slowly as the stars came out and the woodsmoke drifted on the wind.

She had the right of it, in many ways. He had said he cared, and left. For him, the two were not enemies. They were part of life. In the same way, he knew he loved her, but he did not look to her castle and she did not come to him. Perhaps one day everything would be one road or the other, but not today. Something Friar Tuck said came to him, a word from the Holy Writ. "For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face." Some day, the Friar had nodded wearily, all would be clear. For now, it was not, but there was hope for those who held on to it.

As Robin drifted off to sleep, tucked under a blanket of leaves and stars, his last conscious thought was that perhaps some day he and Marian would see face to face and hope for them- and for their people- would not be so dim.

2011-02-24T03:33:00.000-08:00

It was 5:30, give or take. Sleep was becoming a hard thing to come by, again.

She finally gave up on sleeping and pulled her laptop up on the bed with her, turned on iTunes. The music of SafetySuit had been in her head the last while anyway, hard beats and wistful lyrics, why not turn it on for real?

"I'm so confused, I must be losing it - this can't be right..."

Definitely a confused while, she'd be the first to admit it. She'd said way too many goodbyes over her life. Coming up on her twelfth move, not counting all the cross-city moves and summer trips. Goodbyes were always hard but worse was the knowing when to hold and when to let go.

'Was it something that we can't work through?"

A physical move away interrupted friendships- it didn't have to end them. Sometimes it was just time to give hugs and move on, sure, but other times you could hold that relationship and even build it deeper over the distance. She'd been lucky to have friends like that. Others, she'd had to learn to let go, wish them well and not grasp for more.

"Is it all my fault, and can I fix it please?"

She wished she knew how to fix all this. Human life, fallen world - it would never really be fixed till Heaven, she knew. "If this be the last time that we speak for a while" - between the TCK world of comings and goings, and a future together forever, goodbyes didn't have to be final. But the in between times when you weren't sure if you had ruined things, if it was your fault? What were you supposed to do about that?

She'd messed up big time in the last three years. She'd hurt friends she'd never meant to, been hurt deeper than ever. Lost a few friends not just to time and space but to conflict, misunderstandings, situations. Curled up in a pre-dawn clarity, she knew that she'd been naive to think, even as a college kid, that goodbyes were hard but simple. The last few years had shown her you didn't even have to move, to have someone leave you. Or to be told you'd left them, when you didn't know it.

The one friend - she gave a small smile, just thinking. Arguments, silence, tantrums, rending confusion, and that was only on her side! That friendship had been intensely good thing at its peak, and intensely hard at its lows. She'd even walked out, escaped out of reach, made a statement by refusing to be there. And that shook them both a little. They'd both reached back, a little, she'd gone back, and they'd kept little bits more over time. She shook her head at all the frustration, prayer, and excitement there had been, how she'd told herself over and over not to take things to heart so much. She'd played a lot of Daughtry during the old days. But all the emotions had been evened out by faithfulness, had mellowed into peace. She'd even gotten a facebook message yesterday, suggesting coffee some time. Proof of how God worked in His time and sometimes even pushed humans into working through things.

"Tell you that I know you'll smile again."
She gave a tired yawn. To get tea or try to sleep again? Maybe now her mind wouldn't race so much. Storying things out always helped, and generally with less disastrous results than writing emotion-filled emails or chats. One dark winter day, she'd poured out way too much, too fast, and felt horrible later. Actually, she'd done that more than once, but that one was sharp enough, drying enough, that she would avoid doing that again. Bad idea. "You lose perspective when you're all fire and emotion," pointed out one of her books.

She found it so hard to know when to be emotional and when to be rational. When did you tell someone, "I miss you too much to let you go," and when did you say, "I'll always care, but it'll be better if I try to move on" ? Or, colder but sometimes needed, "If you want to walk away, do that. Because waiting for you hurts too much."

Safetysuit had been one of the enduring favourites to come out of the last year, along with the series Alice and Primeval. "What If" had been used for a brilliant Youtube mv of Alice... "What if it makes you lose faith in me? What if it makes you question every moment you cannot see?" Goodbyes, with full warmth and confidence that they and you were okay, those were good things in a hard place. Losing faith was a horrible thing.

Primeval had its share of deep mv's too. Goodbyes, tragic ones, with Nick. Goodbyes, regretful but peaceful ones with Jenny. Goodbyes, ripping but temporary ones with Abby and Connor.

She wondered which one she was. If she was a Jenny in this latest goodbye, she needed to pack her things, give hugs, walk off gracefully. There would still be other times, run-in's on Skype, best wishes through times ahead. Her locker could be given to someone else, someone more needed for the time to come. That would be ok. She'd be sad, but there would be closure and a cracked door on the friendship.

She'd felt more like an Abby, though. Always felt more like Abby. A little volatile, too verbal, a little lost in her own world. She'd found a Connor to fall in love with. She'd gone away but not of her own choice. Her locker was still there. And she'd thought she still belonged in that world. Maybe wrongly. Maybe this goodbye, the one she thought she'd never make, wasn't something she had control over. Maybe it would just be better if she cleaned out her locker and left like Jenny, salvaging warmth and shaking hands. Instead of standing in a cold grey room and fighting for what she thought was still hers, like Abby. Maybe she should get on with life.

No.... That was Jenny. She wasn't Jenny. She might walk out for a bit, but she wouldn't clean out her locker. Not in this case. Not for this friendship. You could be lost for a year but not lost out of life.

"And I'll be here in the morning if you say 'Stay'...."

2011-02-16T10:02:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, a captain's seven year old daughter went to sea.
She hardly stopped talking from the time she stepped across the gangplank ("What is this?" "Where do you store it when you're at sea?"). The sailors, accustomed as they were to rowdy conversations and loosened tongues in the evenings, raised their eyebrows at so much enthusiasm, so early in the day. As they set sail, she had questions about what ropes went where, and why. At noon, she wanted to know what a logbook was, how they kept the food fresh during a voyage, and how old you had to be before you could be a ship's boy and take a turn in the crow's nest. At nightfall, she wanted to know what would happen if you dropped a lantern into the water, what the hammocks were made of, and whether sailors ever sang lullabies.

Before three days had passed of the two-week-long voyage, the first mate requested a private conversation with the captain. Carefully checking to make sure the small cheerful figure in breeches wasn't around, he lowered his voice. "Cap'n, the crew an' me, we're fond of yer daughter. Make no mistake. But that voice of hers, she never give' it a rest! We was wonderin' if there was aught ye could do, give 'er a parrot or somethin' to talk to...." The captain rubbed his chin. Being a seafaring man and often gone, he had always welcomed his daughter's chatter at home. 11 more days of the incessant questions and comments would be too much, though, he agreed. After a minute, a bright idea struck him. "Wait here," he told the mate, and hurried into his cabin. He returned carrying a large, leather covered book. "Extra ship's log," he explained, "she's been well taught a' home, and can write a neat hand. Mayhap that will ease her mind." "And our'n," grinned the mate. Hefting the book, the captain gave a rare smile. "And perhaps the ungainly size of it will discourage her visits to the the crow's nest." The mate grinned back. "Aye, though I think of all of us, Eli will miss her company the most. And to think we cuffed the lad around for talking during dinner!"

The captain's daughter was delighted. And the crew, out of fondness for their mascot but hastened by the prospect of return to quieter days, sprang to do their bit too. One pinched a few quills from a gull he brought down, and sharpened them into pens for her. Another made her a comfy seat on a pile of rope, and one brought her a cask of supplies for a writing desk. From her perch on the forecastle, she had a prime view of the ship, the men, and even the sea surrounding. Every morning, after breakfast and her duties helping in the kitchen and tidying up her father's cabin, she went straight away to her little perch and set to work. From there she didn't move till midday eating, except for occasional wanders about the railing to watch fish or to bring her father a midmorning drink.

Oddly enough, after the first two days of welcome silence, the men found that they missed her presence. Not that they would admit it, but she had eased in a small way their thoughts of home, and families. Accustomed to the rough life, and the coarse companionship and hard toil, they had been flattered by someone actually curious about their work and their lives. "Little Miss Curious", they might have nicknamed her, but wasn't that what womenfolk were for? Questions and caring and more questions.

Eli was the first to come back. One morning, trading off lookout duties, he 'happened' to stroll by her spot, just to stretch his legs. "What you writin'?" he asked casually. The captain's daughter was happy to show him her work - sketches of the rigging, comments about seagull behaviour, the occasional complaint about how the fish swam too deep to properly see. They got so engrossed in flipping through her pages that the noonday bell startled them both.

That afternoon, the second mate, a curious man himself, made it a point to wander over and 'just have a look' at the pages himself. Then the bo'sun. And her father himself, after he noticed the migration to the sweet former 'problem'. Somehow, by giving her the book, the captain had opened up a whole new door for his crew. The grizzled cook gave her some of his best recipes to copy down- "All out me own head, mind!" while Eli corrected some of the rigging sketches. One of the sailors, Irish-born, offered her some mermaid stories for his contribution. And so on.

By the end of the voyage, the logbook was full, down to the last page. As they drew into dock, the captain's daughter hurriedly flourished her name, and handed it to her father as she packed her own tiny sea trunk. "What, my dear, suddenly too heavy for a lady to carry?" She looked up at him gravely. "It's for you, Father. I won't be forgetting any of this voyage, myself." With that, she gave him a swift hug, and started yanking her trunk out the door.

The captain stood there alone, flipping through the pages. So many common sailors and ordinary days, brought together in one logbook, illustrated with love, even if it had been a last resort to a challenging situation. He knew the men, and he himself, would never forget the voyage either.

2011-02-13T19:37:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time...

A farm girl, leaning on a pasture rail, saw a little bear riding on a little horse.

Normally, bears and horses aren't friends. Partly because of their size and personalities, partly because of their smells.
Bears smell like forest berries and fresh-caught fish and cosy bear caves.
Horses smell like open fields and pine tree trails and sweet apples.

But on a balmy September day, she saw the bear and the horse together, wearing what looked like contented expressions, and she wondered how that odd pair came to be together...

The little horse had been wandering through the forest contentedly about two hours ago, and she took a different trail than normal, and that's when it all began.

The bear was wandering along the ground looking for stray nuts and berries when he heard an odd noise. Being more careful than curious, he climbed a nearby tree. As he climbed the tree, he let out a little noise of his own as he crawled out too far on a shaky limb. The horse, being more curious than careful, turned through the trees to find out what the second odd noise had been. She stopped right underneath the tree, looked up, and made the first noise, a horse noise. At that, the bear got so scared he lost his hold and fell right onto her back.

The horse started running, and the bear started growling pathetically for help while hanging on for dear life.

Eventually, the horse grew too tired to run any more, and slowed down. The bear grew too hoarse to keep growling and his paws lost hold as well. He fell off with a bump.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring into the horse's face. They sniffed each other cautiously, the way dogs do when first meeting. Before long, they were having a friendly conversation of sorts, mostly about the weather and the varying tastes of blackberries. Eventually, though, they realised the sun was getting low. The bear had an excellent sense of direction, but short paws, and the horse admitted she had the speed but was totally lost. She brightly suggested the bear find some convenient rock or fence and climb on, the way humans did. The bear pointed out that they were in the middle of the forest, but eventually settled on climbing a tree. Then falling off again onto the horse's back. She made an encouraging noise, and off they started.

When they wound up back at the area of forest where it all started, the horse knelt down nicely so the bear had less distance to fall. All in all, it had turned into a good afternoon. They made friendly noises (more pleasant than the original ones) and said vaguely that it would be worth repeating the day. With that, the horse trotted off toward the open farmland of her home, and the bear trundled back to his cave. Both had quite a story to tell their families.

And after that, they could occasionally be seen adventuring around together, the curious horse and, on her back, what seemed to be a small furry child but was actually the careful bear.

The End

2011-01-16T07:52:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time...

There were two little sparrows picking up crumbs outside an international school. One came from a family that only ate white bread; one came from a family that only ate brown bread. If it hadn't been for a recent windstorm, the two sparrows would never have met, but their nests on the opposite sides of the school had been blown down. So they carefully shared the same space by the playground for the time being, and when it was snack time they both followed after the children.

The little sparrow with white spots on his head pretended to only be interested in the brown bread on the picnic tables, and the big sparrow with white-tipped feathers pretended to be busy with the crumbs from hamburger buns on the steps. After a while, though, the wind swept all the crumbs together in a whirling pile in the middle of the playground. Just as the sparrows had given up on finishing lunch, the wind chuckled at them and let the crumbs drop in one heap. The white tipped bird, who was known in his family for having a bit of an attitude, sauntered up to the pile as if he owned it. Having got there, though, he realised that it would ruin his cool image if he started picking through to find his brown crumbs.

White-Spots was known as a bit of a airhead who forgot things, and by the time the wind had settled, he didn't remember that he was supposed to ignore the other bird. So he hopped up in a friendly way and bent down for a bite of white crumbs... only to realise that they were all mixed up with the brown. He stood there in confusion and let out confused cheeps. Normally, his big sister would hear his cheeping and rescue him from any trouble, but she wasn't at the playground that day. The white tipped sparrow looked at him pityingly, but after a minute realised that the spotted bird really didn't know what to do. Without any other options, the spotted bird let out one more unhappy cheep and gave one more hop - and tucked himself right next to the white tipped bird. The bigger bird looked very very surprised. After taking a moment to get over the shock, he carefully let out a polite cheep of his own, trying to get White-Spots to move away. This was a bad idea, because White-Spots only moved closer and looked hopeful.

Sighing, White-Feathers leaned down and pushed some brown crumbs into a pile, then, trying to keep his dignity, moved a few centimetres away. White-Spots took a happy mouthful. Then moved over next to White-Feathers and looked up expectantly. White-Feathers pulled out more brown crumbs and pointedly took a mouthful of white crumbs as he moved to the opposite side of the pile. White-Spots took a mouthful of his own and followed happily.

At this point, White-Feathers had a choice. He could either fly away from this hungry, too-friendly bird... or he could stay and share. He looked carefully around in case any of his friends was watching, and cheeped at White-Spots once more, just in case the smaller bird would take the hint and leave, or at least try to find his own crumbs. No such luck.

With a bird-frown on his face, but the beginnings of a bird-smile in his heart, White Feathers gave a dramatic sigh, as if to say, "This was not my idea!"

And then he leaned down and took a big bite of crumbs - brown and white together. White-Spots looked up at him adoringly. And did the same.

The End.

2011-01-06T10:04:00.001-08:00

Once upon a time...

There were three little bears. Their names were Dopey, Jack, and Rumpelstiltskin. Every morning, they put on their 1000-league boots and went over a little bridge - tromp tromp tromp to visit the dwarf grandmother's house made of straw. They carried with them baskets with apples (the non poisoned kind) and cake.

When they got there, she served them porridge in bowls made of Hungarian clay with spoons made of Polish pottery. When they finished, they washed up in a little sink and then made their way back home by following cake crumbs they had dropped along the way. But one day, they stopped on the bridge to look at their reflections in the water. One saw a dog with a bone and went after it, the second saw a tiny girl drifting away in a nutshell and went to save her, and the third saw a long blonde hair. When the biggest bear traced the hair back a long way, he found a princess in a tower, and begin singing to her. She sang down that she could not be freed, unless he brought back the heart of a prince in a little casket or some other golden container. Being a bear, this did not trouble him unduly. Immediately, he hurried back to tell his brother bears of the quest they must undertake. The middle brother agreed, but the youngest brother, who had always felt that he was the ugly duckling, said that he was not worthy to save a fair maiden and would just sit on the bridge. As the others hurried off, he sighed, and dropped an apple core into the water, which grew into a tall tall apple tree. Curious, he began to climb it, stopping only to talk with a black haired girl who was so scared that her face turned white. Once again, convinced of his ugliness, he only sighed and climbed on, but the girl felt sorry for him, and as he went two steps higher, she pulled at his boot, which came off in her hand. He ignored her, and kept climbing, so she stood up and kissed him on his ankle, the only spot where magic could reach through the furry skin. He was so surprised that he turned into a frog! But then the girl pulled out a magic mirror, and when he looked into it, he turned into a handsome prince. Then he kissed her back.

Hand in hand, they climbed down from the apple tree and hurried to tell everyone the good news. Naturally, she stopped in at her sister's tower, and when the blonde sister looked in the golden mirror and saw the reflection of her dark sister and her prince... the spell was broken. The blonde sister insisted she deserved to marry the bear prince, having waited all those years in the castle while her younger sister lived freely and climbed trees, but the dark sister clung to his arm and refused. Sighing, the blonde sister gave in, and was just about to sit back down to spinning her hair when the two other bears came in, asking for another day to solve the riddle of finding a prince so they could take his heart. The blonde princess pointed out that there was no more need for all that... at which point the oldest brother leaned over to kiss her and pricked his paw on the spindle and turned into a prince too! Everyone was absolutely delighted, except of course for the youngest bear, who was neither a prince nor a human. But he pointed out manfully that someone had to keep an eye on the grandmother and take care of the cottages, and, wishing the two happy couples all the best, he departed, taking with him only one gift, a singing harp to keep him company in his little brick house.

The End

2011-01-06T09:32:00.000-08:00

Mini story snatches...

21/9/10
once there was a sparrow who found the airways always crowded by big birds during the day. so she flew at night, and found her nest by sound and warmth:)

21/9
Once there was a girl who spent a summer on the trail in a wee land called cymru, and loved it. six years later, she went back and found the dragons and rolling language just where she left it. When she left, she blew the seagulls a kiss and said she'd come back some day

19/9/10
Once there was a dragon flying w her little brothers through the hills. But soon they got tired, and since she couldn't always carry them, the sister looked for a nest. Gladly, she saw a circle of odd tall stones, so she tucked her brothers inside and kept watch from the rim above.

18/9/10
Once there was a fairy king and queen who argued and the whole kingdom was troubled... And the fall winds blew and the other fairies rode the fall winds in confusion, but soon all was forgiven and the snow sweetness came :)

17/9
Once upon a time there was a seagull who liked flying between Dover and for breakfast and Amsterdam for lunch.... Only she kept forgetting the time change and missing meals. But then she discovered snacks and friendly messenger pigeons to be her friends, so all was well.

17/9
Once upon a time there was a fish who lived in a pond and had peace and bunny friends... And then one day a dragon came to visit. It told stories for a while, lots about dragon friends in home and city. And the bunnies waved bye when the dragon flew off. And the rain fell like a lullaby that night....

15/9/10
Once there was a longlong line of people headed somewhere, and a tired little 1yrold who was crying til a dragon appeared whoaaa. Then everybody smiled for a moment.

2010-12-19T14:00:00.001-08:00

once upon a time

there were four little red and gold dragons

one went off to a round faced singing boy, who set it on the piano and composed happy music to charm the world. the dragon learned to sing and chirp and hum along, and had a beautiful extroverted life ahead of him, constant giggles and deep reflections running through the notes like ripples on a pond.

one went off to a bright little boy with numbers and building blocks dancing around his head, and together they built many spaceships and solved many riddles, pausing occasionally to explain to others the fun and rules ( and changing the rules when profitable.)

and one sibling went off to a quiet boy who thought like a ninja and enjoyed green things, and who had been wanting a dragon for quite a while, being of a dragonish talent himself. he taught the dragon how to speak different languages and move invisibly, and they spent a pleasant amount of time doing that in their own good company.

but the fourth dragon got tucked into a hoodie pocket of a thoughtful sort of girl and carried off on all sorts of adventures. sometimes the two went to photo club and learned all about apertures and focus, and sometimes they wrote stories together, with the door shut on the world so they could find a little peace and a better storyline.

and in the end, all the dragons chose exactly right, and while they looked near identical, they each shared unique moments with unique owners and, over the years, shape shifted to look a little more like them in tiny but pleasing ways.

the end

2010-12-14T13:03:00.001-08:00

Once upon a time...

There was a sailboat in and out of the harbour, and this one particular docking took so long she started thinking about the barnacles and comforts she found there. In between talking with other boats, teasing the seagulls, and taking extra credit courses on navigation, she hardly heard her captain mention a new eastern voyage. The next few weeks were spent in new maneuvers, loading supplies, and making the most of last hours with her sailing friends. But then one day she woke up to an odd sense of calm over the harbour. She told herself it was because she'd finished her course and the others were still busy with theirs... she took some good draughts of freshwater while it was handy... and still the quiet remained. She finally looked around and realised that everything was ready for the trip... except for her. She had hardly thought about what it would mean, only what it would not mean... less friend boats around, less quiet evenings at rest during the sunset, less mornings of impatience. What the trip would mean, who knew? New horizons and stories, evenings and mornings, boats and seagulls... she would find out soon enough....

2010-12-08T12:14:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time...

There was a sleepy dragon. This dragon was so sleepy, it could barely keep its eyes open. But it knew it had to find a warm place to sleep or it would get chilled. Since it was a very small dragon, about the size of your hand, it only needed a small space. The problem was that, since it was so small, it was very easily stepped on or knocked over (once it took a nap in a visitor's purse and got dropped when they stood up to go).

So the very sleepy dragon started ambling through the house in search of a cosy place. It dodged around a counter, almost walked into a chair, and narrowly escaped being hit by a swinging door. Hrrr'ing in annoyance, the dragon finally gave up and began climbing the wall. Digging its little claws in, it went paw by paw up until it reached the ceiling, then climbed onto that. Although the ceiling looked so safe from the busy traffic floor, the dragon realised that there were things to be careful of while up top too. There was a ceiling fan in the living room, and door frames to climb over, and spider webs to avoid. For a moment, it felt a warmth by its feet, and felt hopeful... but then realised there were light bulbs warming a small bit of the ceiling, and there was no place to curl up by them.

So on and on the poor little dragon travelled, though by this time it was so very tired that it kept tripping and almost fell up into the air. But finally, finally, the dragon sensed some warmth nearby and tumbled gratefully onto the top of a cupboard, right next to a delicious hot air vent. Safe from feet and hands, comfy and warm... it was the perfect place for a nap. The dragon sighed contentedly, closed its eyes, and curled up with its tail around cosily till it could rest its head on the tippy point. Then it gave a huge yawn from its tiny mouth and went to sleep in peace.

The end.

2010-12-06T19:33:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time...

A baby was born. There were already hints of sea blue eyes and sand yellow hair and sparkly adventures, but for the moment she was simply a beautiful small child.

And the fairies that hung around her cradle on the evening of her first half-birthday discussed what to do with her. "Let's steal her!" suggested one mischievous imp. "She'll take care of our children when she grows up and sing them songs." "I think she should cook for us," said one practical fairy, "and then we'll have more time for magic."
"Take a better look at her," said one fairy, very very quietly. One and then several at a time, the fairies and pixies leaned over her and took a good long look at her. "Oh," they nodded and backed away carefully, "oh."

"Yes," said the quiet one. "This is a dangerous one. She has the Story Magic."

The fairies agreed among themselves that stealing a human child with Story Magic would be a very bad idea and a very grave mistake. "But why?" wondered a young pixie who had slipped in behind the older ones. "Why is that so bad? We love stories. She could tell them to our babies, and amuse our children while they spin cobwebs, and spin tales by the campfire. We have Story Magic ourselves. She would fit in."

The older and wiser fairies murmured in disagreement. One wrinkly small lady shook her light green head seriously. "No, that will not do. You see, a human's Story Magic is stronger than ours. Our stories- we bind and weave, colour and glamour, twist and darken and lighten what is there. But human stories have the power to change things, to shift and shape reality into something else." She gestured with a tiny hand to the wide-eyed baby, "this one, we should keep an eye on. She has many stories ahead of her...."

As the sun began to rise, the fairies started to pick up their leafy packs and head back to the woods. The quiet fairy, the one who had warned them against stealing the baby, waited till the others drifted out the foggy window. Then she wafted back to lean over the bed. "Sweet dreams, little one. It is glad I am that you won't be serving our kind. But all the same... you are welcome to visit our world when it pleases you, small Story Spinner."

With that, she blew a dusting of silver powder over the baby, who only smiled and closed her eyes.

2010-11-17T10:45:00.000-08:00

Once there was a girl with a dragon necklace.

She was idly playing with it - a small silver pendant on a leather cord - while visiting by a village campfire, tucked in
the jungles of Suriname. As she and her new friends laughed and told stories late into the night, the necklace caught the firelight and twinkled. One of the toddling children, cuddled on the girl's lap, reached up to touch it, and the owner obligingly took it off and dangled it above the sleepy head. "Pretty trinket," agreed one of the young men, white teeth flashing. The village girl sitting next to him gave him a push. "Was that a gift to you from some special friend?" she asked pointedly, pulling on a beaded necklace of her own. "No, no," smiled the outsider, "I just found it in a box of beads and jewelry once, and I liked it." Except for the little one on her lap, still intent on the twisted metal shape, everyone looked a little disappointed.

"No story?" The girl shook her head apologetically. "That's all. It suits me." And so it did, as she sat cross-legged on the ground, in a black tshirt and worn brown cargoes. The toddler lost interest as he drowsed off, and she carefully refastened the cord around her neck. "Although...." she said slowly, and the group shifted curiously. "Yes?" came the question from two or three dusky faces. She looked up absently at the scattered stars. "I do have a small story... I lost this once." The cluster shifted to more comfortable positions in anticipation, some leaning on logs, some against each other, as she traced thoughts from before into a story between the faroff old days and the warm evening there in the rainforest.

"A few years ago, I moved North, taking the dragon with me. I found a cord for it in a market there, and wore it everywhere. And I wore it when I came back to the South to visit. I--" her voice caught a little. "I knew I would move back to the South eventually. And that scared me."

One of the village girls patted her shoulder quietly. "I have never moved," she offered carefully, "but it seems a hard thing." The outsider nodded gratefully. "It is a hard thing, even when it is a good thing. I knew God was with me, and to see my family and friends was special. But it was hard, to think of returning. I spent a lot of evenings at my sister's house, finding comfort." The heads around the circle nodded in understanding. They knew very well the strength of family- life in the culture often centred around it. To be family was to be bound together within and across communities. But the understanding turned to concern as the storyteller from a different land went on.

"It was at her house that that I lost my necklace, the night before I returned North. I missed it around my neck. When I wrote to her, she asked if she should send to me." "There's a good sister for you," came an approving voice. "That she is. But I told her to wait, to hold onto it for me, to give it to me when I returned." The one village girl stopped playing with her beads and made a confused face. "But wasn't it a long while till you came back?"

"Yes... nearly a year..." Raised eyebrows seemed to imply that she must not hold her pendant in high value, to leave it so far away for so long. "There were still days I wished I had it, to be sure. But..." her voice grew soft. "It made me feel better, knowing in some way it was waiting for me at her house. If I believed in magic, I might say it was watching over her, but only God can do that. Instead, it was a small reminder to me that it- and my sister - would be there when I moved to the South again. That I would have them, familiar, and precious to me, when other things might be strange, and unwelcoming."

She touched her dragon necklace as it lay comfortably in the hollow of her collarbones. "And now I wear it here, where a small child can play with it, and where I can share my stories with you, my friends."

2010-11-12T13:43:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time

There was a Welsh vacation, up in the high hills, for a girl and some hiking teammates. They all enjoyed the sunshine, and walked through the mist, and tramped over the hills, and camped by the rivers.

But for this one girl, there seemed to always be tickles round the corner of her memory, especially in the mist.
When she walked the trails up Cadair Idris, she wondered who had walked there before her, and what tribes had slept in the fields where she and her team slept each night.

Once she saw a heron perching on a bank, lazily watching her and her friends as they walked a path where the old railroad used to trace the land's curve. There were seagulls at Barmouth, playing tag in the sunlight as she warmed toes in the hot sun with the others. Their group, tracking small bits of peat moss and mountain grass over the cobblestone streets, had walked into a small store and bought fish and chips, from a row of nondescript buildings that gradually stretched into prettier Victorian homes up the coast.

They carried on from there, reluctantly stuffing sandy feet back into hiking boots and pulling their heavy packs back on. They camped, and marched, and rock climbed; they joined with other groups, split off again. They forded streams, spent nights under the stars, hid faces from the rain that dogged their way and stripped off outer layers when the sun welcomed them into new mornings and roads. And eventually they circled back to where it all began, on the hills overlooking the Avon Dyfi, or River Dyfi. They dropped their packs for the last time at Aberdovey, up above the Outward Bound Training School, and the girl wondered at all the ground they'd covered. When she held the grimy map, she traced the way they'd gone all around the northern part of the country, and all the big places marked, and all the small memories unmarked. Llyn Cau, a turquoise surprise of a lake, where one teammate had twisted an ankle. An anonymous bog valley where they'd pitched tents on the softest moss imagineable, and played cards all one morning while a storm blew around and slower teams tried to catch up. The mountainside where they'd paused to eat, and to look out across the sea as far as they could through the curious mist. The roads that passed equally calmly through little houses with laundry outside, to fern forests where any moment a harping bard or wolf might casually cross the path.

She folded up the map. Maybe she'd be back in Wales some day. Maybe not. But the memories don't go away so easily, and they find their way into other places and stories in sweet odd ways, magical Cymru....

2010-11-04T11:02:00.001-07:00

once upon a time there was a pear tree by a pond
in the fall it dropped its leaves one by one
and while it cried for its loss
the dragonflies came to play tag
and the mother sparrows taught their babies to dart in between
and the pixies used the heaps to build houses in
and when the winter came, the mice borrowed fireflies and had council rings under the sheltering leaf piles
and the worms wore long sleepy smiles at all the delicious earthy food the leaves would turn into
and the baby leaf buds grew quietly and comforted the pear tree and reassured it that
there would always be more, there would always be life
the caterpillars rustled and nodded peacefully in their cocoons and promised to teach the new leaves all there was to know about flying when the time came
and the drowsy owls thought that everyone complained too much all the time and should just enjoy life while it was there.
in the end, they were all right
the end

2010-10-27T18:43:00.000-07:00

"We have always been D__ville people," was the quote from one of the more established families in the area, as I interviewed the visitors of the small but gracious seaside community.

Miss A__ stared eloquently across the water and rested her dainty gloves on her ivory parasol handle as i interviewed her
"We have been coming here, oh, since I can remember," she continued, a hint of a nostalgia in her voice
She then nodded back at the tasteful cottage, adding, "And Maman and Papa long before that."

I found out, while interviewing with the lovely demoiselle of the house, that the A___ Family is accustomed to spending their Thanksgiving holidays at the seaside, among other occasions. They currently reside in the bustling town of M____, a fact Miss A___ has little to comment on beyond a rue shrug.
"It is the employment there, what can I say?"
One is hardly surprised at her opinion, however gently expressed- M___ is hardly the social capital of the world, or even of the area. Small wonder, then, that she and her family make the arduous carriage ride to their haven at D___ville as often as feasible.

When I mention this, she gives a small laugh.
"Arduous? Heavens, no. There are so many quaint inns along the road, and the restaurants..." -she kisses her fingers in the French fashion, reminding me that, of course, she has toured Europe and even parts of the Pacific.

"Why the restaurants?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
Her skill in the kitchen is a well kept secret, but any who are privileged to know and visit her may be delighted with the creations that issue forth. Small wonder, then, that she mentioned the restaurants as bright spots, but just as smoothly avoids any revealing comments. "I simply enjoy sampling the food wherever I am, you know, plus the pauses along the road give my dear Jacques a chance to stretch his paws, don't they my darling?" (This last was addressed to her diminutive terrier, though to refer to him as a dog seemed almost insulting in light of her obvious appreciation of his intellectual and even personable qualities.)

Before I could ask any more questions, I heard a voice from inside their summer home calling the Mademoiselle by name.
She turned to me with an enchanting smile.
"It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, albeit during an interview, and I do hope you found what you were wanting?"
I assured her that I had, in abundance, and that the pleasure was mutual.
With that, she dropped a small curtsey, as I walked off into the sunset, literally, musing over the conversation and my notes.

A holiday in D___ville indeed....

The End

2010-10-27T14:36:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time....

There was a small wolf who fell out of bed.

Well, to be precise, he didn't fall out of bed. His name was Wolfling, and he grew tired of sleeping nicely next to the little boy who owned him, and that was where the trouble all started.

Rule Number One of the Code of Stuffed Animals stated that, "The first duty of each Stuffed Animal is to make his or her Child happy. Sections A, B, and C detailed how this could be accomplished during Playtime, Sadtime, and Sleeptime, respectively.

While Rule Number One could be hard, especially during long travel days and teary times at home, Rule Number Two was no easier. "Only let Children, not Grownups, know you are alive." Children, now, were different, as everyone knew, but Grownups could be dangerous.

Rule Number Three was the last and best of the rules. "Watch over your Child." Naturally, this was close to the other two rules, because making someone happy is a good way of taking care of them, and being an innocent stuffed animal gave you more time with your Child.

Now, when Wolfling fell off, he felt very sorry to have possibly broken Rule 3, because how can you watch over your Child when under the bed? As Wolfling lay under the bed and felt like a horrible Stuffed Animal, he heard the beginnings of a noise. And this noise went on and on, and eventually his small furry ears recognised it for a storm outside. And before long, he heard another noise, one he recognised. A Child whimpering. And it was his own Child up on the bed, afraid of the storm, and alone. Wolfling felt worse and worse.

But just then, one more noise started. The bed above him was creaking. And in another minute, he was pushed aside as something else crawled underneath the bed slats with him. Something brushed him to the side, then touched him again more carefully. Wolfling smiled, because he recognised that hand.

It only took two seconds for the hand to recognise Wolfling's furry self too, and only one more before he was tucked up *very* tightly next to his child. The storm went on outside, but under the bed was warm and safe. And they both sighed contentedly. And went back to sleep.

The End

2010-10-21T21:58:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a traveling bard, who made it back to his old home city. He remembered it as a city of music, and stories, and when he returned, he found it much the same, but himself changed. Surrounded by so many, so many people, he was glad that he still was himself enough to speak out, share what he had. And so he did.

But before long, he realised that he only ever shared part of what he held inside himself. He told stories upon stories - but not all the stories. There were some he felt too uncertain to be shared, like newborns. He sang songs upon songs, yet neglected to mention the ones he had himself written. He told himself in time he would sing those too, that they were yet too raw, too unpolished. What was truer, he realised, in quiet moments in his attic room, was that he felt himself too raw, too unpolished. Who was he to offer his own work, with such an array of stories and songs from other more experienced bards?

One day, though, he was feeling ill from the crowds and clamour, however friendly, and escaped to the countryside. He sat under a tree, wishing for some wisdom to fall from above, and he paced a field, hoping some answers would spring up under his feet. He would gladly suffer bruises and tumbles as long as they took him in the right direction....

Finally, tired, and no closer to an answer than before, he trudged back to the city. Hoping against hope, he kept his ears open, and eyes expectant. Still nothing. Yet when he reached the square, and saw the friendly nods of the merchants and heard welcoming cries from the urchins on the street, he found that he had found his peace. For as long as he was there, he was there, to sing and story and serve. Beyond that, he could not ask for so much more. And he need not force openness from himself, but neither need he hide in his attic and fine-tune what was in his heart into an age past living. Thus he climbed his stairs with a lighter heart and dusty boots, a new story already forming in his mind, a story of himself....

2010-10-18T21:45:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a misplaced dragon.

He had been minding his own business, comfortable on a store shelf with other dragons like his shiny self, when suddenly he was picked up, purchased, and popped in a bag. When he was pulled out, he found himself surrounded by big, intimidating dragons on a bookshelf. On one side a fat purple Grorkle was waiting impatiently and flicking fire between his teeth. Two double-headed blues looked at him curiously from all angles. And various others examined him head to toe and made indistinguishable comments through the sound of their wings and teeth and clawed feet. The poor new dragon was rather frightened.

But, being rather spunky, as most small dragons are, he bristled his spiky wingtips, arched his back, and showed his own teeth. He might be half their size, but if they attacked, he would give them scars to remember him by. He rattled the last of his scales, pointed his ears, and was about to make his first move when, suddenly, he heard approving laughter over his head. Looking up, he saw a graceful red dragon hover, then land. Once down, she bowed her head politely, and, more than a little surprised, the small dragon bowed back. "Greetings," she said in melodious tones. "I am Garnet, or Garnie, for short. And these are the rest of the dragon-band. Forgive them, they are very curious and not very mannered. But we welcome you all the same."

And with that, she gently touched his nose with hers in salutation, and the other dragons followed suit, even down to the swaggering grey one. As they went through introductions, the small dragon relaxed. While he had expected to be handled and dropped by some child, after purchase, he was hardly about to say no to new friends of his own kind.This looked to be a very good year...

The End

2010-10-17T11:51:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a Greek lizard. It lived on a bright white balcony, not too far from the coast, and spent its days climbing the stucco walls of the house or soaking up the sun. Sometimes other lizards scurried across the warm pavement from nearby houses, and they would sit companionably on the flat rooftops and watch the world below. In the evenings, the bugs came out along with the stars, so the lizards would pick out the different constellations during dinner. They had to be careful of the bats that came swooping through the night, but beyond that, life was sweet, and very contented.

As the years went on, the lizard grew old, and soon spent less time wandering and more time relaxing. It spent the mornings sleeping under the geraniums on the balcony, and the afternoons sitting with friends. And each evening was one more hello to night and goodbye to day. Since one rarely knows which lizard is which, and how old they grow, no one thinks of endings and goodbyes. Instead, the lizards could be said to live on and on like the stars, and watch over the little Greek houses.

The End

2010-10-13T11:50:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a fat baby.
A very fat baby.
A very very fat baby.

He was so fat that he had wrinkles inside the wrinkles on his arms, and folds on top of the folds on his legs. But he was so cute and so cheerful that no one even thought to suggest he go on a diet or do something about his appearance. He eventually, naturally, got older, and while he did slim down a little, there were no compliments or psychological transition in his relationships. Instead, total strangers continued to coo silly things to him and once the stewardesses on the airplane whisked him away from his mother so they could enjoy playing with him, and possibly even show the pilot. The mother, who was a little surprised, was still a calm sort of person who knew that her small person would be returned by the end of the flight. And so he was, covered in lipstick kisses and with what looked like chocolate smears on his mouth. As everyone knows, babies should not eat too much chocolate, but he was getting to an almost older age when it was safe. In any case, he suffered no permanent damage from the chocolate (or the kisses or temporary kidnapping) and carried on quite happily with life. On that particular trip, indeed, there were photos taken of him with any number of beautiful women, who left their respective kiss marks and/or affectionate pinches on his cheeks.

When he got old enough to grow out of the baby fat, he was informed that, rather than being unique in his adorable obesity, his sister had also charmed strangers and endured sweet affliction (and chocolate). Both children, indeed, were to be congratulated that they do not to this day bear permanent stretch or red marks on their well-used cheeks. Both continue to frequent airplanes, but there have been no bribes or temporary kidnappings reported. And while neither sibling has yet found a spouse and married, the world surely awaits with anticipation the day when more fat cheerful babies appear to lighten mundane life and attract the adoration of the masses.

The End

2010-10-09T13:05:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a village girl.
When she turned twenty-one, she moved to the city. There, instead of being a village girl, she was considered an almost-woman, and given a basket for her birthday. She lifted the lid and looked inside. There was nothing. She was told, "This is for whatever you pick up on your way."

Through the summer days, she learned that 'whatever' didn't really mean 'whatever'. To some people, it meant knitting needles for time with friends. So she started carrying around a respectable pair of needles. To others, it meant schoolbooks for being wise. So she added a schoolbook. New friends told her baskets were for carrying money for pretty clothes, and others said special food should be carried instead. Eventually, though, the girl began to run out of room in her basket. And it got heavy. And it took so long to pull out the correct item for each activity that the girl often got flustered and dropped everything.

One day, the girl was so busy rummaging through her basket to make sure she had everything possible she would need for a day in town... that she took a wrong turning down a road. When she looked up and realised where she was, she almost turned back. But then a bright maple leaf by the roadside caught her eye. It reminded her of the fall back home in the village, and how she and her brother used to throw leaves in the air to make their baby sister smile. Smiling herself, the girl picked up the leaf and put it in her basket. As she did so, she saw some scattered chestnuts a little farther down, which reminded her of harvest days and roasting nuts with her father. She kept walking, and picking up memories from the roadside, until her basket started overflowing. She looked at it, swinging from her hand. Life had been much simpler when all she had were pocket in her aprons. No, she corrected herself. Life had been much simpler when she only carried what she wanted to carry.

She returned home, thoughtfully. Once she was in her small attic room, she emptied out her basket, feeling almost guilty as she did so. She set everything on a shelf, within easy reach. The next day, she only put back in what she knew she needed for that day.

And a bright red maple leaf.

2010-10-06T11:35:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a little girl who lived by the sea.
Most of her friends lived in a nearby town, in tall houses with big gardens.
But she lived in a small cottage with the beach for her garden and the sea for her neighborhood.

While her friends had riding lessons and music tutors, she spent her afternoons scrambling over the rocky cliffs or digging for mussels that her mother cooked. She did have ballet classes with her friends, but since she was browner and skinnier, she stood out a little at recitals. But all in all, she was content, and life was good.

Except for one thing. She was not allowed to have a pet. She never asked for a pony, like some of her friends, or anything expensive. "Just a little dog, the smallest we can find? Or a cat?" Her parents always said no. Her father was allergic, they reminded her. "What about a bird?" Birds (and their noise) were meant for the sky, she was told, not a cage or a very small house."What about a turtle? Or a fish?" There were plenty of fish in the ocean, they reminded her gently, and turtles too. It wasn't the same, she thought to herself, but what else could she do about it? Being good parents, they tried to make it up to her in other ways, especially with hugs, so she could never go away too upset. "But still," she often thought to herself while outside, "it would be really nice to not be on my own all the time."

One day, when life was especially empty and all her friends were off having fun with their pets, she sat gloomily on her favourite rock. She dangled her feet in the water and whistled to herself, and wished on the water sparkles to some day have a pet. She found that she could squint her eyes and see shapes in the reflections of clouds, and got so caught up in finding a dog, a cat, a bird, a turtle, a fish... that at first she didn't notice something brush her leg. The next time, though, she did, and startled so badly that she almost fell into the water. Quickly pulling up her wet brown legs and tucking them under herself, she inched back enough to be safe from sharks or jellyfish, and peered over the edge. Nothing.

She sat back. Maybe it was just her imagination, or one of the turtles that lived in the area. Her hair was still wet from a swim, and kept swinging in her face, so she pulled it down so she could braid it out of the way while she mused over the situation. This kept her occupied for a moment.

When the little brown girl looked over the edge again, she was suddenly face to face with two very wide eyes. She blinked her own, just to make sure. Chitterchitter, said her visitor curiously. Unsure of the correct response, she chittered back politely and added, "Nice day, isn't it?" The dolphin appeared to nod. After another minute of inspection on both sides, the girl decided more action would be a good next step. "May I join you?" she asked, and slowly swung her lungs back into the water. She'd heard from her fisherman father that dolphins, like most creatures, dislike sudden moves. And from history and biology lessons, the girl knew that dolphins were naturally friendly and inquisitive. Armed with these facts, but still drawing a deep breath, the girl slipped into the sea. "Would you like to join me for a swim?" The dolphin made a smiling face and bobbed. Perhaps, the girl thought, dolphins got lonely too. So off they went, staying close to the shore, just to be on the safe side.

When the sun started sinking lower, the girl knew it was time to start heading for home and helping with dinner. The dolphin would only follow her in so far, before pausing and making unhappy noises. Treading water, she ventured a gentle pat on its rough head. "I'm sorry, but I need to go. I will be back tomorrow after school, though, if you're around?" And then, in a rush, "It would be really, really nice if you're around." The dolphin chittered again in a friendly way, and rubbed up against her hand. "Maybe yes? I'll be looking for you... and thanks." With a final rub, the girl swam toward the shallows. When she climbed out and turned around, there was nothing to be seen but the reflections on the water, and what might have been the flick of a tail.

Her mother and father were tired that night, or they might have asked why their daughter had that particular soft smile on her face and seemed more tired than usual too. She didn't even put up her normal protests at bedtime, when being tucked into her bed in the loft, just kissed them both and snuggled under her quilt.

She spent the next day trying to focus on school and not build her hopes up... though she did allow herself to check a book on dolphins out from the school library. She read it on the way home, rushed through her homework and chores, and then headed out to the rock. No dolphin. She sat there for a while, but just as she was beginning to give up, she felt a familiar nudge against her leg. And this time, she was the first to give the greeting chitter, before jumping in and swimming off in the afternoon sun with her new pet.

The End.

2010-10-02T14:39:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time there was a lump of clay in Hungary. It was dug out of the ground, cleared of sticks and stones, and processed till it was pure and smooth, ready for the potter.

At the same time, there was a school class preparing for a field trip to the nearby craftshop. One little boy in particular, with big grey eyes, was excited. His great-grandfather had been a potter in Budapest, and his mother had told stories of the old days, of the pots and vases and bowls he crafted and that she still had. But when the mother tucked her child inside his water slicker that morning before school, and kissed his little face sticking out of the hood, she told him, "No matter what you make, I will love it!" He nodded obediently, but didn't say aloud that he wasn't so sure about that.... Mothers have to like what their children make, but what if he made something really ugly? Who would want to tell stories later about that?

He worried about this through the first few classes, and only ate half his sandwich at lunch. He made a face at a nearby pigeon and informed it sternly that if he wasn't going to eat his food, the pigeon couldn't either. He stuffed the other half inside his lunchbox and stomped off, feeling a little braver. He held on to that thought during the bus ride into town and refused to think about anything else. When he stepped carefully through the rough wooden door of the pottery barn, though, he was too intrigued to remember the lunch or his bravery... there was too much to see. Wheels and stools and shelves and mud everywhere!

He soon learned it was not actually mud... it was clay. Sometimes very wet clay, with extra water, called 'slip' that potters rubbed around their pots or with a sponge... sometimes very dried and flaky clay that had fallen or been rubbed away. Before he knew it, he was sitting on his own small stool at his own spinning wheel and waiting for the pottery instructor to hand him his very own lump of clay to work with. The first girl in the row got hers, and then the second girl, and then a boy, and another girl, and so on... but when the instructor got to him, she paused. By that time, the assistants and other children were busy beginning with their clay, and the air was filled with a whirring noise.

The grey eyed boy looked up curiously at the instructor. She looked down at him a moment thoughtfully, but instead of giving him the lump of clay she held in her hand, she reached past him to a shelf and handed him another instead. He looked at it silently. At first he couldn't tell what the difference was, but then he saw that the colour was a little different. He picked it up and held it closer. It was black. He looked down the row, and saw red, brown, light tan, and everything in between. But no other black. Even the smudges on the wheels and floor (and walls) were the other colours.

When he looked back at the instructor, unsure if he was allowed to ask questions, she just nodded at him reassuringly. "The first lump of clay I was ever given was black, too." Normally he would have had so many questions, even if he kept them in his head. But somehow, her nod and few words made it all better. Content, he turned to the challenge of making something from what sat on his wheel. Soon he was spinning it with the foot pedal, and trying gently to shape the clay with his fingers. Sometimes it leaned too much one way and he had to correct it hastily. Sometimes it collapsed altogether and he had to stop the wheel, squish all the clay together again, and try again. The noise of the other wheels, other students, and the voice of his teacher giving a brief history lesson of pottery all faded away. It was just him and the clay and his wheel, spinning together....

When he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, he slowed his wheel done and reluctantly pulled his hand away from last touches to his creation. He had no idea how long it had been since he'd started, and as he stretched he realised he was stiff from sitting so still, so long, and that the room was quiet. He looked up and saw the other students were gone, though he could hear them faintly in the next room. The instructor was standing by him. "It is beautiful." He looked down, and felt that what she said was true. It was beautiful. He was glad she let him carry it to the shelf where it would wait until it was ready for baking.

He waved goodbye politely with the other students, and spent the rest of the day in a happy daze. His mother asked him three times at dinner if he'd had fun at pottery (and gave him two helpings of broccoli when he accidentally said yes to that too). The next day was a blur until the pottery van showed up with the finished pieces. He had been so eager to see his, but suddenly felt almost shy, and hung back. The assistant handed out the pots to the students one by one, and the grey eyed boy gave polite congratulations to all his friends as they showed off theirs. All the while, though, he kept his eyes out for his, and was just starting to get worried when he saw his own special instructor walk up to him with a carefully wrapped package. He opened his hands to take it, but instead she knelt down, jean-covered knees in the dirt, and held it so he could unwrap it himself. He knelt down too, which made her smile, but he could tell from her face that she knew how important this was. Oh so slowly he pulled away the brown paper... and then, there was his bowl. Smooth and black and curvy-- and beautiful. He could see that one side was the tiniest bit slanted, and as he turned it over it looked like a half finger smudge on the bottom, but you could hardly tell.

Over his head he could hear his teacher going on about such an *unusual* colour and how much talent he had and thank you so much for the pottery class the children really enjoyed it.... He supposed she was talking to his instructor, but the instructor looked like she was paying more attention to what he was saying with his hands as he ran his fingers over every centimeter of his bowl. When his teacher finally paused for breath, he finally looked up at the instructor. He realised she had grey eyes too, and smiled at a private thought. Maybe there was a magic to black clay that only grey eyed people could bring out? She nodded at him as if she had heard what he was thinking, all of it, but just to make sure he added, "And thank you. Very much for the grey clay, and helping me make my bowl. I love it."

And so did his mother.

The End.

2010-09-29T12:13:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time

There was a Fairy with dark hair and light eyes... and she lived in a small palace by the sea and watched over three small children for a King and Queen. Since she was a naming Fairy, she named them Princess, Kabouter, and Petite. The Queen was fond of moment-catching in her magic mirror, and the fairy would hold the children or coax them with food so they would sit still for the mirror. One day the Queen had the Fairy sit still as well, and hold Petite. Princess came to sit too, and Kabouter, and soon there were smiles and cheek-kisses all around.

But eventually the Fairy moved away. There were other palaces to visit, and other Fairy roles to be had. Some of the roles involved more small children, sometimes just one or two dear ones, sometimes a dozen or so at a time. As she grew older (for even fairies get older) her roles extended to magic mirrors of her own, and soon she had so many moment-captures of smiles and children and cheek-kisses that it was hard to remember them all.

But sometimes she would go back and look at the moment captures of her first small children that she ever watched over, and think sadly that if she met them now, they wouldn't even recognise her. But perhaps, the Fairy would think to herself, perhaps if she had enough time, they could be friends again, and there would be more smiles to capture. And, though she did grow older, so did the friends her age... which often meant there would be more small children to love, and to capture moments with.

The End

2010-09-27T12:48:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a pack of dragons

Some were older, some were younger.
Some were fat and some were thin.
Some were huge and some were tiny.
But they all lived in the same house together.
And at night, when their owner went to bed...

They all came flying or hopping or jumping to see eachother.

Sometimes they met in the kitchen.
The red fire dragons blew flame,
and the other dragons roasted marshmallows.

Sometimes they met on the balconey.
The water dragons collected raindrops and fill up plant pots. Then they all went swimming together.

Sometimes they just all curled up on the couch and told stories. And that was when the air dragons had the most fun, because they went on adventures all the time. Some had wandered the city with their owner, and some had even been to foreign countries.

But no matter what they did all night, the dragons knew that every morning they had to be back in their places.

So they went flying back to the windowsills. Or hopped back up onto the cupboards and bookshelves. Or tucked themselves into corners of the room

Every morning, there they sat, just as they were before, only with twinkles in their eyes.

And if you look closely, some of them still have wet tails, or marshmallows in their teeth.

The End.

2010-09-23T12:29:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time

There was a busy bee
Who ran out of busyness
And out of reasons to buzz at all, really.

While the other bees had never found it quite so necessary to buzz and be busy all the time
They found this this lack of buzzing during busyness slightly worrying
And made sure to come hover nearby and make sure the bee was okay
Sometimes they gave little buzzes to remind her how it was done
Just in case she'd forgotten.

Sometimes they just hovered there 'accidentally' in case she felt like climbing off the flowerheads to bother them like usual.
Tho, of course, they would never have *said* that she bothered them.
Being very patient and undemanding bees, and friends of the same sort.
Any bothering that was felt, they smiled, was felt more on her side.
And if it didn't bother them, why should it bother her, if she was bothered that she was bothering them?
(Being a slightly oversensitive bee, she sometimes was bothered by this, but it was not important.)

So she and they didn't bother about it too much in general.
And it was generally assumed that it would all be okay in the end.

The End.

2010-09-03T14:29:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a Dairy Farmer.
And this dairy farmer was not like other dairy farmers.
He was special.
He did not raise nice flocks of Bleets.
He did not own nice herds of Moohs.
He did not, actually, own any sort of milk giving creature at all.

Some people got very upset at this after driving to his farm, and demanded he change his sign. It was a very long drive, actually, 5 miggles down a dirt road with spooky trees that made scary munching noises. (The visitors hunched inside their Vrumes and tried to hurry through the shadows to the farmhouse ahead.)

The farmer always heard them out patiently.
After the grumpy non-customers finished waving their hands around and stomping on his non-Mooh-eaten grass, he would hold up his hand.

Then he would make a curious munching sound with his mouth. The visitors always looked at him like he was crazy, at this point (with the exception of small children, who totally understood and began looking around eagerly. If the visitors had brought their Yapps, they normally began yapping as they jumped around.)

The farmer would repeat his call. Suddenly, the woods would echo with the same call, and giant creatures that oddly resembled leggy caterpillars would come strolling down the lane, leaving the road in bright sunshine. (This was usually a great shock to any secondary arrivals of visitors. Most farmers, dairy or not, did not own changing roads.)

The farmer (and the certain small children) would fondly smile and reach up their hands as the huge green and fluffy creatures bent down, making their customary NOMNOMNOM noises. (At this point, delicate females among the visitors were known to faint, and nondelicate males were known to turn an interesting shade of creamy white.)

And the farmer would turn innocently back to the visitors with a smile and say, "Now, what were you wanting to see my farm of Dairs for?"

The End.

2010-09-01T13:35:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time

There was a soldier.
He had served his time, done his duty, fought honourably.
And now he was leaving.
He was formally saluted, congratulated, and then sent home with his pay.
Some comrades-in-arms walked with him a ways, then parted for their homes.
Other soldiers and captains stayed. There was still a battle to fight.
But he was not needed.
He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
He did know that his feelings were not of crucial importance, though, so he stood tall and carried on, deciding to think things through later.
Maybe, he mused, there would be warmer weather in the south.
He could picture the friendly mountains of his home, so unlike the snowy cliffs he was surrounded by. He thought of the graceful cypress trees that sheltered his house, and the grapevines that wound cheerfully around their arbour. He would sit and rest, he thought. Rest a long time. Perhaps in the gentler winter he would find the purpose that had eluded him this long service....

He told himself dispassionately that peace was not everything. As everyone knew, the army gave one purpose. Aimless lives suddenly found meaning in the discipline and daily harshness of life. Whether or not one personally believed in conquest of the natives, expansion of the empire, etc., was irrelevent - one simply had to obey, defend one's comrades, and survive. If not glorious, life was at least simple.

Returning to civilian life, now.... He shook his head absently. That would be complicated. What does one say to old friends who may be friends no more? To small (and older) boys who think the life of a soldier is the most glorious adventure ever? To housewives and village maidens who are either attracted or repulsed by the blood and sweat of the wars? Would it even be possible, as he half hoped, to prop his feet on a wooden bench, watch the sea, and forget all he'd seen and done?

He looked ruefully at his boots as he kept his methodical tramp along the muddy roads. The dirt stains might wash out. What about the blood, or the memory of it? What about invisible memories of quiet, frozen tears on nights in the desolate Alps? There were also, he added fairly, memories of fields of wildflowers he and his men had marched through. And a rare day of rest by a fresh mountain stream with odd fish that nibbled cheerfully at his bare toes. Tense, sandy marches on beaches by midnight to escape barbarian arrows and hide tracks under the tide. It would be easier to burn the boots than the memories. He wasn't sure he wanted to lose either.

He kept trudging. There would be many more miles ahead for thinking. All that he knew was that a small, sunny house was waiting for him, with embraces from relatives. It would be good to spend time with them, share meals and stories again. Perhaps letters to and from his comrades, wherever they might also have arrived. Maybe in time he would learn to blend his old life and his recent life, on his way to a new life....

The End

2010-08-28T12:18:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a pile on pile of charts
A pile on pile of ropes
A pile on pile of canvas

And only one small cabin girl to make sense of it all.
To make it more only, there were very few cabin girls on the seas.
Sea life was too dangerous for fair damsels, promised the men.
Sea life was too shocking for young ladies, admonished the women.

So it was cabin boys who were forced to endured the kicks, bad weather, and foul language.
But it was also the cabin boys who were allowed to run free in the rigging, travel the world, and learn the language of the sea. The girls stayed home and learned their respectively useful trades of seamstress, cook, and washwoman, if they had need of employment at all. Noble families preferred to keep their children safely at home, though after a certain age a young man could go to sea. A young woman, next to never.

So this cabin girl was a double rarity, both in being a girl and in coming from a modestly wealthy family. Her father was a well to do trader from a good family.Her mother, now, came from abroad, and rumour had it, was less than dignified in her former life. Occasional delicious stories of freedom were told to the daughter at bedtime, usually prefaced with an innocuous, "Once upon a time there was a girl..." But from there the stories would diverge into tales of running barefoot down the streets of Marseille, riding riverboats down the Seine, or- gasp- going on small family voyages across to Marocq and other exotic places. Like many good tale weavers, the mother avoided identifying exact names of the characters, preferring 'the once-upon-a-time girl'. There was a certain sparkle in her eye during story time, but she occasionally threw in stories of Northumberland moors and Indian bazaars, so one could never be entirely sure.... The cabin girl's own name was an equally interesting concoction -Marjam Coulée Elsbet Giaconde de la Venta - but she was more affectionately known as Coucou. (How much of that came from the ungainliness of her full name and foreign pronunciations, and how much came from the 'cuckoo, I see you!' her French mother chirped in the monrnings, is unknown.)

All that said... Coucou was a very lucky girl. By birth, by family and heritage, naturally. Equally, and less conventionally, in tutoring from an early age in languages and geography. "I must make some use of you before you turn to pirating, my lass," her father would chuckle, and her mother would add, "How do you expect to keep up with the lads unless you show yourself capable?" With two languages spoken in the home, plus a scattering of others from various servants and governesses, Coucou was well ahead of her agemates in that regard, and geography came easy when 'The Thousand and One Nights' mingled in one's head along with 'Beowulf'. Mathematics were more troublesome, until one clever tutor brought in equatorial maps and had her calculate longitude and longitude. And visiting sailing mates of her father were more than happy to show the young lady how to shoot the stars with quadrants. Soon she was using a lead line on weekend trips and keeping a miniature logbook in uneven writing....

When her mother received word of an ailing mother in France, what could be more inviting than for the adventuresome three to travel there? And then perhaps back along what the mother, with a smile in the corner of her mouth, called 'the pretty way'? So it was settled, the house packed up for the present and bundles carried onto the sweetest sailing vessel in the harbour, L'hirondelle. "It means 'The Swallow', like the bird," explained Coucou gravely to her small friends, "and if we fly away on it and never return, I shall think of you when I see the stars." Her friends, knowing this was no light promise, nodded back and wished her well. "We know the post is uncertain," said one small demoiselle apologetically, "but do let us know what adventures you have? And the lands you see? We will write back and address our letters to L'Hirondelle, and they will find you." "And they will find me," replied Coucou, touched and grateful. They embraced, and waved her off one fine morning in March. After boarding, she went straightaway to see how much work was for her to do, down in the hold, but returned quickly to the rail to wave. And then, as they pulled away with the tide, she climbed to the next level of rigging, scolding away the tears and forcing her thoughts to the piles and piles to be dealt with. Farther and farther, and she gave up on plans and dry eyes and climbed to the crow's nest.

There would be time enough for life and adventures. Here she could see for miles, and blow kisses to what had been her home, as she stood near the top of her new one.

The End

2010-08-18T13:31:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time

There was a princess.
And she was not particularly beautiful, or particularly wise.
She had a decent memory, which helped in studies, but her handwriting was atrocious.
Her tutors despaired of her.
She fell off horses during riding lessons, and was forever hitting trees, not targets, in archery.
Her riding and shooting instructors despaired of her.
She spilled tea while pouring, and occasionally even missed her seat and fell during etiquette.
Her governesses despaired of her.
(Especially when all that could be seen of her was a rumpled heap of giggling, wiggling petticoats.)

But no one could stay annoyed with the princess for very long.
Because she was good tempered, even when scolded.
And it was obvious that she did try, despite her failures.
And all the lower servants adored her, even as they swept up cup after broken cup.
Because she made up for her mishaps by graceful apologies and bribes of sweet things from her pockets.

And after all the failed lessons and patiently shaken heads, she would curtsy and then waltz out of the room.
Carefully, hand over hand on the railing, she would make her way upstairs.
And there she would perch on her papa's knee and listen to him administer importance to the kingdom.

Occasionally, after the last subject bowed out and away from the Royal Presences, the princess would pat her papa's face.
"What do you see out the window?" she would ask.
When she first lisped the question, at age three, no one thought anything of it, because she was too short to see outside.
As the years went on, it became a pet game between the two of them.
"I see the trees bowing to each other before a promenade," the king might say, smiling.
Or "I see the clouds playing at hide-and-go-seek with the sun."
On particularly challenging days of work, the king might growl, "I see a hawk about to devour a pigeon. Take that, insolent wretch!"
(For a king must always be courteous when administering justice to his court, but what he thinks in his private time is his own.)

As the years went farther on into the future, the princess was given a highly embroidered chair of her own, next to his.
(Only hers had cushioned arms so she couldn't fall out, as she was prone to doing.)
The court came to welcome the days when her little head nodded wisely next to her papa's shoulder.
The king grew quicker to mercy, and his justice was administered more thoughtfully, as she nodded approval at his side.
And there were gradually less days of diving hawks, and more of playing clouds and promenading trees.

The End.

2010-08-16T14:37:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There were two crickets

They chirped
(but different songs.)
They watched the sky
(but different corners)

They walked on tiptoes over grass stalks
And occasionally, because they were so busy watching the sky, or chirping, they bumped into eachother.
So it was occasionally a very awkward moment.

But eventually they found a good place to bump into each other
Right above a bed of downy cloverheads
So they could fall right through the grass stalks
And end up watching the stars or other insects fly by
Together

The End

2010-08-16T12:30:00.000-07:00

Cricket chirp with a tall grass friend
You're perched too high
Bend down a little lower
Sway a little closer
Share your heart
Make us last
Don't spill the time...

Have a drop of dew
To wet your throat
Can we sing for a bit
Like other times
Soak up the rays
While we soak up us
Call our thoughts out
By and bye...

2010-08-15T14:00:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time

There was a very lot of sand
and a very little dune
A sturdy desert man
and a timid little moon

And he pitched a tent
Where the water grew
And the trees came up
And the stars shone through

Though the tent didn't move
As the sand rolled away
And the dune shifted place
As the man paused his stay

He said the dunes may shift so slow
There comes a time to track them down
He said all waters ebb and flow
The time will come to pack and go

Some nights are meant for riding out
The days will come to pull up stakes
The road asks if you're strong enough
Your ready heart is what it takes

2010-08-14T13:25:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a little house with a sea-view balconey.
Two dragons lived in that house, a red and a blue.
Garnie (whose full name was Garnet) and Saphie (whose full name was Sapphire) were very happy there.
But one day, the sea started calling...
And Saphie started spending more time at the balcony rail.
Or looking out the window.
Or wandering near the river.

Garnie would come out sometimes and put a wing around Saphie's shoulder.
"What are you thinking?" Garnie would ask.
"Mmm..." Saphie might answer absently.

Eventually, the sea called too strong.
Saphie started packing bags.
Garnie would have said something, but the wind had started calling too.
And while it wasn't quite time for Garnie to pack, it would be soon.

When the packing was done, and fond goodbyes were said, Saphie headed to the sea.
Garnie stayed at home, and leaned on the balcony rail alone.
It would soon be time to pack more bags and find the wind roads.

But every so often, the breeze would blow seagulls towards the little house.
And they would call little messages to Garnie from Saphie.
And Garnie would call messages back.
And it was almost the same as having the two friends leaning on the rail again.

The End.

2010-08-09T13:31:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a heron,
who had three baby herons.
And she and the daddy heron taught them to fly and fish and stand on one leg
Everything a young heron needed to know
And the triplets looked just as normal as the other heron children.

But these three young herons had special parents
With a secret talent.
The parents could speak other languages
So they passed this on to their young ones
And while the little herons grumbled about having to learn different words
(Especially when their friends only had lessons in one language)
This language thing because very useful when they became older

Eventually, as all young herons do, these three grew up and moved away from home
But insteading of building respective nests down the road, up the river, and across the marsh...

One flew to Holland, where herons call, "Goedemorgen!" in the mornings.
And one flew to Poland, where herons greet eachother with, "Dzien dobry!" at noon.
And one flew to France, where herons croon, "Bonne nuit!" at night.

When family reunions happened, every 3 and a half years
(in good heron tradition, of course)
The triplet herons showed up at the family home in greece
And, over the years, brought their own little families of herons
Who enjoyed flying and splashing with the other cousins
As all the grownup herons went around and pecked eachother politely on either cheek in greeting.

But when night came, all the foreign herons tucked in close with their own families
And spoke in their own languages when they said good night.

The end

2010-07-29T14:32:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a red dragon
Who went on an adventure with a blue dragon and a golden dinosaur

And at first all was well-
they frolicked on the trails,
enjoyed a picnic on the clifftop,
and soaked up a beautiful sunny day in God's nature.
What more could a dragon wish for?

But then.
They saw a dark hole in a cliff wall
Did they dare enter?
"It will be fun," said one.
"We should at least try," said another.
"I have a torch," said the third.

So in they went,
to the sound of eerily dripping water
and their own careful footsteps.

And they took one turn to the right.
And another to the left.
And found empty rooms with old bunks where soldiers had likely slept.
And a pipe up the ceiling where either air or escapes could be had.
And then they reached the end

And came back, still cautiously,
because they had read all the right books and knew that goblins run very softly...
and they knew that some caves have walls that open up.
So one walked in front with the torch
And one walked in the middle to watch the side walls
While one kept a good eye out backward.

That way they made it out safely.
And, after congratulating themselves on being so very brave and clever, they continued on more adventures.

The End

2010-07-22T13:34:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a koala who could not tell time.
His father taught him to track the sun across the sky.
His mother taught him to look at the star patterns.
His uncles taught him to follow the rhythms of the forest as the animals woke and slept.
His aunts taught him to look for food and water when fresh and cool, and to sleep during the heat.

But still he could not tell time.

So one day, he snuck into a backpack of a nearby Australian...
And flew to Malaysia.
He hoped to learn time there, but his claws had a dificult time with the mobile phones.
So he and his Australian flew to Rome.
But the Italian concept of time was unlike anything he'd ever seen.
So he and his Australian rode a bus to Vienna.
But, while 'Austria' and 'Australia' may look similar, the language and punctuality confused his brain.
So he and his Australian took a train to the Czech Republic.
And there, the koala was happy.
Because there were clocks everywhere - big ones on churches, medium ones on walls, and little ones in shops.
And the koala was so happy, and so content, that he snuck out of the Australian's backpack.
He made his way into a restaurant, and climbed up in the rafters.
There he was above the food and surrounded by a city of clocks.
And he became famous, and fat, and even more contented in all of that.
So they named the restaurant after him.

And while some say this is just a legend, that very place is still there to this day.

2010-07-11T14:23:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a money lender, in a far off land.

And there was a certain woman on his list, high on his list of debtors.
She had no money left to pay him after her husband died, so he began to think of what he could salvage from the situation
"Aha," he thought, "she has two sons!"
"I shall take them for slaves and gain it all back!"

The woman, well aware of his plans, went to the Wise Man.
The Wise Man, also known as the Miracle Worker, listened as she cried out her story
"How can i help you?" he asked. "What do you have in your house?"

She thought this an odd question, but answered truthfully,
"Nothing there at all."
He waited....
Then she remembered!
"I do have a little oil..."
The Wonder Worker smiled, and told her what to do.

The creditor's wife soon heard a knocking at her door.
It was the widow.
"May I borrow some of your jars, please?"
Knowing that God blesses those who are generous to the poor, the creditor's wife agreed, as did the other neighbors.
Surprised as they were at the odd request from a penniless woman, they were soon even more surprised!
Because the widow soon and somehow had oil jars upon oil jars upon oil jars full to sell!
And word soon went round, how the Wonder Worker had worked yet another miracle.
This time, how he had used God's power to multiply the oil into enough to sell, pay the debts, and live on.
And while some were surprised that nothing more dramatic had happened (such as a resurrection of the dead husband, surely the most practical solution and well within the Wise Man's abilities)... or a rich kinsman redeemer appearing to marry the woman...
The story of the widow and the oil became one of the most treasured tales of the village
How one woman, who had almost nothing, gained more; how when she was at her emptiest, she was suddenly filled from the hand of God.
It quietly gave hope to others, who felt empty inside.
Perhaps the same God who cared for one poor widow would care for their dryness as well.

The end

2010-07-04T12:44:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time
There were three camels
And when they were young, they had no names
Besides "Baby White" "Baby Black" and "Baby Brown"

But as they grew into adolescents this was more troublesome
Because proper camels should have proper names
So their Bedouin owner sat in his tent and tried different names aloud
"Wise one" "Strong one" "Fair one"
He would shake his head dismally each time.
Occasionally his wife would call suggestions as she bent over the hearth
"Bright eyes? Starry one? Path Seeker?"
He would only shake his head again and lament the fate of the poor nameless camels, and the shame that would bring to his tent.

But one day, a traveller visited the nomad village
As was courteous, he greeted them in peace and asked if he might stay and trade stories for a time
Since storytellers were highly thought of, he was immediately welcomed to the chief's tent, fed the finest foods, and invited to stay as long as he wished.
Each night that week, he told a different story, or perhaps two or three

And one night, while the poor owner of the camels was squatting with the men by the campfire, the storyteller told a tale of three men, serving in the court of a king
The king was fierce and mighty, and demanded much respect from his people
(The men nodded - this was only right)
And one feast day, the people gathered, and much music was played
(The women, listening from within the tents, murmured approvingly- what was a feast with no fine foods and accompaniment?)

And then - the storyteller threw his hands up to the sky - a huge statue was revealed, shining and golden!
(The children, playing around the fire, gasped excitedly)
And the storyteller explained dramatically that as the vast sea of people bowed, as commanded, to worship the statue and their king...
Three men remained standing!
The entire village, listening to the story, fell into stunned silence.
"What audacity!" "What dishonour to their families and to the king!" "Surely he would have them killed or thrown out for defying his power!"

The storyteller swept his gaze around the tents
"The three men," he said slowly, "were called to the king's presence."
" O king," the three said, "we do not need to defend ourselves before you."
(The villagers rolled their eyes and clicked their tongues. "Foolish men, to not plead for mercy or at least a quick death.")
But the storyteller continued in a measured voice,"if we are killed, the God we serve is able to save us, and he will rescue us from your hand, O king."
Quiet murmurs. This was a new idea. That Allah would step into fate and change it for the sake of three rebels... this would need discussed by the elders.
"But even if He does not, we want you to know, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up."
The storyteller was silent, and let that sink in
Again, a new concept. It would need due attention.
And the village was intent on giving it due attention, silently and not so silently, when a small hand tugged at the storyteller's robes.
"And then what? Then what?" came a child's voice clearly over the crackle of the flames.
The storyteller, lit by the bonfire's light, looked gravely at the small one
(The child's mother put her hand over her mouth and waited)
"Then, my child...
Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were thrown into a FIRE."
The children gasped.
The mothers swished their skirts nervously.
The fathers pulled their beards and tried to look unconcerned.

Suddenly, oddly, the storyteller smiled
"The king," he continued, "looked into the fire and gasped too!
For there, walking around unharmed, were the three men!"

The storyteller paused to let the hum die down.
"And with those fearless three was one more, a shining one, who appeared as a son of the gods.
The king cried out, 'Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, servants of the Most High God, come out! Come here!'
And they stepped out.
Unharmed.
Untouched by the smoke, even.
The king saw what a fool he had been.
To set himself up against God and God's followers.
He decreed that his entire kingdom should worship the one true God,
Saying, 'For no other god can save in this way!' "

The storyteller bowed his head, and indicated that his story was at an end
The villagers had much to think about that night.
And for many nights after, as long as the storyteller stayed, and then after that.
For many of them became followers of the one true God, and storytellers to their own people as well

And the camel owner...

Well, he had names for his three camels *and* a story to tell to those who recorded the camel pedigrees.

2010-06-17T13:10:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time

There was a dinosaur
Who lived under a bridge on a table with other interesting items
But he was a lonely dinosaur
And he used to watch the humans go by sadly,
wishing he belonged to a little girl or boy who would love and hug him.

One day, a girl walked by
But stopped to look at him with bright curious eyes
She wasn't a little girl tho
Or even a medium girl
She was a big girl
Practically a grownup
But she had young eyes
And he liked the way she smiled at him
He liked even more the way she walked up and tapped his head softly.
He let himself hope - just for half a moment.
He hoped that she was little girl enough inside to buy him.

But she didn't buy him
Just smiled one more time and walked away
And he tried not to let it matter too much
But then!
A few days later
Another girl walked right up to him
She was also a big girl
Who also had young eyes
Which he found very curious
Two girls like that in one week!
But this girl (he held his dinosaurish breath) held out money
The vendor took it

Then the girl picked him up in her warm hands
Took him home in her bookbag
And when she pulled him, out, blinking, he saw a comfy room in a quick glance
Before he landed, upside down and sideways, in another pair of warm hands
When he was turned right side up
And lifted gently up to another face
He was surprised
And delighted

Because he was looking at the young eyes of the first girl
And suddenly he was squished carefully into a hug
As the girls hugged too
Then he heard a voice saying, "You told me you saw a dinosaur... so i got it for you."
In that way, the lonely dinosaur found a home with *two* girls who loved him.
And they lived happily ever after.

(And one day, another small not-quite-dinosaurish friend came to live with them, but that is another story...)

2010-06-14T12:51:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time.

There was an attack on the regal city of Krakow.
A very long time ago, by the Tartars, who come from the far northeast with curved swords and black beards.
they scoured the city
They made made fearsome noises round the outer walls
And freaked out the poor inhabitants
And the poor Kasia's and Asia's and Magda's clutched their children closely.
The Piotr's and Jan's and Matteusz'es chewed their mustaches and sharpened their swords.
And the Izdebski and Mazurek and Skowrońska families went to church and prayed that God would fight with them against the outsiders.

But there were burly men who lived on the river
And they poled their rafts on the Wisla
Through the scorching sun and biting snow
And they were not going to put up with any foreign nonsense
So they put their grizzly peasant heads together
And by night, they crept up on those Tartars, who had the audacity and stupidity to take on the polish brave ones
And knocked the tar out of the rascals.

Naturally, though, being good Polish men...
The rafters were not about to let bygones be bygones and walk sweetly back home
So they ordered the bruised and beaten 'attackers' to disrobe
And while the Tartars crept home embaressedly in their old century undergarments
The mischievous rafters pulled on the brightly embroidered red and gold foreign garments and crept back into the city by their river ways

Once in, they ran amok and waved around the purloined swords.
They shouted gibberish in Tartar accents and knocked on doors and tried to hide laughs under fierce war cries.
Once the town was thoroughly roused, nervous, and confused
The rafters stripped off the outlandish clothes and revealed their true selves
And were proclaimed the heroes of krakow
Toasted as saviours with much food and drink.
And the church bells rang and the streets were filled with shouting children and smiling monks.

And that is how the legend of Lajkonik began

The End

2010-05-05T15:55:00.000-07:00

once upon a time

there was a little mouse
who lived under a toadstool
and who lost her memory

so every morning she woke up
and it was a fresh new day
and whether the sun warmed her little mouse tail
or the rain dripped over the edge of the toadstool like a silver curtain
she was filled with excitement at all the possibilities
and she wandered the forest in awe at the 'new' trees and 'new' flowers and 'new' friends

and her friends were very patient with her

and while some grew irritated with the constant reminding, and occasionally just found it easier to avoid her
but most of them grew to like the constant introductions, because, while they could never be certain of shared memories
she could never hold on to old hurts or problems either
so they built many half stories together

and every night she tucked herself in under the warm leaves and told herself what an amazing new world she lived in

(and then one evening, heading home, she met a bat, who changed her life... but that is a different story.)

the end

2010-05-01T15:01:00.000-07:00

once there was.

and one day there wasn't, and it didn't know what to do with itself.

it was before, it blamed the not on the lack of.

or clung to a will be.

but once it wasn't, there was nothing left to blame and there wasn't going to be.

so there just wasn't.

occasionally hints of is dropped in.

occasionally what might be showed up.

and what wasn't had a chance to someday become.

so it just is or isn't, and tries to be content.

2010-04-23T06:10:00.000-07:00

once there was a happy group of stick figures who played basketball. but they had no colour so it was hard to see the lines on the court or where they began and the ball left off. on the bright side, they could reach through one another to steal the ball or even to pull the net closer. the longer they played, the more creative they got with bending lines... and rules... and soon they had to give the game a new name. they called it... ice under the hill. because that's how much sense it made. the end.

2010-04-08T12:05:00.001-07:00

WiddlyTinks.com

2010-04-06T14:20:00.000-07:00

once upon a time...

there was a small dragon.
she lived with her younger hatchling brothers and sisters in a little cave on the coast.
the group of little wiggly bodies and wings and scales were put to bed every night in a small tunnel off the main cave by their deep-blue mama dragon and their silver-grey papa dragon.
the papa dragon would gently pat each spiky head with his long wings, and he would rumble a good night to them all as they curled up in little heaps.
and the mama dragon would gently hum into the little ears as they swiveled toward her, and rub the little scaly backs until they stopped wiggling around (and poking eachother with not-yet-grown claws).
and some nights, when the dragonlets were VERY restless and VERY full of poking claws, the mama dragon would curl up in a big ball around them and softly growl at them until they were quiet. and if they were quiet enough, she would hum them small dragon songs until their eyelids shut over bright eyes and they lay absolutely still in dragon dreams.
and as the small dragon grew older, she learned the dragon-hums from her mother, and started adding to them. and soon she was the one to hum them to sleep, when the mama dragon was busy or away. and sometimes she would pat the others too, even if the papa dragon had already patted them, just to practice.
but years later, when the small dragon had grown into a big dragon and had a cave of her own, she would still come back to the home-cave to visit. and she would curl up in the old room with the other dragonlets and shut her eyes too. and the mama and papa dragons would come in and smile dragon-smiles at all the hatchlings together again.

because no matter how old or big of a dragon you are, papa-dragon pats and mama-dragon hums are beautiful things before bedtime.

2010-04-02T15:00:00.000-07:00

once upon a time

there was a girl
she used to spend all her free time playing outside or reading books
and she was a very lucky girl
because her house had hundreds of books
and her outside was very large
besides her yard and the fields surrounding it, there was a long beach nestled between high cliffs

the girl often read about castles
in books of ancient times, and medieval ages, and modern eras
but she would look around her own white stucco house, and her own backyard, and the timeless cliffs by the beach, and feel she was missing something

that she didn't have a sword, she didn't mind
she used poplar branches from the tree her father pruned
or broke off bamboo lengths near the shore
that she didn't have a horse, she didn't mind
many of the great bards and travelling warriors went a-foot
that she didn't have trusty squires or a handsome prince, she didn't mind
(or fair princess sisters or maidservants)
she simply adapted her sister, brothers, and friends for those roles, as needed
but she didn't have a castle
which was challenging, because castles are the heart and home of so many stories
so she drew her own
she told stories of her own
she claimed some day she'd find one

and one day, her father led the girl, her brother, and their best friend up into the mountains to explore
and there, right at the headland
she found her castle
a giant outcropping of rocks, leaning together, forming a natural small cave and an outlook on the shore and the sea and the rest of the cliffs
she named it "minas tirith", from one of her favourite books
and persuaded her brother and friend to give the corresponding names to their respective castles - for there were three rock clusters!
and for a while they had their castles, somewhere to climb and claim as theirs
for who else would fight for a bunch of rocks on a lonely coastline?

but one day
the girl's mother and father said they were moving
and the girl had to say goodbye
so they took photos
and waved
knew they would always remember their rock castles
but the girl did one more thing
she made a small paper book
and wrote in it with pencil - which may fade but doesn't run like ink
and then she put the small book in a waterproof bag
and she hid it well underneath her castle
and when she said goodbye, she knew that the book would be there and safe a good while yet
and that it would always be her castle

the end

2010-03-12T14:22:00.000-08:00

once upon a time
there was a harpist
who strolled the land, went where he pleased, sang what teased his fancy
one day, his laconic elegant self visited a castle he had visited before
and one of the overlords, a greedy ruthless man, was of a mind to punish a waif
this boy had accidentally angered the lord, who recognised him in the great hall and motioned him forward
bent on utter humiliation, if not injury or death, of the helpless wretch
the boy, however, saw Herluin the minstrel, and flung himself at his feet in a silent plea for mercy
"hai my, what is this clinging, small one?" asked the lazy voice
and the long and short of it was, herluin saved the day and won the boy's undying allegiance by trumping the overlord in a chess match
"i am a creature of whim, and i have a mind to this boy".
the boy had a master, an idol, a safety for the first time in his young life.

and yet...
a time later, and a safer, more honourable overlord was visiting, and then travelling to his own estate
and Herluin the minstrel, as much as he liked the boy, in his own careless veneer way...
knew that the only way to really protect the boy from any later revenge or danger, was to send him with the safer overlord

so he did
casually, coolly
citing travel, citing abroad-concerns and almost-concerns at the fate of a boy strapped to a good-for-nothing wanderer.

so he sent him on
and nearly broke the boy's heart
yet they parted on good terms
a final hair ruffle and possibly perceptible undertone of 'i wish you the best' from the languid bard
and the boy rode off, comforted slightly
and found, albeit unwillingly, a new home and life with his new master

and while he only ever met herluin now and again through the wars and days ahead, he never forgot him

whether he ever knew why herluin gave him up, is another question

the end

Retold tale from Rosemary Sutcliff's "Knight's Fee"

2010-02-14T14:33:00.000-08:00

Uwaga. Be careful.

"The steps of a man are established by the LORD,
And He delights in his way.

When he falls, he will not be hurled headlong,
Because the LORD is the One who holds his hand.

I once was young, now I am old
not once have I seen an abandoned believer..."

(Mixed paraphrase, Ps 37:23-26)

2010-02-09T15:38:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time...

There was a beautiful red brick university. And its bold mascot was a bulldog, and its team colours were red and blue, and its graceful walkways were decorated with peach-toned pansies. One student said, "I didn't want to study here, so close to home, so I travelled the country to find something more exciting. And yet somehow, when I came back, I saw how beautiful it was, and it just felt like where I belonged."

Once upon a time, there was a girl who also did not want to go to that university, despite its history and beauty. Nevertheless, she was pulled to it at times, so she learned acceptance. If it was the closest university to offer a basketball camp, she would show up for a few days and play her heart out. And if it was the warmest university where her friends from Bible study and hang-times attended, she would show up every few weeks on the way to adventures. And if it was the easiest university to offer exams, she would show up every few months to earn and transfer credits.

So she came when convenient and left on cordial terms. More leaving than coming, but she smiled how small bits of the university culture made their way into her life. But as she grew out of the college years, her college friends grew up and moved away from the school too. Her T-shirt from basketball camp wore out while playing volleyball in Europe. Her keychain from the rival school store got scratched up while working in the Middle East.

But one, grown-up day, on the other side of the world, the girl stayed a week with a good friend. Since they were both a long way away from Southern sun, they had to wear coats outside the house and turn on radiators inside the house. And one evening, while talking late into the night, the girl got colder than normal, too cold even for the radiator to help, and asked to borrow an extra sweater. And her friend pointed to a cupboard....

And that night the girl slept warm inside a sweatshirt from the old red and blue and peach school.

2009-11-19T18:22:00.001-08:00

once' a time

the world turned over

held a hover

crept in cover

looked in dark to find release

once' a time

the world rolled under

took a wander

held a bonder

wrapped itself up in the black

once' a time

the world ashamed hung

stayed a course long

showed an unstrong

God stepped in to take it back

once' a time

the world stopped climbing

tried reframing

love came Naming

we stepped out and into peace

2009-11-15T16:26:00.000-08:00

once upon a time

there was a grandpa
He had a tall son (who does not come into this story at all)
And he had a short daughter in law (who is very important)
As well as two short granddaughters and an even shorter grandson (who are also important, but not as much as their mom).

And one day, all the grandchildren were at their grandpa's big comfortable house
And their mom, the daughter-in-law, who was a wonderful cook, started a big batch of delicious chocolate chip cookies
And she rolled fifteen perfect small balls - three rows of five on one pan, three rows of five on the next
But then she was called away (probably to go shopping with the grandmother, another wonderful cook)
The mother looked worried. The oven was already heated, and the dough was already made, and the children were so excited about the cookies- what was she to do?

"Sir," she said politely (she was a very polite daughter-in-law) " could you possibly make some of these cookies?"
the grandpa, who loved eating all the good cooking in the house, was happy to agree
and the grandkids climbed on stools and chairs to watch, and kissed their mom goodbye
as he rolled out three rows of five chocolate chip cookie dough balls

however....
the day went on, and the clock ticked away.
and the grandpa got tired, and the grandkids got hungry.
so he made a few small changes here, and the kids laughed.
and he made a few small changes there, and the kids opened their mouths to taste.
and the kitchen was filled with happy noises

and when the mother walked back in, she was happy to see all the chocolatey cheerful faces
and she was pleased that such a good solution had been found to her little problem
but then she leaned down a little
and she looked into the big happy oven...
and she saw two cookie pans
and she saw the cookies on them
and she made a not happy face.

the grandpa looked a little worried.he loved his daughter-in-law and didn't like to make her sad... but it had been such a good chance, and it had made the kids so happy. and when the mom turned around and saw all the waiting faces...

she gave in and laughed too. and for years and years later, the mother told the story of how she left the grandpa in the kitchen with the cookie dough
and how when she came back, she did not find fifteen perfect, small circles on each tray
but four huge ones=

and how he had looked and her and laughed, and said, "but now i can tell my wife, "i only ate two!"

2009-11-07T15:57:00.000-08:00

once upon a time

there was a girl who was out travelling the globe, hummed independent songs and convinced everybody that she was happy with no sweetheart, no attachments, no home. she kept a small list of a few friends that she 'still kept up with,' a couple of boys she had 'enjoyed hanging out with,' and a few places she 'once was fond of',but it was a very small list on a very small notebook that fit easily her pocket. and every few years she would look at the current page, pretend to be surprised it was outdated, and carefully rip it off. and then as she dropped it and walked away, she would start penning in neat cursive letters the next list of friends, boys, and places.

one day she paused by a bridge railing and looked over the water thoughtfully. as she stood there, one of her friends from two lists ago walked up and held out one of the pieces of paper. the girl recognised her handwriting, but didn't know what to do with this past page. her friend looked her straight in the eyes and said, "i've been trying to catch up with you for a while. you dropped this." the girl tried to put on her usual, "i can't help it, my life moves too fast" face, but failed. she quietly took the paper. as she tried to tuck it in the back of her notebook, another old friend walked up and handed her another page. the girl felt even more ashamed, as she looked down the road and saw how many places and faces she abandoned because she didn't want to take the time for them.

but, practically speaking? a voice in her head argued. when does anyone have time for all the friends and loves and homes they once had? she almost believed the voice, almost stopped tucking papers messily in the back of her oh-so-tidy and controlled notebook... and then one last friend bounced up exuberantly, handed her a paperclip, and gave her a huge hug.

don't stop turning over pages and writing new ones. but don't toss out the old ones either. find paperclip people.

2009-11-03T09:20:00.000-08:00

once upon a time

there was a girl who had nothing under control except herself. her parents arranged her schedule, her friends arranged her activities, her coaches arranged her sports position. but *she* had control of her emotions, and she let them out on little coloured leashes when she decided to. orange for happy, blue for calm, green for useful... an occasional black for low, lonely days, a very rare pink leash for girly hours, and the occasional red leash for when she was ticked off at the world and everyone arranging her life.

one day, she moved to a new house. her new friends not only refused to arrange her life, they refused to let her use leashes. "just be yourself" they insisted. they took away the leashes and hid them and made her train her emotions to obey verbal commands instead of physical restraints.

then the girl moved to a new house. she found the leashes in the bottom of a box... and they started making innocent whimpers. "just pull us out and you'll be all colour-coded and in control again," they suggested, temptingly.

...
the girl hung the leashes by the front door, at least until she found new friends to pack them away...

the end

2009-10-30T12:47:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a little girl
Her father was a mighty hunter

(Another day, i shall tell you the story of when her mother brought her father a small yet powerful weapon....
But for now, know that he had this fearsome weapon.)

In their village, the mountain lions roamed the streets, and they yowled their presence.
Every night
All summer, every night.

And the little girl's father would take his weapon and shoot at them.

Every night.
All summer.
Every night.

Each evening, as the sky dropped over the village, he loaded his weapon with pebbles.
He checked the breeze
He aimed out the window
He coolly fired at the mountain lions

Every night he spent scaring them away, protecting his streets
And his wife would put her arms around him because her small children could go to sleep in peace
She was a very loving wife
But also a very tidy one

One day she was cleaning the house, and, by chance, threw away the precious pebbles

There had been peace lately in the village
But that night, the mountain lions returned
And the father reached with his right hand for the weapon
And with his left hand for the pebbles
But alas!
His left hand came back empty
And his children began crying
And the noise in the streets grew steadily louder
And his wife began to worry

So the brave father-hunter grew creative out of desperation
And he searched the room
Only to find a small pouch of sweets to suck on during illness
So he quickly loaded his weapon with the new ammunition
And commenced firing

And suddenly, there was blessed silence
He gave a smile of jubilatioin
And his children stopped crying
And his wife started humming, secure in the knowledge that her husband had once again taken care of their family

But just as the father turned from the window...
A new noise began
A deeper, rougher noise
The mother came into the room, confused

They stared out the window together
And wondered what new threat had arisen
And suddenly, they laughed
They looked at eachother and shared a small smile
"Those were not mountain lions, this time," they agreed with satisfaction
"Those were the village wolfhounds...
And they had sore throats tonight."

The End

2009-10-28T19:04:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time

There was a small bird. She woke up early every morning to watch the sun rise and explore a new day. There was a sea to swim in and an ocean breeze to dry off in... there were small tidying chores to finish before freedom... there were other birds to chirp happy stories with. As she got older she learned it was not polite to play tricks on her nest-mates who slept late, but she could make small bird-laughs and watch while they wasted the day.

Somewhere along the years she found that there were different sorts of adventures to be had when the sun started setting. There were stars to watch... there were new evening-wind ideas to scratch down... and the night owls to talk about deep things with. And as she got older she learned it was not polite to go food-hunting when her nest-mates were slept early, but she could sing very quietly and watch while they wasted the night.

And somewhere along the years she built a new nest of her own. And she learned to not spend so much time with the owls that she neglected her sparrow friends... and she learned not to spend so much time watching the sun that she missed the moon. Or the opposite. And she learned to get enough of both... and of it all... to sing her best stories and scratch her best stories together.

2009-10-18T15:08:00.000-07:00

once upon a time

there were three cousins who lived together. they came and they went, they walked in and walked out, but their house perched on a field corner and stayed the same. one or the other or all of them could be heard talking or humming or singing throughout the day, so the house was content. and in the rare quiet moments, trains could be heard humming past as well, because that very same field where they lived was bordered by two train tracks, and near a third. it was a perfect double triangle of a life most days, as the youngest listened to her older, wiser cousins, and watched their faces as the trains went by. and they sang, and came, and went and life traveled on. but some days the youngest cousin felt too drenched in music and too far from the trains, and she thought in triangles.

"if only the trains would run closer. if only i could run farther. if only i could sing sweeter. maybe then i would feel safer."

but one day, the oldest cousin sang her last songs, and talked her last talks, and hummed her last hums... and then she left. past one, two, three train tracks she left, and found a new house and a new life to sing and talk and hum about.

it was quieter in the house after the oldest cousin left. there were only two cousins left to make up the contentment, but they did their best, and learned different harmonies. even the trains seemed to come at different times, and the tracks rumbled in different rhythms. some days it was as if there had only ever been three tracks and two cousins... but other days all the train whistles and songs and hums seemed lonely. the almost-oldest, almost-youngest sister reminded the youngest sister to be grateful for the music and trains anyway, especially when they don't last forever.

so the youngest cousin learned to be content, even with the oldest cousin missing. she learned to love the duets all through the house and to spend long hours being peaceful with the middle cousin. and the older she got the more she realised how fragile the house and the music could be. so she soaked up the music while she could, and listened for the train whistles on the tracks by herself. and she looked at other houses nearby, because she didn't want to live with the echoes of the cousins and the trains going always away.

and then one day, the middle cousin sang her last songs, and talked her last talks, and hummed her last hums... and then she left. past one, two, three train tracks she left, and found a new house and a new life to sing and talk and hum about.

and the youngest cousin sang her last songs and hummed her last hums in an empty house, and moved to a house down the road. friends came and went, and talking came and went, but when the house was very quiet and very empty, the youngest cousin could still hear the trains echo over the roof of the cousins' old house. and she learned to sing her own songs, and to hum her own hums. and she learned to be content all over again.

2009-10-13T16:44:00.000-07:00

Fall Cleaning

One of the biggest themes for me lately has been fall-cleaning, and not just because it's autumn. To make some very long, very overdue stories short, I will be moving apartments and adjusting to a different life here in about two weeks. Both roommates will have left to go back to the States by then, and the responsibility will be a lot more on my shoulders for my life. So many things to say that I get overwhelmed, and this is a very long update. Apologies :/

It's so odd... I keep thinking I'm growing up. And yet every time I turn around, there's something I have no idea how to do (or worse, something I didn't know I didn't know how to even start on). Paying for the utilities I had down, for example, but then had to be taught how to keep records for internet bills. The weekend my one roommate moved, I finally learned to just enjoy *being* with her and not insist on understanding. And I've since realised just how many of my friends I've been demanding with and had to go back and apologise to. I learned guitar on my own by following music moods and chords, but then asked someone to teach me a song and realised my impatience was stopping me learning. I started applying for grad school and realised I don't really know why I want a higher education. My other roommate informed me that I've actually been a stablising factor the last while, a concept so foreign that I feel like I've had to meet myself all over again!

Each new month, I think "I should send out an update, tell what's going on, what God's doing, to people who I love and who love me. I should be sending out stories to friends who like stories, who are praying for me while I'm working and learning overseas." And every month I come up with a good excuse (or several) for me not to update. For one, there are so many stories. I could write you several stories a *day*, let alone one per month. But I don't. And I could pull together photos, videos, songs, like crazy, to get across the things that grip me, the sense of urgency and time ticking down for me and others. But I don't. And I feel regretful, upset... but eventually shrug the feelings off and get back to 'real' life. Which, ironically enough, I could tell you, every month, I'm still waiting for. One of these days maybe it'll ring on the apartment buzzer like the 'poczta', mail, deliverers. Maybe 'real life' will show up in an email offer from a mentor or boss. Maybe I'll wake up some morning and KNOW, for certain, that there's a certain path I'm supposed to be taking.

I feel like I've been waiting for life to happen for a long time now. There have been plenty of reasons not to actually start it myself- lack of work details, residency and equipment delays, transitions. But, unless something major changes, I'll be headed back to the States in one week and one year. Regardless of how 'real' life was. And that's pretty sobering. I got a lot done since I've been here, but not *nearly* as much as I could have. And I made a lot of relationships, but not *nearly* as deep as I could have. And I don't want to look back on these two years and regret them. I already wish I hadn't waited this long to get serious, get joyful. But here I am now. And I'm asking you, when you pray for me, to pray that I don't go back to waiting. And I'm asking you, when you talk to me, email me, chat with me- to remind me not to go back to waiting. Because, sure, there's a time to wait, to be patient. But there's also a time when waiting is unfaithfulness. And I have no more excuses for that. So I'll be looking for you in the next unwaiting year and a week, perfect or not.

"Caleb, I don't know how to process this. This is not normal for you." "Welcome to the new normal."
- 'Fireproof'

2009-10-03T13:37:00.000-07:00

once upon a time

there was a little girl who lived in a blue world
technically, it was a colour-mix world
but it tasted blue to her

the sky was almost always an amazing turquoise
the sea was almost always a lovely deep sapphire
and the music in her house was almost always classical

the little girl had a little mother, who loved blue
so the couches, and the curtains, and the carpets, in the house were blue with white
even the dishes in the kitchen and the sheets on the beds were blue.

every dusky blue night, the little girl climbed into a little blue bed wearing little blue pajamas.
and her little mother would come in and sing soft blue songs
until her little daughter closed her blueberry eyes and dreamed blue dreams

the end.

2009-09-21T06:57:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time

There was an older girl who spent most of her time thinking, first in her mind and then with her hands. And when she thought long enough about something, she wrote it to others, or made it into photos and videos and shared it with others. When she spoke it out loud, she showed what she meant with her hands, so they could understand better what she was trying to give. She shared a lot, all the time, but she still felt selfish, no matter how much she shared. It seemed that every time she looked out her window she saw another face, another story that should be told, that she wasn't sharing. Or she talked with friends who knew how to share without thinking so much.

And she decided that was her problem. But she also remembered there was an answer. Once upon a time, God decided to share part of His story with humans, to even create them in the first place to be in a story with Him. And He shared freely, and didn't hold back. But the older girl spent so much of her time holding back, she didn't know how to stop. So she had to ask God, over and over, how to share with the same openness He did. It was a funny case of opposites, she often thought - the more she shared, the more she had left to share. But the more she held back, the more slipped out of her fingers and mind.

So she learned, surely but slowly, how to let go of what was not hers to keep. Time, space, freedom. And she also learned to hold on to what was hers - trust, faith, and friends. And her hands grew more graceful along the way....

2009-09-18T17:03:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a little girl who lived in the Mediterranean. Most mornings she woke up, ate her breakfast, and had schoolwork to do... but *some* special mornings she didn't. On those days she woke up to hear her Papa calling up the stairs, "Everybody wake up -we're going on an ADVENTURE!" And then her mouth would put on the biggest grin it could hold, and she would climb down the ladder from her bunkbed. Sometimes she jumped on her sister's bed to wake her up (her sister liked to sleep in) and sometimes she helped pull her baby brother out of his crib (he was little but fat).... but she almost always started singing, because singing is what you do when you are happy in the mornings. She also ate, because eating is very important, at almost every time of the day. Sometimes she asked with a mouthful of cereal about the adventure, and her Mama would tell her not to talk with her mouth full. But then her Mama would give her a hug, and some fresh orange juice, and no one would be upset. And sometimes her Papa would say, "We're going to the mountains!" and sometimes he would say, "We're going to the beach!" and sometimes- these were fun times- he would say, "You'll just have to wait and see!"

After she was done with breakfast, the little girl got ready for the adventure. If her Papa had said "Beach!" she wore her swimsuit, but if he had said "Mountains!" she wore her tshirt and jeans and sneakers. But no matter where he said, she alway packed a water bottle, a snack, and a book in her small backpack, because her Mama said that is what you take on adventure. Then she would climb into the van with her brothers and sister in the early morning and start up the winding roads. Sometimes she felt sick, because the roads were very, very twisty, but her mom told her, "Roll down your window, sweet-pea," and so she did. Then the cool, fresh breeze would rush down through the pines and into the van and ruffle her hair. And the little girl would stick her face out the window as far as she could and take deep, deep breaths. If she went swimming at the beach, she let her hair loose on the way home, and it blew dry as they zoomed back to their little city.

The little girl loved the beach, and the soft warm water, and all the shells hidden in the sand. And she loved the mountains, and the tall singing trees, and all the flowers hiding between the rocks. But when she grew up, and friends asked her which one was her favourite, she didn't know, until she remembered one of the best adventure days ever. That day, her Papa woke them up early, and they went to the beach, and played in the morning sand. And then, just as they went home and thought the fun was over, her Papa made them pack their bags again, and they went to the mountains too! And it was so cold there was even snow on the mountains, and her little sister didn't even want to get out of the van. "It's an adventure," the little girl said, and brought her a snowball. When the family was finally tired of playing in the snow, they went back down the mountain to their house. And the little girl found bits of snow and bits of sand in her backpack, and was very happy. And she decided that one day when she was big and got married, she would also take her children on adventures to the beach, and to the mountains, and sometimes even to *both*, because it's fun to mix opposites and surprise people.

The End.

2009-09-12T17:29:00.000-07:00

Anything new in your hand today?
Anything old
That could be regiven
Or for me retold?

All you need is the quiet
When I need the sound
Of your voice but it says
You just want me around

And the rift grows in my mind
Till you're here, I'm half gone
Cause I feel we're drifiting
When we don't row on

You're all fine
As I worry I'm losing you
As I sigh and pause
You say don't refuse
With no cause

When I go sad
And the silences fill
You reach out
And I find I'm found
Long enough to be still

2009-09-06T14:33:00.000-07:00

When it's okay to be sad

Once upon a time there was a very grown-up girl. And as she grew up to get there, she realised along the way that she didn't feel what most people did when they felt it. So she decided to start telling herself what she felt.

"This is not a good time to be sad," she might tell herself in the morning, looking out at snow. "This is a good time to be sad," she might tell herself, lying in her bed at night, realising there would be more snow and more grown-up decisions in the morning. "This is a good time to be happy," she might tell herself in the evening, surrounded by too many people who were having fun. "This is also a good time to be happy," she might tell herself in the afternoon, when she was standing on her balconey and looking at her new city.

And because she was such a grown-up girl, most of the time she obeyed what she told herself. She even started reminding herself what she decided- she had a sun-face towel that she would turn right-side-up on happy days and up-side-down on sad days. (Sometimes she decided to change partway through the day, and would turn her towel around. She wondered if anyone ever noticed.)

Sometimes she didn't have to decide anything about emotions at all- she *knew*. And she especially liked spending time with the friends that helped her *know* how she felt. She didn't need to decide anything- she just was sad or happy and it was okay with them. And she had other friends that she also loved... but she rarely knew how to feel around them. She had to decide how to feel when they said things, when they did things, even just when they walked into the room. When she spent time with them she felt like switching the towel face every ten minutes.

One day she realised that life was settling down. She no longer switched the towel back and forth so much, not even in her mind. If she could find a way in-between happy and sad to hang her towel, she would. Since she couldn't, she started leaving it face-up more. And she spent less time deciding how she should feel... and more time just living. And that meant that she felt sad more, because she spent less time being carefully not-sad.

But she felt sad less, because she had more time to feel happy.

And she was happy about that.

2009-09-02T13:29:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was there was a teenager who wanted to move away from home.
Because she was tired of where she lived, because she felt caged in by sameness.
Because every time she moved, the picture of 'home' in her mind changed
The collage of that word kept growing every few years

When she was four, 'home' was a little crayon drawing in her little mind
A tin roof... wooden walls... a long porch
With little squares around the sides to mark where one Grandma's house white house was and where the other Grandma's red house was.

Over the years, more papers got stapled next to the first drawing

A square boxy white house smudged in chalk
A watercolour of a long cream house hugged by poplars and grape vines and flowers.
A coloured pencil sketch of a sprawling lodge in the woods

The teenager was still waiting in that lodge when the word came she was moving again with her family
She could barely believe it
And she wondered very hard what her new home would look like

When she arrived, it was a whole new kind
She wanted to add it to the collage.
But she had left some of her art kits behind at each other home

So she stood in the back yard grass, and looked at it
And she stood on the front sidewalk, and looked at it
And she even looked at it from above, in satellite image on her parents' computer
And she didn't know how to put it on paper

Until she found a small camera at the store
And took a photo of her new home
From the red tiled roof to the breezy living room to the friendly neighbor houses leaning next to it.
And she printed out the photo and stapled it next to all her other homes

And then she took another photo
Of all her homes stapled together
And she hung that photo as a poster in every house she ever lived in after that.

The End

2009-09-02T07:54:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a preschooler who woke up too early
When she looked over, her door was not shut any more.
She heard someone on the stairs, and decided that the door had creaked open as they passed
So she sleepily sat up, pushed the door shut, and lay down again
She shut her eyes

But she always slept on her stomach, so she pulled her comforter up and rolled over
Then she heard a small noise
When she opened her eyes, her friend was suddenly, surprisingly standing just a foot away
And the poor preschooler gave a huge startle

And her friend laughed and laughed
And put down a big mug full of frothy coffee so it wouldn't spill while she was laughing at the poor preschooler
And she said, "haha! i'm sorry! haha! i just wanted to bring you coffee in bed! haha! go back to sleep! haha!"
So the preschooler woke up all the way, and laughed too
And drank her coffee

And decided it hadn't been to early to wake up, after all

2009-08-28T15:51:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a giving-up place. It had a small door with a lock on the inside, and two small eight-sided windows toward the path. And there was a stone wall inside the giving up place, right in the middle, so no one looking in the windows could see the people when they came to give up. And some days the door was locked, and when a giver-up pulled the handle, the door wouldn't open. And the giver-up would rest a hand on the door and think peace-thoughts for the giver-up inside, then leave quietly. But some days the handle would open, and the giver-up could walk inside and around the wall. And the giver-up might see another giver-up, or two, or three... and maybe they would share hugs and quiet help-thoughts. Or maybe they would read from the life-book together. Or sing quiet openness-songs. Sometimes they would do everything for a short time, and then leave, with a little more life in them from the book and a little more help in them from the thoughts and a little more openness in them from the songs.

But some early mornings, when there was frozen mist hanging between the mountains and the sky, a giver-up would walk down the path to the giving-up place. And the giver-up would try the door, and it would open. And the giver-up would walk inside, and there would be no one else there. And the giver-up would sit on the floor and watch as the sun pushed between the icy trees through the glass wall of the giving-up place.

And the giver-up would give it all up. And that would be enough for a heart for one day.

2009-08-25T15:32:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time

There was a big girl who moved to the Middle East.
Her first day there, she could hardly pay attention to anything her friends said.
Because she used to live in the Middle East.
And it felt like home again.

The night before she flew there, she stayed up too late
She sat in the living room in her family's home, and she looked around at her brothers and sister and parents
And she wondered when she'd be back

It was a little after christmas
And it was so cold outside
But so warm inside
They had taken extra photos by the tree
Extra photos of fireworks and sparklers
Extra photos of extra cookies they baked

And the big girl wondered where she would be for the next holidays

At the airport, she handed her heavy jacket to her mom as she hugged and kissed her family goodbye
The plane was the same chilly that planes always seem to be
But when she touched down at the airport by the desert, she started feeling warmer

And the air smelled like it used to- loquat tree blossoms
And the air felt like it used to - a little salt, a little sand
And the air sounded like it used to- rolling syllables and rough laughs and haunting prayer calls from the mosque

And the big girl was content
But sleepy
It had been a late night
And a long travel day
And several time zones
And a plane ride full of quiet excitement

So just as the girl was looking wistfully at her quiet room with a small gecko on the wall...
Her friend tapped her on the shoulder
"Pack your backpack", she said
And the girl was surprised
She wondered if she had heard wrong

But she hadn't
And when she looked in the kitchen, she saw kebabs marinating
And when she looked in the hall, she saw folding chairs
So she asked some questions, and packed her backpack, again

And that night she sat by a campfire, surrounded by the desert dunes
And she looked up at the stars
And she wondered if they were the same ones she had seen as a little girl
And she reached out and hugged her friends
And went to sleep content
Because there was still a whole life ahead to explore

And whether she spent the next set of holidays back with her family in the cold weather
Or here with her friends in the hot weather
She was held in the palm of God's hand
And that was precisely where she was meant to be

The End

2009-08-25T09:27:00.000-07:00

I wish I had something worth the telling. I am home. I'm not going anywhere. But my stories are getting smaller and smaller, and I think my own story is getting smaller, even as it's getting re-dimensioned. Smaller can be okay as long as it goes with faster, but what about when it's just a little swallow with dusty wings? Still tracing the telephone wires, still feeling the hum of the life-tracks, half wishing there was a migration south waiting. Wondering, though, if its flight pattern is simply to fly along other birds and bring them to the waiting warmth, chirp them into the nests of parent birds who know the wind currents better.

2009-08-25T09:11:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a song about stolen hearts. And it played through the house. Was hummed in the kitchen. Was guitarred on the balconey under the stars.

But there was no stolen heart in the house. The heart in the house was fine, more than fine if less than wonderful. What would being stolen feel like, it wondered?

And the song kept playing. It reminded the heart of beaches by afternoon... of mountains under pine tree mornings... of foggy unfamiliar noons. The heart knew where it was now, safe in the city, no where wild. It had taken vacations into uncertainties under the stars and tuggings by lamplight before, but never been stolen. Where would a stealing take place, anyway? Outside, inside, or standing in a doorway? Would it be pulled in from freedom, pulled out of security, or told to pause in the doorway of both, like instructions during an earthquake?

And would a heart know until later that it had been stolen? The song kept playing. Maybe it was giving hints of what was around the corner, like the door creaking open, like a warning to the strong that a thief was coming. Or maybe it was like one more dusk before the end of the end, too far away to worry or start packing. Take your time... take your sweet time.

2009-08-16T14:51:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...

There was a little girl who moved with her family to the Middle East.
And she was soooooo excited.
And her little brother was soooooo excited.
And their daddy was sooooooo excited.
But their mommy was sooooooo stressed.

And they had several months of happy explorations.

And then... culture shock.
And the little girl was just learning to read, so she escaped into books.
And the little boy was just learning to play legos and duplos, so he escaped into that.
And the daddy... he loved it there.

So when he did want to escape, he went to the market.
Or the airport.
Or the streets.

But the poor mommy had just had a baby.
And the poor mommy had two small kids at home.
So the mommy couldn't escape the house for long.

And Christmas was coming.
So she had an idea.

And she told the little girl to pull out the flour.
And she told the little boy to pull out the sugar.
And she put the baby in the bassinet to watch the party.
And they turned on music and started baking.

And when the daddy came home, the house smelled sooooo good.
And the daddy was happy that day, because there were gingersnaps on the counter.

But the next day when he came home, the house didn't smell like gingersnaps any more.
It smelled like peppermint.
Because the mommy had baked peppermint shortbread.

And the next day the house smelled different.
Again.

And years later, the mommy would give other new mommies hugs when they were overseas and stressed.
And she would say, "after a while, life will get better, dear.
And then she would grin.
And she would look at all her grown up, well adjusted children.

And she would say, "One of MY first Christmases overseas....
I baked 15 kinds of cookies."

And all the children would smile.
And kind of wish their mom would get stressed again....

2009-08-11T15:26:00.000-07:00

we're not friends, or so i gather.
we're not family, so you say
(shake hands we'll say goodbye this way)

companions on the road that was
in and out a northern day
(shake hands we'll say goodbye this way)

thanks for all you did and were
lovely time, a pleasant stay
(shake hands we'll say goodbye this way)

grace to you, good landing too
go with God, go as you may
(shake hands we'll say goodbye this way)

2009-08-10T08:25:00.001-07:00

Busy trains
And railway track
Me and my
Abandoned pack

Lonely me while
Benches empty
No more tickets.
No one sent me.

Work to do
I'm told there's plenty
Here to do
To be contenting

Here I am
Till evening sunshine
Brings perspective
Slowly unwinds

Waiting people
Dirty tiles
Time announcements
Calling miles

Blending in
Grey trekker shoes
"Platform 5,
Non-travel blues."

2009-07-22T06:28:00.000-07:00

Not down to obedience at the moment. It's direction...

"It's not about losing faith, it's not about trust. It's all about *comfortable*, when I move so much." (Sara Groves). Even a step beyond that song, a step beyond that simple dichotomy of motion or no. I'm not there any more. A month ago, at meeting, instead of finding out where I was going... I found out where I was. Not in the waiting any more, but not in the motion either.

I had a chance then to share my heart, say, "I'm a great loose cannon. I can go anywhere, do anything, without any warning-- and turn it into media. So give me a travel pass and USE me." And since then, I have been used, and have enjoyed it... but have no travel pass. Which means the question becomes, do I accept that or no? I can go back to living in waiting. Or I can 'push that door', knowing that there is no travel budget for work and I'll have to mostly solo it.

Or... I can settle down. "This place is many things, but I'd never call it home..." (TFK). I can get past that, move into a new apartment, join sports teams, help homeschool kids, keep working and brainstorming with media friends via Skype. I can save money for the future, dive more into language, make this a sweet home of my own, see how God grows me and friendships in the process.

Settling down like that... it wouldn't be a bad life. But do you really think two years of 'not bad' is worth it? Waiting, growing times are useful. We know this. But God grew me up with so much else, *soaked* me with so much different, and it seems so strange to waste that. A house is a house, and I am one of the expatriate, believing, community around the world. And you can add Persian carpets and Swedish bookshelves, Chinese teapots and African wall hangings, and make a welcoming haven, wherever you are.

But a treehouse stands out among magnolia mansions and glass highrises all the same.

2009-07-16T07:09:00.000-07:00

i just never thought i'd grow up like this. i neglected to add in emotions when i painted the picture of who i wanted to be. i am nearly everything i ever wanted to be; i have nearly everything i ever wanted. i am a photojournalist in europe with a funky room, spiked hair and sunglasses, a bike, an ipod, a phone, and *freedom*. i can get by in six sports and five languages; i have acquaintances in thirty to forty countries.

and i'm sitting here in a coffeeshop on my own with my computer, skyping with one of my best friends and watching people walk by. if i could have seen five different snapshots of who i'd be at this age, i'd have wanted this life. and yet could i have looked at the snapshot and seen the uncertainty in my eyes? that when i walk back into my apartment tonight, it'll be quietly, because i won't know what moods or discussions my roommates will be in. (if i were to ask, i'd probably be told that it didn't matter- that i can be my own person and not react off them.) could you see the after-snapshot, when i carry my bike up the flights of stairs and wonder how far i can escape the next day. (escape with my computer, naturally, to find a new adventure and a new place to work, somewhere outside of this seven-month city.) rewind the snapshot a few hours to when the youth group and summer interns are hanging out at my apartment, and i'm hugging them and baking cookies and sharing stories. what is not to like about that? especially if you can't tell that i'm tired from too many late night soul-searching talks with a friend who's 7 time zones away and somehow is better at calming me down than any one else. do i look like i'm calm in all the snapshots, like i'm having fun, like i'm not going crazy inside because i've been in the same city for seven months and with the same people for seven months and both have essentially told me to get a life?

and most days, most snapshots, i am good. i am really good. but there was too much i didn't read between the lines when i scripted out this life. the prices for all those adventures and the process of building a life like this. and the person i've become while creating and maintaining it all. it wasn't a waste- it wasn't one big loss. it's been something incredible, but "in-credible" - 'un-believeable' tends to cover all areas, not just the moments when the grins are everywhere and the flash goes off.

check the fine print when you buy a life... blow up the photo and see if the resolution holds true, if the hidden pixels point out what you get to brush into every day.

2009-07-14T17:12:00.000-07:00

ruins

rebuild a roof, sweep out the sand
ruin follows saving steps
move the rubble, make a plan
sweat and shift the rocks by hand
turn round to see them crumble down
was born to need to understand

i can't see the ground for all the dust
i can't see the stars for the dirt i stirred up
finally left alone on a rock
to lean back and look at my failures
to sit on a stone and have nothing to come

but more scratches on my skin
yesterday's burns i wouldn't share
or let you in, see me fail again
too little left of me already
to be enough as my shadow grows thin

and then the morning glory vines
start growing on the wall
and a song starts welling up
and soaks me like a waterfall
the walls - they come down for a reason
why rebuild? why rebuild?
despair is for a purpose
a blossom for each hope i killed
a star behind each hole i filled

why rebuild?

why rebuild?

(Lamentations 2:8, 19)

The LORD determined to destroy
The wall of the daughter of Zion.
He has stretched out a line,
He has not restrained His hand from destroying,
And He has caused rampart and wall to lament...
Pour out your heart like water
Before the presence of the Lord;

2009-07-08T19:44:00.001-07:00

“At sunrise everything is luminous but not clear. It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us. You can love completely without complete understanding. - A River Runs Through it”

2009-07-07T12:11:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time there was a girl who lived in an ancient northern city. In the winter, the snow hurled its fury at the walls, and only the inhabitants dared brave the streets. But in the summer- oh, the summer! Then the city was so beautiful and gracious that people came from the ends of the earth to marvel at the palaces and rest in the fragrant gardens. One day the girl was out on a walk with three friends. Oh, the sight these girls made as they wandered. One watched the sunset with melting brown eyes; another smiled through her long lashes at the birds in the trees. One tossed her glossy chestnut curls in the evening wind and the fourth laughed through cherry lips at the freedom of such an evening.

Suddenly, there arose an obstacle in their path. No longer could the four happy maidens walk side by side and converse sweetly. They must needs walk around two laborers and a carriage in the path. They carefully began moving to the side to pass, and as their bubbling speech paused, one of the men spoke to the other. The girl who lived in the city had learned some of the tongue when she moved there, and caught the word 'Touristka.'
"Ah," she thought to herself wisely, "They think we are tourists. To be sure, we are not blonde, and are not tall, and are not dressed in tall slippers, as are their maidens. But even were we clothed the same, they might have known we are not of their kind. Because- alas!- they can hardly ignore how our Anglo-Saxon words fall at a quicker, more lively pace than those of their Slavic graciousness...."

And while she pondered in this manner, it was as if one of the laborers had heard her very thoughts. And, indeed, were it not so, he must have noted their bonnie dark looks and warm nature. And he spoke to them.

"Buona sera."

2009-07-05T16:33:00.000-07:00

"do you know what would make you happy though?"

Chatting with one of my best friends. She has the bright idea to ask this simple, pointed question when I am at a simple, pointed, crossroads in life here. Other people have asked me equally good questions, others have asked me at equally good times. But to combine both while it's almost 2am, I'm still awake, and my room is in a state of deconstruction because square furniture and halfpacked duffels are driving me crazy.... yeah.
reply.

"what would make me happy, in 450 words or less
a rail pass for the next 2-3 months
a small apartment, mine or someone else's, to dump my two duffels and two boxes of books and guitar in
and the good [digital] camera, my vidcam, and macbook in a maroon trekker backpack
and an iphone with continual work suggestions and contact numbers for our people across europe
and connections to shoot articles, photos, and videos to on a regular basis so my work would stay quality and in motion too
*spreads hands
that's what i want
maybe a hammock too"

funny how stepping back puts things in perspective. all i have to do now is pray about it, then talk all this through with my bosses and get approval, step by step... right?

2009-07-04T17:01:00.000-07:00

“Is life so wretched? Isn't it rather your hands which are too small, your vision which is muddled? You are the one who must grow up.” - Dag Hammarskjold

2009-06-30T08:06:00.000-07:00

nu ik alles kan bekennen
moet jij er nog aan wennen
dat het waar is wat ik zeg
streep mijn naam maar weg
- blof

roughly translates to
'now that i can admit everything/ you'll have to get used to/that it's true what i say/mark my name away'.

learning to mark my name away on any number of things. will admit honestly that a lot of what i do, what i say, isn't honest. it's learned behaviour, a coping mechanism. and to some degree, we all have to live with that. we learn to walk a little slower when walking with a toddler; we learn to cram two-year goodbyes into half an hour at the airport. but that doesn't mean we normally hold hands when stepping off curbs. it doesn't mean we normally talk 120 km an hour and memorise every details of eachother's faces. maybe we should.

but maybe we should learn to distinguish between reality and coping mechanisms. had a semi-shock moment this afternoon, realised how different my life would be if i had my own apartment. i'd known from near the beginning that i'd have roommates, so there was never really a time when i thought, "would i live differently if i didn't have built-in sisters/friends?"

not to say i've held their hands. they've held mine some, having been in this city longer. and we've had moments of memorising faces, or at least of savouring laughing and hanging out together. would we have had so many if we didn't room together, though? interesting to think that through.

2009-06-18T13:07:00.000-07:00

Got my residency card.

Now what?

Work meeting in a few days, formal or informal, don't know yet - hopefully will get to do more of the journalism I came here for!

2009-06-17T13:21:00.000-07:00

This, I could get used to.

Long good busy day... workmovegosinghelpwalksing. Almost fell asleep on the bus home, my one holdout-against-depressing-tourist-places friend is caving tomorrow and I'll be the loner. Leaning on a friend here to get pierced, and her mom's all for it. One of my best friends in the States had dinner with my family last night after I coaxed them into it, and now I'm jealous of them all. More residency bureaucracy tomorrow- how my luck would it be if they finally kicked me out now I'm not so hungry for escape?

Got annoyed at forgetting footage, started complaining to myself in Slavic without having to think about it. Finished one video, built another ground-up in the last 24 hours, rave reviews. Have to rewrite an article with more info. Doing a photo shoot tomorrow for friends. Love my job.

Helped moving friends clean their place, spent a sweet hour out with their Tesoro who is currently my favourite one-year-old on the planet. Walked where we normally walk, and then some, carried him on my shoulders, taught him birdcalls, took photos. Come July, I'm not gonna see him again for a long while. He's not even gonna remember my name by then....

Learning the song "What Do We Know" and learning it on the guitar. Slung its case on my back yesterday and jetted the house to play by the train tracks yesterday, surprised the commuters and ticked off a German shepherd. Haven't broken anything all week, started packing for vacation a week ahead. Be very proud. Put a pause to overprocessing thinking and stayed out of the kitchen (related?) and haven't been OCD about cleaning, been highly productive and charmingly distracted.

And- wrap thy head around this- I'm quoting less. Still singing at every turn, but the need to sum it all up, spin it over, is lessening... then again, I'm writing more poetry lately. Words and word again.

2009-06-16T11:58:00.000-07:00

huge fan of being busy, of being tired and content, grabbing tiny moments of silence and soaking up the shades of cloud edges in the sunset, soaking up the notes and tones in my roommates voices.'

tons of work this week. easiest way to deal with it is to back off from normality, stop all other busy-ness and activity and watching. it's just me and my music and my computer, and hugs to those who want them, laughs and a helping hand to those that need them.

for the rest- especially when i'm running on very few hours of sleep- i just stop wondering, stop feeling. stop trying to figure out what's going on in my friends and roommates heads, stop caring what they think of me. all my emotion, all my energy, is wrapped up in turning pressure into presentation. in taking lifeless dv tapes and memory cards and crafting out living stories.

there's pressure, and the moments of, "o... am i worrying you by deliberate absence?" but there's also a definite freedom in blocking out everything around me. tap me on the shoulder and i'll tell you how i've been- if i remember. and i'll ask you how you've been, and listen. but in a minute or two, i'm gonna walk away and back to work, and, for once, not replay the conversation over and over in my head, feel through it all.

the whole processing process? dramatically different or deleted these days...

2009-06-12T05:46:00.000-07:00

Connecting...

Watched 'Terminator Salvation' yesterday, enthralled. The last movie I watched in a cinema was 'Quantum of Solace', last year - I'm not a huge cinema person, but for explosion-movies it helps to have the surround sound and utter silence and blackness surrounding....

What really hit me in both movies was the level of trust in crazy, life-or-death, worlds. In 'Quantum of Solace', it was 'M' letting Bond have free reign to go his missions solo, against all common sense, no matter the consequences. "He's my agent!" In 'Terminator Salvation' it was the resistance everywhere standing down against orders because they trusted John Connor. Without trust, Bond and Connor would have been on their own, flamed out, and then probably died. But they took that extra step to stay connected with others and that made the difference.

I tend to connect when it suits me, when I have time, when I think it's worth it. A certain level of trust floats around, but not nearly what it could be. If it came down to life or death, and it was my voice over the cell phone or shortwave radio- would others listen?

2009-05-30T14:29:00.000-07:00

Surreal, random, happy day... and one of the best here yet. Connected much?

Incorrect sunny weather. Lolcats. Outspoken Aussies.

Personal tour by a white monk.

Confused waitress who didn't know whether to speak to us in English or Slavic.

Freshly painted room, but no glitter.

Heart-sharing with a friend, no, two friends, one online and one here with me.

New piercing, a long-promised birthday treat with a friend.

Tons of coffee. Tikka masala. Gerbils. A tram that went the wrong route.

Random parade... random concert... random speed-walking race... random military/redcross/greenpeace recruitment event.

Skyped. Chatted. Sang. Texted. Threw pennies in a fountain.

Electric sunset, blood and hugs, wishes.

Deep content.

2009-05-23T04:01:00.000-07:00

Haven't blogged anything in a while... started a new notebook two weeks ago when life got particularly frustrating, and have written in that. Everything from laughing at adventures with friends to copying half-chapters of Lamentations - "I will lay my head in the dust- there may yet be hope." Lots to catch up on, particularly hope.

I've been missing directness, missing authority. I don't do well with vagueness. Got told by my boss that 'if there are any lingering ideas of rootlessness, put them to rest." Which I needed. And life has gotten better this last week, in ironic ways.

Have had some really good talks and hang-out times with my roommates and friends... on the heels of some fairly heated arguments.

Time's ticking down to vacation and volleyball with some old favourite teammates... and realised I'm not in love with volleyball anymore.

More work assignments just as my hardrive crashed and burned. (Now fixed, and I only have to make up three months worth of unfinished video in one month, thanks.)

Have been volunteering at an international preschool (adorable kids that I can talk to in four different languages) and at a Canadian school for VBS preparation. Either way, I come home with paint stained arms and a huge grin.

God... has been good. Very demanding this last month, showing me just how much I don't let Him into my everyday life. Just how much I've been 'waiting on the next best thing' and not caring enough about life and people *now*. And my friends have helped put concrete nudges (and/or scoldings) to His point that I don't trust enough. So I'm working on that.

I have *seen* my residency card at the bureau... the people say I need one more piece of documentation. I kinda think I already filled it out. Twice. Months ago. But at least I know it does exist in a physical state and after five months of deliberate non-committal to anything, I soon won't have any excuse left. Unless work-travel, that shining star which pretty much lured me into this job, actually starts happening... in which case I may not have to commit to anything here after all. "Oh, sorry, I can't get too involved, I'll be out of country that week. Maybe the next three too. I'll drop by and hug you, lend a hand, when I have the time."

Oh, language. Almost forgot that, as excited as I was about it this week. Apparently, between time length here, the month of intensive class, and deciding I liked it enough to start thinking/singing/talking in it... I've finally gotten the hang of it. No where near fluent, or even half fluent. But I can half-listen to a conversation on a tram and understand most of it. I can ask the lady at the supermarket how she is, and follow the answer. Pick out a mistranslation on subtitling of "Amazing Grace" with the college kids. And I want to take the B1 exam in it before I leave in a year and a half.

Crazy to think I'm already a quarter through my contract. So much more I could have done, could have been. Have honestly wasted so much. For shame, I know. But somehow a lot of the non-committing has worked its way into a foundation (which I've never been good at, by the way) and that leaves me really ready to take on the rest of the time. I normally am gone- or about to leave- a place by the six month mark, and can tell myself, "Hey, not too long now. Just another few weeks." Instead, I'm faced with choices I've never had. Quit, or choose to work through the storms while knowing there will be more.

So, yeah. That's me, this May. Un-cryptic enough for you? Be proud- I've been saying more of what I think lately. But I do have a quote to end on.

'I'm not ready.'
"I'm not either. I never will be....
I'm not going to get it right.
I'll never have it together.
But I'm willing to fail with you.
I'm willing to mess up again and again.
To do it wrong and torque you off.
... I've never kept a relationship long enough to for someone to see I'm a screw-up. I left them wishing for what they saw, left them believing the myth....

I want to be real with you."

- 'Unforgotten', Heitzmann

2009-04-21T01:29:00.001-07:00

Houston - we are a go.

Residency is accomplished. Now what am I supposed to do?

2009-04-17T14:46:00.000-07:00

Realised what my problem is- lack of distance.

To be a good journalist, I think, you have to maintain a certain distance from the subject.
You have to be able to present the people with a relative amount of outside or overhead perspective. And you have to be able to show the events in a way that relates to the viewers/listeners.

The best kind of journalist, then, is someone who is both an insider and an outsider. An insider to the extent of understanding at least a little of what's going on; an outsider to the extent of relaying the story to other outsiders so they can understand it too. An insider has more understanding, but more responsibility to stay and contribute smoothly. An outsider has carte blanche freedom to ask questions, to be awkward, to come and go as needed.

And while this job - on paper - needed exactly the kind of insider/outsider I am - in person - in real life so far there has not been enough *distance*. Which seems a little counterintuitive, since common logic says a person should move to their place of assignment and settle in. I actually think I might have done better, job-wise, if I had never settled in. I no longer have the edge of 'newness' all around me, and, possibly more dangerous, have no sense of urgency for most of my assignments. A time deadline is knowing today will soon be gone. But a *space* deadline is knowing that *here* will soon be gone. Multitasking is simple. Multi-spacing is not, or not until teleportation is invented.

I'm dependent on events and scheduling for the unconscious moments of life that I can translate back to others. And in the everyday life that I'm slipping into, it's way easier to watch the fireworks on tv than to hunt them down with my own camera. Besides, they'll be there next holiday, right? So will these people, along with the seasons. Once I'm anchored, I can always capture them later. I am getting so comfortable here that it is hard to tell the city's stories. I am getting so close to the people that it is hard to tell their stories.

Because stories wait somewhere between the first handshakes and the last hugs.

2009-04-08T12:29:00.000-07:00

"We travellers are in very hard circumstances. If we say nothing but what has been said before us, we are dull and have observed nothing. If we tell anything new, we are laughed at as fabulous and romantic."
- Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

2009-03-24T09:29:00.000-07:00

cliche

hi, i'm lost, confused, and blinded
standing two steps from your door
but i stop to ask directions
like everyone who's gone before

i'm a cliche
you invite me in
anyway

i'm too short to see the street signs
i'm too tall too see the curb
until i trip all over
everything that i deserve

then i ask why you're not at eye-level
but i'd push you away if you were
i want to know why you're not here at my side
when i look for you round the next curve

i'm a cliche
you invite me in
anyway

one of these times i'll get it right
i'll learn to bring you the questions first
before i work them out myself
and bask in all the sunrise burst
of what i didn't need to know at all...

2009-03-22T00:44:00.000-07:00

and one part just hit too close to home, as it were.

"Do not be afraid, Abram,
I am your shield,
your very great reward."

how awesome of a conversation-beginner is that? God comes to you and says, "you have no home, you've been wandering for decades, and you just survived a war. do not be afraid. I'm protecting you. I will be worth it all for you, what you've been working through is not meaningless."

and what does Abram do? exactly what I do, over and over. exactly what i think and what i *say*, over and over.

"O Lord God, what can you give me since...."

nice way to start a reply. with yourself, right? 'since' becomes the issue, not God or His promises. in Abram's case, it's his lack of children that's stressing him. so they have a whole conversation on that issue, and God promises him heirs, and (finally) "Abram believed the Lord, and He counted it to him as righteousness." dot dot dot.

point being, God promised Abram protection and, more than that, Himself. "I am your reward". trophy at a tournament, princess in the tower, acceptance to ivy league schools or promotion in the military. "I am your reward." who gets God as a prize?

and, more frustrating, why is Abram- why am i- so dense about saying, "never mind about that- WHAT CAN YOU GIVE ME, SINCE..." ???

2009-03-18T10:01:00.000-07:00

Today this is my country.

Maybe it has been for a while... maybe it will be more mine later.

But today, through the sunshine, the blizzard, hours exploring, and unpacking bags at the end, it was mine.

2009-03-14T11:18:00.000-07:00

Got chased by tractors. Barked at by dogs. Waved at by farmers during kilometres of back road biking and gulping in the beauty and freedom and SPACE. Avoided riding through the puddles (mostly) and came home so tired, but oh so content. New favourite place to escape to, as much as I'm fond of our city.

Hills, real hills- did you grow up in them? Did you ever forget the comfort of not seeing more than a few bends ahead, and then suddenly a whole valley dropping at your feet? Did you round a bend to be surprised by a wayside crucifix with small candles still burning? I spoke out loud before I thought about it- "He's not *dead*! He's not dead anymore, y'all, He's *alive*!" Do you think Jesus objects to tiny quiet places in a northern countryside, to small quiet corners where He's remembered with devotion and delicate purple flowered vines? I think He'd like it. But remember why we remember Him! "Why do you look for Him among the dead? He is not here, HE IS ALIVE!" as the angel said on Easter.

2009-03-07T03:31:00.000-08:00

Life, she decided, was settling into a comfortable soundtrack.

The days each had their own arrangement of music, varying from morning to afternoon and sometimes from hour to hour, between the classical orderliness of meetings, easygoing R&B and jazz for working at home, and random outbreaks of hiphop or rock during city adventures.

She had thought- oh so mistakenly- that sometime after her arrival in the country life would settle into a pattern. But there was no rhythm to these days whatsoever. The only solidity at all was that (generally) she and her roommates were asleep between 3 and 7 am. Thanks to the invention of laptops, she could do her work at any hour and at any location (top picks? 11pm while away babysitting, 9am next to the kitchen radiator, and 4pm at the coffeeshop.) Meals were eaten whenever and wherever hunger struck (top picks? a 5pm gyro while riding a bike home, 3am cold cornbread with a book, an orange on the way to volleyball, and noon-ish espressos and crepes on a weekend.)

Food, though, had maintained the magic of community in a shifting life. Some mornings, after long weeks or late nights, the only words spoken were, "Do you want coffee?" Some evenings, "Do you want soup?" was an innocent beginning to hours of hanging out. Inviting friends over for meals - and the subsequent preparation and cleanup - made the often-empty apartment suddenly feel like a home.

The only thing was, she learned... not to expect more than there was. To be content with the serendipity of hot coffee, the occasional hug, and spontaneous adventure offers. And to adopt the motto she found inscribed on an old building - "faber est suae quisque fortunae," Latin for "each man is the maker of his own fortune"....