Time floats on evanescent wings.
Minutes make hours,
And winters make springs.
Bronze becomes silver,
And silver gets dusty.
The things that endure
Are the things that are trusty.
“Trust me.”
How does one know when to—
“Trust me.”
Time and time, when you say—
“Trust me.”
Everything works out, but —
“Trust me.”
Words are easy.
“My words are True.”
I know. ‘Til my time burns out, I will—
“Trust me?”
…Trust you.
‘Til I watch you roll away the night. And then…
“With me there is no ‘then’.”
All will be “now.”
All will be well.
“All will be perfect.”
Amen.
Month: June 2019
A Morning Star
Literature, Love Like SteelFor the last five years, that is to say, as far back as her memory ran, the poor child had shivered and trembled. She had always been exposed completely naked to the sharp wind of adversity; now it seemed to her she was clothed. Formerly her soul had seemed cold, now it was warm. Cosette was no longer afraid of the Thénardier. She was no longer alone; she had somebody to look to.
Victor Hugo (Les Miserables)
Want more? Click here and keep reading until you find “that star which was blazing at the bottom of her pocket.”
I know, I didn’t write today’s story. But this journal is about sharing as much as it is about writing. And I thought this was worth sharing.
By Water and Wind
Music, Stories…Then the Firstborn came and sat on the grass beside the prince. They both stared into the chasm for a little while. The Firstborn could feel his brother’s sorrow. He held out a ray of sunlight. “You know, there is one who can cross, who can go back and forth.”
A glimmer of hope skimmed over the prince’s face. “I knew, somehow, there must be. Who is it? Who can be our Helper?”
“The Wind.” He breathed over the watery chasm and was gone.
—
The animation in this music video has me like a child. “Again! Play it again!”
Beauty and whimsy in my eyes, but I think my favorite sight met my ears when the sunset fell into the ocean. Wonder is seven words painting a masterpiece on the canvas of my mind.
The Castle Remembers
Poetry, Travel
Proud stands Classiebawn on Mullaghmore head,
An elegant watchtower, guarding the flocks and herds
From the crashing Atlantic below.
The pastureland kisses her foundation stones.
The cows graze on, unimpressed by her graceful strength.
Alone she sits on the hill with her cows,
Lone but for a single cottage.
The grass has long since thatched over the village that stood,
But the castle remembers…
When the village asleep
Was a secret to none,
When it shrugged off the rain
And laughed in the sun
That now makes the grass grow
To feed the sheep
Who never knew
There was a secret to keep.
But the castle knows.
The castle remembers…
The hands of the people
Who made her tall
And lived by her side
In their own castles, small,
Where the women reigned
While the men were at work
Until the day Classiebawn
Had no more need
Of the ones who built her up so fine.
And they trudged their ways
To who knows where,
Leaving cliff and beach
And windswept air
And no trace
Of the village called Mullachgearr.
But the castle remembers.
The castle remembers.
Crazy Happens
UncategorizedI’ve seen a lot of miracles in my life. Maybe it’s my way of looking at the world. Maybe I truly have seen a lot of amazing things. I one time adopted the slogan “crazy happens”–the unbelievable unfolding right before your eyes. Sometimes you have to wait until hope gets real skinny and starts looking at you like you’re the crazy one. Sometimes hope gets bigger as the waiting goes on. Then you know who’s the crazy one.
My family was waiting to buy a house when I said that with a little shrug and eyes that gleamed–“crazy happens.” Crazy did happen. It didn’t look like what I pictured, but let me tell you, it was even better. This very moment, I’m sitting in the house we built, right down the street from the house I had been so set on. Some of our best friends live directly behind us. They watched the house going up.
Who knows if we would have met them had we moved into the house with five acres and a sunset porch? We got one acre. We got to build. Exactly what we asked for at the outset. Down to the price, even. And then we built a sunrise patio, cool on a Texas summer evening. I don’t know if the friends were the icing or the cake.
Did I mention that the first time we met them they invited us to a Labor Day cookout at their place that night? A small town welcome. Open doors and open hearts.
Home. I love this place.
Dahlias
Outdoors, StoriesMeredith picked her way through the terracotta shards—the bright hope of a little garden shattered in the wind. She approached Thelma on the bench and shifted her feet a little, settling into the weight of silence.
“There’s coffee inside, if you want some.”
Thelma kept gazing off into the distance like a bronze statue.
“I could bring a mug out for you.”
Thelma didn’t blink. Meredith studied her for a minute, hoping, and then started to turn away.
“Them was dahlias,” said Thelma.
“I’m sorry?”
“Them was dahlias you walked through.”
“The flowers?”
“My Davy planted those. Fourteen years ago.” Thelma watched Meredith turn over a bit of gravel with her shoe. “Go on, sit down,” she said, patting the seat beside her. “I don’t bite.”
“It’ll probably take about eight to ten weeks.”
Thelma nodded. “That’s what the man said.”
“Somebody donated brand new cabinets, new carpet for the bedroom, tile for the bathroom. It’ll take a little while, but I think you’ll love it.”
Thelma reached for a terracotta shard at her feet and fingered it slowly.
“I’m grateful, Miss Meredith.”
“We’re very sorry about…” Meredith pulled up short as Thelma turned away to hide the glisten in her eyes. “We’re very sorry. As I said, eight to ten weeks. In the meantime…”
“I’ll sit out here when the weather’s nice. Most days it is.”
“It’ll be awfully noisy, lots of people in and out.”
“Never bothered me. People in and out. Kids hollerin’.”
“Still, I’m not sure it’s the best place for you to be.”
“Miss Meredith, you see them dahlias? Fragile, aren’t they? But they sit out here in the sun, in the rain. It don’t do them no harm.”
“That’s true. Flowers are meant to be outside.”
“Honey, I been outside most my life and it hadn’t done me any harm neither.”
“You’ll need a place to stay at night.”
“See that house up there?” Thelma pointed to a cottage painted in peeling pink, just beyond the borders of devastation. “Lizzie has a room fixed up for me.”
“Okay.” Meredith nodded. “I’m sorry about your dahlias. I’ll get someone to clean up these broken pots.”
“I’ll get ‘em. They make a good walkway. Turn ‘em over, press the points into the mud real good.” She demonstrated, sinking the shard she held into the soft black earth. Thelma glanced at the muddy boot prints leading up to the front porch. “Keeps the mud out the house.”
Meredith made a mental note to pick up a few pavers to help finish out the walkway. Thelma brushed the dirt off her hands and surveyed the work to be done.
“Can I get you some new flowers?”
Thelma grinned, wrinkling up wisdom around her quiet eyes.
“Don’t need much, Miss Meredith. Don’t need much at all.”
“These were special, I know. Couldn’t really replace what they mean to you, but…”
“They got lemonade inside?”
“Just coffee right now, but around lunchtime there will be.”
“All right. You bring me some lemonade with those flowers, and we’ll plant ‘em.”
“Yes, Miss Thelma. We’ll do that.”
Sparks from a Big Red Sun
Love Like Steel, Outdoors, Poetry An ember-glow sun sinks through the trees,
Dips down, disappears,
And up comes a shower of sparks
Dancing over the spirited water
Where the roots run deep,
Blinking, saying it’s time to go home.
Pack up the teacup and a banquet of words.
Wrap up a few more stories for the road,
And watch the creatures of the evening, not shy.
Heron passes by, fishing,
And the lantern heralds of the night
Rise up like stars from the ground
To spatter the night sky.
We’ll follow the bright one home.
Steady north.
Eyes lifted up.
Time to go.
—
Speaking of “time to go,” they can sing this when they lay my body in the dust.
Hitch-hiking to Prison
StoriesI think sometimes Courage answers to the name “Crazy.”
Meet Gordon Hirabayashi.
“Thirty days for count one and thirty days for count two.” The judge eyed Gordon. “Does the defendant have anything to say?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Could I have a longer sentence?”
“You want a longer sentence?”
“If you give me a ninety-day sentence I can serve this thing outdoors.”
“All right. I can give you ninety days. Any further objections?”
Gordon left the court room prepared to appeal the case to the Supreme Court, if necessary, and to serve his sentence in a prison without walls.
Then came a standstill.
A few months later, in an office…
“Gordon, we have a problem. The road camp here in Washington is off limits to you, and the next closest road camp is in Tucson, Arizona. We don’t have the funds to send you there.”
“What if I pay my own way?”
“You’re going to pay your own way to prison?”
“I really want to be outdoors.”
“Hmm. If you pay your own way, then I think we can make this work.”
“Really?”
“That’s a long way, though. How do you plan on getting there?”
“Greyhound bus.”
“Okay, I’ll write you an authorization letter.”
As soon as Gordon left the office, he realized he’d made a mistake.
Paying his way, he was violating his principles. He was innocent, had been deprived of a fair trial, and was fighting to uphold the 5th Amendment.
And now paying his way to prison? What did that say?
So he decided to hitch-hike.
They didn’t specify how he had to get to Tucson.
Gordon spent the next two weeks heading south—enjoying mountain scenery, visiting his girlfriend along the way, and even stopping in Las Vegas to play some slots.
When he arrived at the road camp, the man in charge first asked him if he was a Hopi.
“No, sir.”
Then, “What did you say your last name was?”
“Hirabayashi.”
“Hmm.”
After Gordon explained, the man in charge looked at him like he’d just said he was Queen Elizabeth I.
“You paid your own way?”
“Hitch-hiked.”
“And you came by yourself?”
“Yes, sir.”
Gordon could hear the desert sun frying the air outside.
“Well, Mr. Hirabayashi, I don’t have anything on file for you. Why don’t you go into town and watch a movie then come back at 7pm.”
Now it was Gordon’s turn to stare.
“There’s air conditioning in the movie theatre.”
That was all Gordon needed to hear. “I’ll be back at seven.”
And he was.
(The above conversations are paraphrased from Hold These Truths. After I wrote this, I found a clip of the first two vignettes.)
Ready for more crazy-looking courage?
On his wedding day, Gordon had a warrant out for his arrest because he had written a very polite, insightful letter instead of simply checking boxes on a questionnaire. Apparently that made him “disloyal.” Also, a man of principle and an upholder of the Constitution.
His father always told him, “The nail that sticks out is the one that gets hit.” It’s an ancient Japanese proverb encouraging conformity.
Gordon held hands with Courage. Gordon wasn’t afraid to get hit. He knew the nail was bigger than the hammer.
And, in the end, that made his father proud.