It was bright and overcast at the same time. The sun dominated half of the sky, while the other half yielded to dark threatening clouds. It was still hot and bright, enough so that I was cheering on the clouds and wishing for rain. It never came, but it was a beautiful day regardless of my momentary discomfort. I was secretly grateful for it because I know winter is coming to New England sooner than I appreciate.
– Written for Day 7 of Awake August 2016, 31 Days of Mindful Writing in the form of Small Stones (concise daily observations) from Writing Our Way Home.
I usually showered at night but today I was up before the alarm and had a busy day ahead. I wanted to be awake and refreshed. I turned on the water and adjusted the temperature to just below scalding. I watched the steam rise and water droplets appear on the shower curtain. I eased into the hot stream and relaxed as it melted away the grogginess.
There are so many moments spent on things to worry about, stress about, plan for, anticipate, forget to anticipate, and feel bad about forgetting to anticipate, but then there are moments like these; at least for a brief, quiet moment, things settle down, and all is well.
– Written for Day 6 of Awake August 2016, 31 Days of Mindful Writing in the form of Small Stones (concise daily observations) from Writing Our Way Home.
Sadness hung thick in the small, but sufficient abode.
Avenue of Poplars by Van Gogh
She came to commiserate with a family who just this morning lost their child, born without taking his first breath.
They spoke little English but seemed to be of a spiritual nature. Sadness hung thick in the small, but sufficient abode. The bewildered father desperately tried to console his grieving wife who rocked in her chair still clinging to the lifeless body.
He stepped aside, grateful for the presence of another. She approached the mother and kneeled at her feet. Laying her hands on the mother’s knees, she began chanting in Latin: a soothing voice barely above a whisper.
Slowly she reached for the child.
The mother’s sobs lessened, and her grip on the infant loosened until finally releasing him.
Quickly scooping him up, she stood and moved to the door, then spoke in English, “Be strong for one another.”
The father wringing his hands followed her outside. “Why would god take our son?” He asked in a heavy accent, maybe Russian.
“That is a good question. Perhaps it was not his time for this world.” She answered and hurried down the path, away from the mourning family.
Tucking the little body closer, she thought aloud, “Master will be very pleased with my sacrifice.”
Leara writes and other creative things... 