Category: Writing

Reaping Rewards: Word Flood in Yemassee

JaclynLeave a comment

 

 

Here’s another non-rejection that I’ve racked up from my original Submission Bonanza! 

“Word Flood,” my first published creative nonfiction piece, just came out in Yemassee.

I’ve pasted the original text below for your reading enjoyment!

 

Her words sank.  Not quickly like an anchor, or with a splash like a rock.  Instead as she spoke, her words fluttered in the air, held afloat by the humidity.  They tickled earlobes, in a language half a world away. Pieces of ideas curled with the wind among tendrils of jasmine, leaving a heavy scent wafting through the city.  Nouns and verbs together toyed with bodhi leaves, pulling them along as they flitted to the ground.  They landed gently on the Chao Phraya, quivering on the surface of the river and leaving ripples too small to be noticed.  Amongst water hyacinth and coconuts they floated, gathering silt and absorbing the wetness of the city.  In this way, the words gained weight and began to drown.

Before long, they swam in the wake of snakefish and nestled between the scales of water monitors.  The more weight they gathered, the more they were immersed, the harder it was to see them. The light had trouble reaching them between algae and waste and even apsaras would be hard pressed to find them.  They landed on the river bed, stirring up the bottom and throwing silt into an already murky darkness.  Covered.

And soon all her pen could do was draw the curves of the paths her words had taken, as if trying to retrace their steps.  Searching between the roots of ficus trees and the stamens of hibiscus for where she had misplaced them.  A world made of tendrils and bubbles, floating in a silent and wordless black and white.  Sea horses and leaves and turtles all swirled with a silent current.  Owls became nok hoo, knock, who? and lost their edges and their names.  Questions were gone and statements no longer made sense.  The world churned as if everything were from the point of view of those lost words, staring up at far away surface of a river that always was moving.

And then there was a flood.  The water seeped slowly, climbing up through sewers and along the streets.  The river rose past dams and sandbags bringing pythons into houses and buoys into cars.  It brought everything from its depths, decay, sand, and her words, which huddled against a curb and waited for the waters to recede.  After months, the river left, burrowing back into its banks but leaving its refuse to dry in the sun.  The sediment cracked and caked.  Mosquito larvae dried like tiny raisins.  The decomposing river sludge made banana trees greener and left seedling strangler figs sprouting along sidewalks.  And, as if growing out from cracked pavement, her words dried, too, finally able to breathe and soak up a little bit of the warm winter sun.

 

Cassiopeia

JaclynLeave a comment

She floated on her back in the water, looking up at the stars.  Her arms and legs flowed in waves that kept her afloat.  All around her, the phosphorescence of a summer’s night twinkled in the sea.  They left stars on her knees, her breasts, her hips and her toes.  A tiny star rested on the crown of her head.  With the sky as her full range of vision and weightless in the water, there was no up or down, no north or south and she spun.

She reminisced about how she got here, splayed amongst the ocean of stars.

She had been tied to the sea for as long as she could remember.  In her early years she sat on the beach, watching the waves hesitantly tickle the shore and run away laughing.  As a teenager, she wore fire coral in her hair and the skeletons of sea urchins on her fingers so that the ocean never left her sight.  Each time she waved her hand, each time she swung her head, the waves crashed around her.  As queen, she nestled herself on the rocks asking starfish and octopuses for guidance.  They never failed to disappoint.

You can imagine, then, how she felt when the sea turned against her.  And it all started with a tiny misunderstanding.

It was nearly sunset, that honeyed hour when everything glowed with leftover sunlight.  She was perched on the edge of a tide pool with her toes in the water.  Anemones and hermit crabs had come out to watch the twilight settle in.  She crawled to the watch the still, glassy water meet the shore below.  It was a mirror, as if the whole ocean held its breath in her presence.  “You are the most beautiful thing in the world,” she said to the sea.

From the peaceful crepuscular blue, the waters began to churn and boil.  The waves tossed angry white caps into the air and the nereids bubbled up from the depths of their silvery cave.  All fifty of them poked heads out of the water, glaring at her.  They were radiant, as if the sunlight soaked up by the ocean poured from them.

“Using our home as a looking glass?” Clio asked her.

“The most beautiful thing in the world, are you?” Halie mimicked, her eyes narrowing.

She was taken aback, unable to speak in their presence.

And just as suddenly, they were gone.

It was a mere three hours later when the tsunami struck.  The ocean pulled itself up to rival the mountains and came crashing down.  All of Poseidon’s power slapped her kingdom, leaving it whirling, in tears.

As the waters receded, she went back to the sea, her husband in tow, looking for answers.  She asked sharks and lobsters, kissing fish and dolphins, shrimp and sea turtles.  They all stayed silent.  Only the man-o-war responded.

“It will happen again and again,” his voice undulated.

“What can we do?”

“You must show you are sorry, humbled.  You must give something precious.”

“Gold? Jewels? Anything,” her husband’s voice strained.

“More precious.”

She felt her stomach drop. She knew even before it was spoken.

The jelly fish’s tentacles crept toward her ankles.

“You are the offender,” he directed his speech towards her.  “What’s most precious to you?”

At home, in their palace, the couple fought.  She had a daughter to protect, and he a kingdom.  Word of the man-o-war’s prophecy seeped through the city, out into the fields, and back to the sea.  Citizens came to protest, to demand the safety and protection of their king.

The waters receded once more, threatening the province, exposing a vulnerable beach and stranding  minnows and whale sharks on the shore.  You are minnows, it taunted the citizens.  Are you more powerful than whale sharks?

And what is a mother to do?  How many lives is a daughter’s life worth?  The king decided there was no choice to be made.

The parade of king, princess, queen, and citizens followed the retreating sea.  It seemed they walked for days, through seaweed and over sand dollars.  Crabs joined the procession and the people gathered starfish for luck on their pilgrimage.  Seagulls and pelicans pointed the way, leading the flock.  When dolphins were found stranded, women made stretchers from skirts and scarves and carried them to the sea.

All the while, all eyes were on her daughter.  They adorned her to make her the best offering the sea had ever seen.  They dressed her in seaweed and put fire coral in her hair.  They hung sea urchins from her ears and put shells on her fingers.  She was covered with the ocean, until she looked as if she were drowning in a Sargasso Sea.  Her mother could only look away.

When they reached the water’s edge the found a large rock, tied her to it, and left.

Back in the kingdom, the ocean returned, placid and inviting.  It gave up fish and lobster to feast on.  It sparkled an ecstatic aquamarine.  The offering had worked.

And because this is a fairy tale, her daughter returned, on the arm of a hero, saved from the briny wrath.

The kingdom rejoiced.  The king threw feast upon feast: for the generous ocean, for the princess returned, for the dashing new hero.  Even a wedding ensued.

But very little changed for her.  She had still lost a daughter.  When she looked in her daughter’s eyes, she did not see the bond they once shared, their tender secrets, the maternal adoration, the unconditional affection.  Nor did she see hatred or blame, resentment or hostility.  What she saw was much worse – pity.

Pity for a mother who would bring such a fate upon a daughter.  Pity for a woman who could not protect her child from a too-pragmatic father.  Pity for someone who could not speak up.

It was probably expected and predictable when she threw herself off the cliff into the sea.  The ocean received her with open arms, welcoming her home the moment she hit the salty sheets.  Wrapped in the waves, she laid on a rock, looking through the surf up at the stars and surrounded by phosphorescence.  The sea held her suspended, her arms and legs splayed so that she was a W.  The light landed on her head, her shoulders, waist, knee, and breast.  She flowed there, light and water, looking to the North Pole and never right-side-up, as she waited for her daughter, the hero, and her husband to join her.  All returning to the ocean of stars from whence they’d come.

Creative Commons love and a big thank you to TravelinginEurope and tristanf, respectively for the amazing photos.

Bahamian Prism (Eleuthera. Summer 2013)

Jaclyn18 Comments

The day started lazily enough, perched on a cliff overlooking a rainbow bay.  From the shore the water reached out in gemstone tones: amber to emerald, jade to aquamarine, turquoise to lapis lazuli, sapphire to amethyst.  All shining in mid-morning light.  The progression of treasures made me wonder if just over the horizon amaranthine gave way to garnet and ruby: a hidden red ocean just further than my eyes could reach.

But before long, the sun was gone and the colors muted. In Hatchet Bay Caves, we became explorers.  Bats hung in the mouth of the cave, twitching as we disturbed their sleep.  The guano on the ground flagged the territory as theirs.  Along the walls of the caves, visitors before us also marked their places as well: in guano, in spray paint, in mud, in tar, letting us know who “wuz here” in a desperate attempt at immortality.

We pushed further into the cave, where even bats and tourists did not go.  Stalactites cried tears at their separation from their partners, as the stalagmites reached up to caress and comfort them.  Ribbons of rock adorned the walls and mimicked the waves of the ocean above.

In the silent darkness, skulls and bones hid.  Lucayan remains playfully ducked out of sight, snooping around corners for a better look, but not wanting to scare off the livers.  Femurs shushed collar bones and trails of spines lined up to take a peek.

Above our explorations, brittle stars hugged tightly to the sea bed, feeling the rumblings from underneath.  A large, maroon crab scuttled out of its own cave, afraid it had woken something beneath.  Scallops jiggled on the sea grass and tulip shells paused in the sand, listening to the tremors below.

A lightless sunset of golden lines, tawny rays, tangerine grooves, copper streaks, and crimson stripes gave way to amber.  In these caves, the rainbow was complete.  As we made our way out, our eyes were shocked with all the colors at once: a hot white light in a cloud white sky.

 

First Day of Freedom (Eleuthera. June 2013)

JaclynLeave a comment

 We headed north, or ‘down island’  as it’s called on account of the flow of the Gulf Stream along the Atlantic coast of this giant sand bar.  We floated in the direction of the current, along the lone road, over 100 miles from whale’s tail to sea horse head.  We stopped to ogle an out-of-place-out-of-time limestone castle in Tarpum Bay.  Its white, bleached surface reflected the sun and shells of thousands of years, so different than the grey-stone castles of kings.  Instead it was brittle and crumbling in the tropical sun, as if the rays had been laying siege to it since time could remember. The ghosts of junkanoos past and funeral processions marched silently by.

Further up or down, depending on how you looked at it, we ran into a farm stand.  The passion fruit swung languidly and low, heavy but still green with expectation.  The passion flowers had fallen away and left pregnant sweetness in their wake.  Guava jams nestled up to spicy jerk on the shelves and rocket leaves poked their heads from farm baskets to watch the sweet and spicy tryst.  It was too hot for cilantro.

We passed airport after airport after airport, past cars and boats and planes.  With luggage strapped to the roof, we passed miles of aquamarine waters.  Atop Glass Window Bridge, we paused on limestone cliffs to say hello.  To our left, the Caribbean frolicked, a playful turquoise-peacock-chartreuse.  On the right, the Atlantic deepened to a cobalt-navy storm.

We pressed on, bent on finding a beach that would rival the southern tip of the island.  Lighthouse Beach had always been an old family favorite, but we were greedy for more: for pinker sands, and clearer waves, for brighter fish, and palms that sashayed to the beat of breezier winds. “The one that looks least like a road,” were the instructions we had been given and we found the reddest, most fertile dirt on an island of sand.  Mango and avocado trees pushed up against fences to see what the intrusion was all about.

Hidden behind the orchard, we found our prize.  It was nestled in a tiny cove, carved out of coral skeletons.  It was as if the land were looking back at itself, marveling at the way its body contrasted with that of its lover, the sea.  Along the beach were the remains of island barbecues and romantic sunsets, chairs and tables set as if the ghosts of explorers past still sat in them, soaking up the sun and caressed by sands in the breeze.  A steady parade of yachts sauntered by, en route to Harbour Island, oblivious to our splashes in the waves.

Thundering clouds winked lightning as they passed and left us to swim.  Beneath the waves, the island began.  Amongst grass and trees, baby sergeant majors were schooled.  Damsel fish picked daintily at their dishes of afternoon coral and bait crowded around, clouding the water.  Further on, shallow forests of fluorescent sea fans undulated in unison, enticing the waves to grow.  It wasn’t long before the afternoon sun had us beat and the heat of the air overpowered the once-were-iceberg waters of the Atlantic.

We left five sets of footprints in coral-pink sand and five shadows of sitters-on-stumps.  Like those who came before us, we became ghosts on the shore. 

My First Alaska (Summer 2005)*

JaclynLeave a comment

It started with the lake

and the spruce trees leaned

in for a better look.

My toes wandered

into the water,

which threw out

glacial-silt blue

and reflected a grey sky.

Toes exploring further,

ahead of myself so that

the snow-born water crept

up my legs and I was soon

on my back.

Mushrooms popped tops

of heads up through

moist dirt to peep.

My toes led the way,

becoming glacial themselves

as the Alaskan current

carried me out of the lake and to

the river.

I flowed.

Mist began to fall

and I became

a blue totem:

beaver knees,

eagle mound,

moose-antler breasts,

grizzly-bear hair.

My skin crystallized,

forming snowflake stars

over my fingers,

shins,

then finally

my middle.

Cracked.

As a close summer sun

came out

my blue star

skin melted

and I became the Kenai.

*As I was packing and preparing for my move, I found this little number that I had written my first time in Alaska.  Revisiting it after 8 years, I can see quite a few revisions I would want to make, but I wanted to post it in its original.   I’m wondering how my impressions and experience of Alaska this time around will compare with my memories.

Arachne

JaclynLeave a comment

I don’t remember a time before I wove. I grew up in the fields, alongside my father and sheep.  There was never a mother around to birth me, nor was there any explanation given. My father had only the wool of his sheep to keep his bed warm at night.  He was known far and wide as the man with the purple flock, but this was a myth.  The truth was much stranger. 

Our sheep were the same muddied grey as the neighbors’.  The difference in the wool came from my father.  Alone at night, he would sit over the wool, refining and spinning it.  With his hands on the spinning wheel, tears would begin to fall, as if summoned by the whirring of the wheel.  As his feet pressed down, my father cried amethysts: tiny, shimmering mulberry tears which landed perfectly every time onto the rough yarn, turning it the color of violets and royalty, of pomegranates and jewels.  It was a color nature couldn’t keep and man wanted to grasp.

It was in this house that I learned to weave.  It seems I must have learned and yet… My father does not touch the loom.  He avoids it with a deathly fear.  I sometimes wonder if in playing with it as a toddler, I intuited how to use it.  Maybe it’s a skill deep in my blood that I inherited from my absent mother. Perhaps it’s older than that.

My days were always the same growing up, and yet they were never boring.  In the mornings, I would wake my father and we would tend to our dingy-cloud sheep, me, frolicking with the animals and him napping under trees.  He would cook us dinner and put me to bed and then begin his nightly ritual.  He would sob purple until piles and piles of luxuriant yarn lay in our kitchen.

It’s no wonder that he raised a daughter with amaranthine hair and orchid eyes.  It’s as if I were woven from the amethyst yarn.  And I always thought of myself that way, not born of a mortal, but as if I wove myself from magical tear-stained wool of my father.  Related to him, but not his.

It wasn’t long before I was using his salty, brilliant strands to weave intricate textiles. Each tapestry was a story I’d never heard, the detailed faces of goddesses and men looking out from it, caught in action.  More than just patterns or fractals, my weaving created whole worlds.  And being the daughter of a shepherd whose wool was already the talk of the town, it did not go unnoticed.  Merchants came to marvel. Princes came to purchase. Even nymphs took notice.  I will admit, with my father’s tinted tears and my nimble fingers, I felt that I was a god.

So I was not surprised when She showed up.  She came with a motherly demeanor and a proposal of competition.  I was stunned by Her, taken with Her owl eyes and glowing hair.  Though I knew it could not be true, I felt drawn to Her, as if She were the mother I’d been missing.  I saw myself in the creases of Her fingers and protrusion of Her chin.

“You’ve grown haughty, my child,” and I knew it was true.  But I wanted to show Her what I could do.  I wanted to make Her swell with pride at the fabric I spun.

She had brought Her own loom, and it sat immaculate in our sooty shepherd’s shack.  It seemed to shine and quiver, like everything She touched.  I yearned to tremble and sparkle in that way.  She sat and plucked at the strings, as if playing an instrument. She nodded at me to take my place behind my own loom and follow in suit. I started on my tapestry.  I could hear the strands under Her fingers sing as She strummed them wildly.   I dared not look up.  My eight fingers crawled over the loom, savagely spinning stories.  I worked faster and harder than ever before, until sweat dripped from my face, tiny black diamonds falling from my forehead into the pupils of characters I did not know, bringing them to life.  I could hear Her beside me, making Her loom cry out in a frenzied chant.  The narratives I wove became more detailed, more real, worlds within themselves.  Each thread held the vibrations of a universe and I could feel them all beneath my fingers, until I could no longer take the sensations: the sounds, the sights, the reverberations.  As I pushed the last strand into place, everything stopped.

I awoke to Her anger.  She stood over me, not with the concern of a mother, but with the fury of a god.

“The insolence…” She began, and my gaze followed Her golden finger to the two tapestries hanging side by side on the wall.  One, gleaming and golden, showed the glory of the pantheon.  Zeus threw thunder.  Poseidon’s trident created the very oceans.  Athena Herself inspired civilizations.  Mortals came from far and wide to leave gifts for the gods.  The other tapestry was beautifully dark with the gems of my sweat.  Zeus was a horny swan.   Dionysus could barely stand up.  And Athena aged a lonely virgin.  Along the edges, mortals glowed with eyes that were alive, that held the promise of death and passionate urgency of life.  They looked stunning and ephemeral and heavenly next to the gods.

I could feel Her boiling next to me and She flew at my tapestry, ripping it to shreds.  It was gone in an instant, tatters flying around the room as if it snowed tiny snippets of the stories I had spun.  Just as quickly, I felt a slap across my face and She was gone.  I was too shocked to cry.

I might have sat there for days, staring at Her weaving and at the tiny scraps of mine.  My father never came back.  I did not feel remorse, or hurt, or sadness.  I felt nothing, and that is why I did what I did.

It was She who found me, swinging from my father’s purple yarn, neck snapped and breathless.  Had She come back for Her masterpiece?  Had She felt remorse? Was She looking for me?  She took me down and cradled me in Her arms, holding me to Her chest, as if I were a babe sleeping.  I suspect She may have even cried.

She laid my limp body on the floor and held Her hands over me. “You’ll spin forever,” She chanted, again and again.  My chest raised up and my body became full and round. My eight spinning fingers grew long, longer than my body, longer than legs.  She kept chanting.  My eyes bulged, doubled and doubled, into iridescent black diamonds.

Now I am the mother I never had.  I call my children to me, black widows and wolves, funnel-webs and jumpers.  They gather round me and keep me company and I teach them to weave.

“You’ll spin forever.”  It was all I’d ever done, what I was born to do.

This post is the first in a series I am working on.

Creative Commons love to shelley1968 from flickr for the awesome photo.

Writing Challenge: When the Goddesses Come Out

Jaclyn12 Comments

 

 

Nymphs, goddesses, apsaras, maenads!  It’s May.  There’s a fresh exhilaration in the air.  Mother’s Day is coming up.  I have been incredibly inspired by all those bloggers who did the A-Z blogging challenge in April.  These things all fit together nicely in a little challenge that I am setting for myself.  This month, I am endeavoring to write about 26 strong, creative women from mythology.  So, the goal is to write 26 short stories, one based on a female mythological figure for each letter of the alphabet.  Feel free to join me, or to set your own goal for this month.  New growth and new beginnings are in the air!

 

A special Creative-Commons “Thanks!” to itjournalist from flickr for the photo!

Full Pink Moon

JaclynLeave a comment

It’s the golden hour, and all the plants are glowing as I make my way up the hill.  The sky is shocking, pink and blue and purple, as if suddenly bruising from its collision with the earth.  I want to reach up and comfort its throbbing beauty.  The turning leaves soak up the last bits of sun and radiate as if they were autumnal lanterns.  They light my way as the air turns dark.

The turning of the season and my northern-hemisphere body are at odds.  It’s nearly Beltane.  My blood wants to dance around fires throwing the cozy scarves and mittens of hibernation wantonly to the wind.  My skin is expectant with the warmth of new beginnings, and yet the gusts here are becoming harsher.  I push on.  It’s not fall for me.

As the final rays of the day tuck themselves in behind clouds and hills, I reach the well.  The very sight of the clearing tugs at something inside me.  I finger the stones, making them melt and turn to sand, as if they were an old lover who’d been waiting for my touch.

In response, I remove my shoes and socks.  My toes dig into the dirt and rocks dig back into my soles.  The breeze lifts my shirt and grazes my belly.  It’s all the impetus I need.  The wind keeps nibbling at me, encouraging me, and so I tie my clothes to the hawthorn tree.

It’s cloudy tonight and I know it’s no accident.  The moon is hiding in the shadow of the earth, tucked in the darkness of her cave as if in hibernation.  She’s just waiting for her moment.  It’s an up-side-down celebration here.  The leaves are beginning to saunter away from their branches.   The night is still pregnant with the potential of sprouts and seedlings, even as Antarctic winds raise mountain ranges of goose bumps on my skin.

I start a fire and I know you will be here soon.  I wonder how many logs and how much kindling we will need to last through the night.  The moon is flush and full.  Beneath my feet, the phlox creep further and further from the well.  The pink moss stretches its feelers toward unknown lands, testing whether those grounds hold lives that it can live.  The dainty flowers look up to the moon and howl, reflecting her full, surprised face back in their flushed cheeks.  They beam on a night like tonight.  They gather in such numbers and their blushing blazes so brightly that even the moon blushes back.

You come with logs for the fire and no words.  Before long we have our own sun flickering before us. “Ne’er cast a cloot ‘til Mey’s oot,” they warned us.  It’s not quite May, but it is time to cast our clothes.  The cold of the April wind nibbles at our skin and makes it blush, in brazen mimicry of the pink moon.  The light is deafening, and I am exposed, as are you.  The heat of the fire makes my frontside glow.  The cold of the April wind turns my backside pink.  I am round and glowing, a perfect salmon moon.

We dance in circles, falling into orbit around the fire.  I am drunk on the pollen wafting through the air, and red, yellow, and brown leaves swirl around me.  I can no longer tell whether I am surrounded by flames or trees or both.  Stars leap from the fire, embers fall from the sky.  I collapse into the embrace of the infinite.

Lost in space like this, there is no north and south, no spring or fall, only the endless expanse of new fires being lit.

 

 

Creative Commons love to phil dokas from flickr for the stunning photo!

Fall in the Long White Cloud

Jaclyn9 Comments

It’s a wet kind of cold, the kind that still allows things to grow.  The cloudy sky and diffused light makes the green of the plants more striking and they glisten with the drops of rain.  Actually, the rain doesn’t quite drop.  The air is so thick with water that it falls in a mist, mot even heavy enough to be a drizzle.  It makes me feel like I am walking through a long, white cloud, as if I am so far above the earth that I am inside the sky.  Only the moss reminds me that I am at sea level.

The tree outside my window has been dying all summer, but now, in the cold of the autumn rain it has begun again to grow.  It also seems confused by these antipodean seasons.  It lost its leaves in the shining sun of the summer drought, and now that it’s fall, it’s sprouting new life.

The koru seem unsure about whether or not to open.  I am sure I’ve seen the ferny tendrils on my path tentatively stretch open, and now they’ve closed again, as if pulling back from the abrupt, damp, winter.  Their spiral fractals seem to contract and breathe, opening timidly and closing again.

It’s on days like this I long to be outside, to feel the growth and life.  The plants and ground feel full with the potential that the rain brings, bursting with possibility and expectant growth.  I want that potential, that possibility, that growth.

 

 

This is a little birthday present from New Zealand for my awesome, amazing, inspiring cousin, Janelle.  

 

Also, Kiwi Creative Commons love to Brenda Anderson for the photo.  Thanks so much!

A Letter to My Muse

JaclynLeave a comment

My dearest Fulgura,

As the red of the pohutukawa flowers gives way to the red of changing leaves, it becomes achingly clear how long it’s been.

Do you remember when we went to the Bahamas?  We sat by the water together and told story after story.   It was New Year and my birthday and you gave me present after present of sea glass and sand dollars and mermaid’s purses.  I carry them in my pocket still and think of you as my fingers toy with them.  That was over a year ago now.

So much has happened since then.  I’ve spent nearly a year under the long white cloud and I’ve been distracted.  The craft breweries and aerial circuses have drawn my attention away from you.  I think of you often, as I hike under tree ferns or explore kelpy tide pools, I wish you were there to share it with me.

I can sometimes feel you near me.  I wonder on misty nights if you are peeking through my windows.  You feel so close.  I can picture your wet, mist-laden hair sticking to your face, perfectly framing your Antarctic-nipped cheeks.  Do you see me drinking pinot gris and wonder why I don’t invite you in to share some?  I wonder why.  I imagine you cuddled up next to me, a wine glass in your hand and your lips become looser and looser, knowing you can tell me anything.  And I hang on to your every word, holding you close and letting you know how important you are to me.

It’s completely my fault, of course.  I’ve taken you for granted, assumed that you would just come when I called. I know we’ve always been close and I just expected it would always be that way.  But deep down I know, you are getting frustrated with me.  I know that this relationship needs to go both ways.  Something needs to change.  It’s time for me to take responsibility for this.

In light of that realization, I have some news for you.  I am moving to Alaska to be with you.  I can picture it already, the two of us cuddled up under northern lights, huddled together in amazement at the impossible cold.  With nothing to do but admire the snow and share our stories, we get closer and closer.  I capture your words, as they fly into the frozen air and crystallize like snowflakes, each one the delicate fossilization of an idea, a memory, made solid so that we can share it with each other.   Venturing out to glaciers on summer days that never end.  I can promise you this: in the coming years you will be my focus.  I will give you the time and energy and attention you deserve, if you just grant me your company in return.

I want to show you how much you mean to me, and I intend to start today.  I’ll wait for you tonight, under our usual starry night.  If you feel the inclination, you can slip in beside me.  If you feel so inclined, we can catch up.  Or we can sit together in silence and relearn what it feels like to be close to each other.  And if you don’t feel like it tonight, I’ll be waiting tomorrow night also, and the night after that and the night after that.

 

 

 

In response to revisiting Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED Talk on Genius.

 

Also, creative commons love to Brian @HKG for the photo!