My original intention in traipsing down to Riverside State Park was to find a quiet, semi-cozy place to read. (I say “semi-cozy” because associating full-cozy with the notion of reading typically means, at least for me, that more sleep will be accomplished than reading.) But more specifically than just a place to dive into The Tempest, I wanted to be outside. I wanted to be outside because the afternoon became suddenly beautiful while I wasn’t paying attention, the sun finally piercing through the massive patches of plump, grey-streaked clouds previously dominating the skyline. Clouds which had been not only threatening soggy, but had been delivering soggy, quite efficiently, for the majority of the day.
After about forty-five minutes of parading around the newest edition of greenery to the park–the re-growth still sprouting faithfully throughout at least five miles of once charred woodland, greenery seemingly anxious to occupy the gaps left from the devastating forest fire of 1994 — I found myself at the river’s edge, reclining comfortably on a shoddy looking log that was pale in color and soft in texture, it seemingly having previously spent a significant amount of time being lapped by the water that today rushed so quickly and icily by my tennis shoes resting some eight feet away from her shape-shifting shore.
While I sat on my coveted log I watched ants dive busily and silently amidst the damp sand blanketing this my little serene patch of beach-front property. I tilted my head back and lifted my face toward the brightly shining sun like I have found myself doing so often since I was a little girl: simply sitting still with my neck arched upward in appreciation and in anticipation, closing my eyes and watching the spiraling, pulsing warmth, hardly thinking but always peacefully wondering if this could possibly be even a little bit like what it would be to look into the face of heaven.
I didn’t read a single page of The Tempest while I remained out of doors. But I did watch the river run from the vantage of my comfortably shoddy logseat, and breathe the scent of fresh, new, pine, and let my face dance in the sun, and smile at the realization that, in the woods, Spring boldly blooms.
Somehow I think Shakespeare would approve. And if it turns out that he doesn’t, I know I still have Wordsworth and Thoreau in my corner.
I posted a picture of him for a silly Instagram-related game and found him waiting for me in my dreams, something which occurs so rarely it still explodes solidly-constructed dams inside me each time I see his face, mustached and smiling at mine just the way he always did, just the way I always remember him. As usual he didn’t say much, not anything I could hear or remember, but he was there and I knew it, and when I → Read more...
I have words washed out to sea. Words ushered quietly from my lips to my fingertips, waiting patiently for the right tide, for the moon to bring my stories alive.
I have words being reviewed, words accepted and words rejected, and I’m clinging to my favorite lines, fighting for them, and it feels strange and new and exhilaratingly infuriating, this tug-of-war of wills and how the slightest bit of caving can make me feel like I’m flirting with abandoning the sanctity → Read more...
[Alternately titled: Story, The Second: The Girl Who Moved To Washington State]
It began simply. A direct message on Twitter first, followed by texts; those texts, in turn, begat plans. With those plans came anxiety and apprehension – I didn’t know you, not your face or your voice or anything else, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to – but also something exciting, a strange and unexpected hope hovering quietly on the horizon. And then we met, conversed and laughed → Read more...
Stories I said I had. Tangential stories and life-changing ones.
Until today I haven’t known where, exactly, to begin. And so quiet this space has mostly been because some beginnings are tricky. Sometimes it’s quite impossible to denote where something ended and something else entirely began.
I’m not going to be able to tell you everything, but then the best stories never really do, do they?
(That’s not a trick question. I promise they don’t.)
(Unless the story was penned by Henry James, in → Read more...