How much longer it must have taken than that to create the tale,
To watch it become more than mere words
Illustration by Maurice Sendak
The mother, the father and the boy
Were shipwrecked on a deserted island
Time passed
As time does,
Whether there are clocks to mark it or not.
The mother passed
The father passed
And, the boy was alone
But, he was no longer the boy
He was the hunter now
*
Evening after evening
Her soft voice
Called him to the shore
And to her song
Where the alone of him
Met the sea of her
And
Lapped at his heart
As waves that wet the sand
And make it their very own
So, the mermaid
Who had spent her whole life
Swimming away from things
Left her watery world
To be with the hunter
In their island home
Now, they were two
*
Time passed
As time does
And the hunter found the cub
The baby who would grow to be the brown bear
The hunter brought him home
The sticky honey loving bear
Who curled up by the fire to sleep
Now, they were three
*
Time passed
As time does
And the hunter found the kitten
The baby who would grow to be the lynx
The hunter brought him home
The playful purring lynx
Who loved to give you somethings
And get you to go to somewheres
Now, they were four
Time passed
As time does
And the lynx found a boy
Who would become The boy
*
But, for now
He was a crying baby in a shipwreck,
On that self same shore
Where the hunter had once been the boy in the shipwreck
Where the calling song was sung
Where the mermaid left the sea
And the hunter hadcarried her home
Yes, that self same shore
With the heart-lapping waves
So with the help of the bear,
The lynx brought the boy to their home
The one overlooking the sea
The hunter, the mermaid, the bear, the lynx and the boy
Now, were five
Just as one head, two hands and two feet
Are five
Held together by home and by heart
*
Time passed
As time does..
…in every line of the tale
There was the whisper of the waves
On the shipwrecked island shore
Singing the song of belonging
Of
The boy, the lynx, the bear, the mermaid and the hunter
Who lived and loved
Who loved and lived
As time passed
As time does
For now and for evermore…
There were no a’s in this tale
As an a could be anyone
Any hunter, any mermaid, any bear, any lynx, any boy
And there were no anyones in this tale
There were only someones
*
There were no names in this tale
But, names were not needed
Nor were they missed
I knew each someone well
As well as they knew each other
*
The hunter only ever hunted for one thing really,
What do You think it was…
And which The are You…
*
I recently read The Animal Family by Randall Jarrell. This is my own retelling of it and how it came to find a home in the heart of me. It’s a charming story written in 1965 with a few very sweet illustrations by Maurice Sendak. At the library it is shelved in the children’s section, and that is where it found me…
****
ellie894 October 14, 2019
Jarrell, Randall. The Animal Family. New York: Pantheon Books, 1965
Behind every poem is a fullness of thought. So it is with this one. On a July day, I planted sweet potatoes. I walked to a hilltop where rain caught me. I marveled at a rainbow arching over field, forest and home. And, I listened.
Recently I read a small book about cultivating silence. Thinking about silence suddenly makes you keenly aware of all the sounds that you hear. Silence reminds me to listen.
Even though everyone, including me is bestowing Happy Autumn wishes, it is still summer in Texas. It’s nearly October and this very minute I hear the sound of the sprinkler rhythmically turning under the holly tree, splashing everything in its path.
Hummingbirds are performing a brilliant “cirque de soleil”. I am the lucky soul with a free front row seat! They twitter and hum as they playfully zip-zing and then rest for a time among the prickled leaves. The hummers eat more in September than at any other time of the year. I think it’s because they’ll leave me soon. They’re fattening up before their long journey. I wonder what their tropical getaway looks like and whether they miss the holly tree.
Those sweet potatoes that I planted are so cheerful! If I can keep Jack and Dobby from romping through them they will grow all the way into December. I giggle that I find so much to love about them. You see, I’ve never liked to eat sweet potatoes. When I was a child I couldn’t stand them no matter how deliciously you dressed them up. Even marshmallows made no difference to me.
Gosh Mimi, those sweet potatoes smell good.
Would you like some, suzanne?
No thank you.
In truth I probably made a squinchy face and said Blech as they were heaped on my plate. If only I had had Bo back then. He would have sat blissfully at my elbow scarfing down every yucky bite I snuck to him. But, that’s a story for another day, aptly titled – The Dog Eats Half My Food!
Now, I eat sweet potatoes twice a year. They’re fine. But, I will never be a fan.
However, I do love to watch them grow. They create a twirling elegant vine. In autumn I buy them fresh at farmers’ roadside markets. Some I cook. The rest wait to be planted the following spring. I know, July is nowhere near spring. I was incredibly late this year. Nevertheless, in the ground they went.
I didn’t have very high hopes for them. After all, we were heading into the hottest driest part of the year. Who plants anything in July?! This year, I did. And, you know what? They have grown above and beyond my expectations. They are the happiest little patch of heart shaped leaves and curling tendrils that you can possibly imagine. They have spread like a low lush forest. You never can tell who might be playing in there…
Back to that July afternoon –
There was rain! Fluffy clouds rolled in and surprised me. It hinted of champagne. A cork joyously popped!! Bubbles spilled over the edges and the sky winked at me as if there was something special about this moment. And there I was caught right in the lovely center of it. I can still hear the drops cascading around me in my secluded hilltop waterfall.
There was a rainbow! Have you ever noticed how silent they are. Not a single sound. They come and go without ever crying out or begging to be seen. How many do we miss because we are occupied in thought or in doing. But this one…I heard. In its own gentle voice it rhymed and sang and invited me to dance. The colors gathered me and sailed me to far away places…into enticing dreamscapes as I wondered where its other half might be. I stayed and stayed not wanting to miss a single tender hue or precious step.
And, then there were sweet potatoes. They lay quietly in their dark underground cavern listening…to the earth and the rain and the colors of the rainbow telling them All that they would become…in time.
The last few months have been parched. I don’t have an answer. Sometimes life is like that. Dry and dusty. You wait, for rain and for hope to come. In the meantime, you do what you can. Turn on the sprinkler. Enjoy the hummers. Be someone’s rainbow. And, listen to the sweet potatoes grow…
May your spirit find refreshment in listening to the soft and silent things that touch your heart.
Suzanne ❤️
****
ellie894 September 29, 2019
Note there are no photos of actual sweet potatoes or casseroles in this post because…you know, reasons. 😉
Thank you to Rory for tagging me in 321 Quote Me! His chosen theme of this one is Gratitude. He has a marvelous welcoming site that encourages both thought and community. Please do visit him and enjoy a look around.
Piglet noticed that even though he had a very small heart, it could hold a rather large amount of Gratitude.
A.A. Milne
***
Gratitude turns what we have into enough.
Aesop
***
I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.
G.K. Chesterton
How does one sum up gratitude in two quotes? Well, as you can clearly see, I didn’t. I searched and searched for just the right words to say what I felt to be true. I searched and searched for just the right photo. Time and again I found myself back where I began. Quotes about gratitude often end in love. Images that inspire gratitude are of things I love. It would do me no good to try and separate the two. They are as intricately woven together as is the most delicate lace.
I love the way…is where my writing so often begins. It is my heart’s gratitude for the everyday things and the ways of them.
I love..
..the way the breeze picks up the edges of the sheets that are hung on the clothesline to dry
..the way hummingbirds hover in sweet greeting making me feel a part of their tiny world
..the way calves are insatiably curious and begin to follow me
..the way flowers bloom..enough said
..the way autumn colors light everything in a spectacular sunsetthat lasts beyond nightfall
..the way Dobby looks at me with soulful eyes and waggles his short tail
..the way a crockpot does all the cooking for me on a long day
..the way a song catches in your center and won’t let go and you’re glad for it to be there
..the way Jack reminds me of a muppet
..the way pizza can have any topping you like
..the way the first cool morning after a hot summer excites like love’s first kiss
..the way Bo adores the porch but thinks the yard is made of lava
..the way children giggle..at almost anything
..the way cookies go well with cold milk or hot tea or…come to think of it, cookies go well with everything
..the way clouds make movies in the sky
..the way Ellie snuggles just because
..the way friends encourage each other
..the way a grateful heart makes us mindful of the needs of others
Gratitude is not a thing. It is a way of being. Gratitude is the way you love everything around you…and then it is the way that everything around you loves you back…
Thank you kindly for reading and for being a beautiful part of my days,
Suzanne❤️
321 Quote Me encourages me to tag three people to continue on with sharing their own favorite quotes about gratitude. I invite anyone who is so inspired to participate and link back to Rory at A Guy Called Bloke and K9 Doodlepip
I cannot yet say that there’s a welcome chill in the air
…but it is finally September…
Could you hear the sigh in me
As I wrote it out full…
September…
Last night a deer felt at home in the field
This morning,
A hawk graces the sky above me
My creek saunters on
As lyrically as always
To wherever it goes
But to my gaze it all seems the tiniest bit different
Far more exquisite than mere words
Can tell
It shimmers from the inside
As though by a faery’s whispered spell
I take a step
And another
…and another still
Gentle ones made carefully
So as not to disturb the tender things
That call the ground home
While I search the pine straw for a feather
…there isn’t one to be found
Perhaps there will be when I return
In time for the sun to wish me goodnight
Oh, eventime…
Will the colors be brilliant in their last hurrah
Or faded and comforting
Like my favorite soft jeans
We’ll see
But I don’t want to miss this moment
In anticipation of that one
And so back to now,
Woodpeckers knocking behind me
And turtles preparing to laze themselves long
Hour after hour
Upon the finest fallen log
I wonder at what they will see
While I am away this day
I breathe deeply in
The sweet air of a new dawn
After all it is September…
Some days there is a peace that comes
That nearly overwhelms me,
As silent as a single feather drifting
As mighty as the golden setting sun
All at once my heart knows
Beyond all knowing
That this…
…this is what love feels like…
****
ellie894 September 4, 2019
I could play with these thoughts a while longer and make them just so. I wonder if I’ve made a mistake somewhere that I’ll discover only after I share. So please forgive any missteps. I want only to give them away before this day gets away from me. They’re yours now and my hope is that you’ll find something lovely in them of your very own to keep. May you all find joy and kindness in the days ahead. ❤️
This morning well before six a.m. I read that time is a circus always packing up and moving away, that nursery fare is supreme comfort and that a story has permission to go anywhere it wants to…
I’ve never liked the circus much. While I’m mesmerized by the talent and strength of the human performers, as a whole the circus of my childhood leaves me sad. I don’t mind watching it move away. Time will never be a still thing and I’m good with that.
Oh to have a day of nursery fare! I Love Lucy on tv, pjs and my favorite soup with melty cheese crackers on the side. A Jammy day! Jack is good at those. He curls up nearby and gladly helps me part with my cheesey saltines. I confess he stares a lot until the yummies are gone. But eventually he closes his peepers and we both nap. It reminds me of my Mimi. I would stay with her sometimes when my Papa was away at the farm. She was safe then from his hands that could be hurtful.
I could sleep as late as I wanted to in the coziest bed! Mimi grew up in Chicago. She knew how to layer a bed for warmth and comfort. She let me stay in my jammies and eat breakfast on a TV tray. And she taught me to crochet…hand work…to take a tiny bit of yarn and create something beautiful…
Where will this story go. I’m not sure yet. All of mine seem to wander around. I always wonder if I’m hard to follow. Nevertheless, there I am…
I didn’t sleep especially well. I hope today will be a good one and not just for myself. We often hope that don’t we…for a good one…whatever the One happens to be.
Hoping for clear skies and kindness
For moonbeams and sweet dreams
….to always find us…
We hope for ourselves and for others at the same time. There it is again, that time thing, packing up and moving away.
I hope that you can rest, that your pizza will be full of your favorite toppings, that you had a Mimi whose fridge always had sweet tea in it, and that the music will soothe you…
Hope falls somewhere between desire and wishing. It’s the embodiment of who you are and how you love the world. It knows the longing of your soul and writes the words that make it real. Desire paints the masterpiece in your heart, and wishing lights up not only the night sky but the whole world around you.
Hope sort of takes the two, desire and wishing, and builds a bridge between them…lays the stones for the one to reach the other. Beethoven does that with a brilliance I can hardly imagine. Every note he has left us is a symphony of hope. He created movements of beauty in the emptiness between desire and wishing. ….and floods my soul with hope.
Renoir does it too…such stunning joyful colors! Even with my eyes closed, the rubies and emeralds and sapphires take my breath away. And Van Gogh…with his passion filled brush. He welcomes my tears as well as my dancing. Vincent tells me that both are ok, both have a place and a time….His creations are all about the movement of the soul. I can feel his paintings sweeping straight into the depths of my heart…. moving is a lovely thing, taking one and bringing another
Beauty arrives in many a disguise. We have only to open the door and let it cross the threshold bearing its precious gifts. Perhaps for you it comes as Corey Taylor’s voice or Kavanaugh’s poetry or Kokoschka’s art. And that’s all very good. It is as it should be.
Ellie is a pup again when she hears the tin of oatmeal cookies open. Bo is a speed demon to my side when he hears the toaster pop. Jack only and always wants to be near whether there is a favorite snack or not. And Dobby is a master at waiting for my return…from anywhere…even from just down to the mailbox!
I’m grateful for cloudy skies, morning thoughts, soft flannel sheets in the winter, and learning to crochet. The circus is all packed up now. Scrambled eggs and cinnamon toast are waiting for me. This story, if you can call it that, has ventured to all the places that I guess it wanted to go. Permission granted….I’m grateful for that too…
I have come to learn that I am doomed to be eternally five years old. Doomed, in the best possible way. It’s all about the questions. I’m sure you’ve noticed that about me by now. I start with them. I end on them. I throw a few in the middle for good measure. It’s not that I work at them. It’s just…there I am and there they are and what am I to do with that?
Now where is that exactly? And how often do you go there? See what I mean?
Also, I write as I walk. At least sometimes, I do. A question, a thought, a string of words arrives like leaves drifting to the ground in autumn. I pause in silence to consider them as they come to land. Oh yes indeed, that one is quite lovely. I’ll save it for later. This very writing that you’re reading began on a wooded walk peppered with questions.
This duck. The one that huddles next to the pier day after day. What kind is it meant to be? Is it male or female? I mean, would it be male or female if it was real? Why do the other ducks, the real ones, avoid it so? It seems friendly enough to me. Is there something about the plastic that upsets them? And is it lonely? Or is it happy to have the simplicity and beauty of the pond all to itself?
Someone will certainly know the answer to at least one of those. Then there will be one less question for me to fret over. That leaves 999 to go…
When the beaver slaps his tail upon the water, is he saying hello to me or rather a very firm goodbye? And why did he move from the south side of the pond to the north side over the winter? Are real estate values better over there?
Trees that bloom too early, long before they should….are they smarter than the other trees after all and get to bloom twice?
Today is less than freezing and yet the birds are twittering, while yesterday they were silent. Does singing keep them warm or are they chittering about the frigid temperatures? It’s positively icy over here Mabel! Well, put on a sweater Marjorie.
Why are violets so tiny? And why are they blooming right now? Don’t they know it’s colder than cold?
Tights vs leggings vs yoga pants? Oh, yes. I’m going there. Which ones do you love and why? And what’s the difference really? Don’t be fooled by outward appearances. There is a difference. I do know this one…sort of…maybe…
Tights are…tight. Who knew? They’re thin and enclose your feet. You wear them to warm your legs under a dress. Theoretically. Wait, tights are Not warm and they’re miserable to wear! Miserable, I tell you. Am I right ladies?! I honestly don’t see the point of them. If anyone ever invents tights that do their job, I’m all in. Until then…no thank you. Plus, they often try to strangle you. Fun fact, as soon as I was of an age to choose my own clothes without my mother’s input…I gave up tights. Done and done.
Then there are leggings. They are also tight but…don’t have feet. Ah! Ok then. No feet. Gotcha. They are absolutely no warmer than tights on a cold day. However, some indeterminate someone wants you to believe they are. That someone is seriously misguided. Leggings are not warmer. Plus your socks don’t fit right and bump into the offending leg wear in weird ways. And if that’s not bad enough, leggings sag in a “tights” like way that makes you want to…well, I’ll leave that note off for now. Let’s just say they’re as ugh as tights.
Onwards and upwards to yoga pants! I’m really not sure what to say here. Guess what…they’re tight! Who knew? Oddly enough yoga pants are in fact comfortable…unless it’s above 75 degrees. Then, they’re hot! Hot! Like Texas in August Hot! Carolina Reaper Hot! If you see anyone wearing yoga pants on a day that’s above 75 degrees I guarantee you they are moving quickly from an air conditioned building to an air conditioned vehicle. Or they are seriously cold natured. I will award yoga pants a gold star in this way though…they actually fit. It’s brilliant! Brilliant I tell you! By the sheer numbers one sees of them…everywhere…I now have a new question. Is almost every woman aspiring to be a yoga instructor? Or are they seeking the comfort that neither tights nor leggings offer?
So to sum up, all three versions are tight. Some fit. Some…don’t. If you put feet on leggings they could be tights. If you cut the feet off of tights they could be leggings. I think yoga pants would lose their value if you added feet. That would just be strange. Which brings me back to my original question, tights vs leggings vs yoga pants? What’s up with that?
Nursing homes are supposed to be sad places. Why do we think so? Why do we declare nursing homes to be sad while grocery stores and shopping malls are deemed happy?
When I go to a place focused on “stuff” the people don’t seem very happy to me. Just an observation. They’re grumpy and children are often crying. Or maybe that’s me crying because I want to go home. The children probably want the same thing that I do while their parents are devastated that they missed out on some important “stuff”. There’s someone over there looking at the stuff I’m looking at. What if they get it first?! I won’t have the stuff I think I need! That’s when panic sets in and there’s a mad dash to acquire the very important stuff. You know…like the last set of yoga pants on the planet. Going out of business folks. There will be no more yoga pants…in the history of…like…ever. Speaking of ever, how long is that anyway?
Shopping questions are easy for me. Do I really need that? Do I have to go shopping? Can I go home now? Do you hear that five year old talking again?
But when I walk through a nursing home the questions loom large over me. Why is there suffering? Why is there so much pain in the world? Whatever can I do to ease…anything for anyone…in any way…ever? What can I do?
I wander through the doors with my heart open and my eyes too, and discover there are a few quiet answers as close as my next breath. These busy spaces are filled to the brim with gentle souls always ready to offer the lovely gift of a smile. They always have time for a warm greeting. Their stories are always divine and as varied as the books on a library shelf! They will most certainly make you laugh. Sometimes they will make you cry. In truth we need very little in this world…but we need that little so very much…
Which brings me of course to…cookies! A writing about 5 year old me and questions would never be complete without a cookie section. Am I right? Who loves them? Hint…me. Who doesn’t love them? Hint…not me. Can I eat too many in a day? Are they good for breakfast? Lunch? Dinner? Should one slather them in peanut butter? Should one dunk them in milk or hot tea? Are chocolate chip better than oatmeal? If one adds chocolate chips to oatmeal, is it then a chocolate chip cookie or an oatmeal cookie? Some might declare it to be an oatmeal chocolate chip at that point. Valid argument but now we’re getting into tricky territory, the very nature of a cookie and its ingredients. Philosophy at its utmost! If one adds icing or frosting or glaze does it lose its cookieness? And my two personal favorites –
Are cookies the world’s most perfect food?
Do cookies make everything better?
If you’ve been following me for any length of time you already know my answers to the last two. Smiles and winks.
Are there more questions than I have answers for? Will I ever stop asking? Would I even want to? What about you? Are you eternally five years old? And do you question too?
Welcome to my world. Come rest with me for a while. We shall have cookies and tea and ask questions…together…and won’t that be delightful?
****
ellie894 March 11, 2019
P. S. Dog questions are a volume all their own and will be saved for another place and time…
Bird song and light footsteps on a woodland path, carry me.
Bejo,
loved flowers, oceans and woodland walks even though she spent much of her life behind office walls that bear the weight of busy concrete cities.
My ever sassy grandmother…
She baked a tender biscuit…brought order to an unruly boardroom full of men where she was the only woman…grew fairy roses like magic…and tended the loving spirit of a sister soon to depart the world…
She laughed brilliantly with her head thrown back in joyful abandon.
She cried the tears of heartbreak that linger in ways that others will never know…because one pushes them aside to keep on….
My brother arrived first in the family so, he bestowed her with her grandmother name. Bejo was one of a kind…
Mike, Suzanne, Bejo
She gave me libraries, woods, old photographs, art and writing….we explored a thousand things when I was a little girl…
Bejo wore a cotton dress with her sensible boots, even in the wilderness. A walking stick accompanied her, just in case. No adventure would dare to escape her!
I can hear her still –
One must tend to oneself no matter where one might be in life.
Sit up straight.
Please and thank you.
Use a soft voice.
There is always time for beauty.
Paint just because you want to.
Write to me…
Thoughts on the circle of time, travel with me wherever I go…
I wander the forest with them…every day.
A Celtic knot returns unto itself.
Just as my walk circles and centers me.
When I return home, then I have completed another circle, albeit an off kilter messy one.
As long as it comes round to its beginning, doesn’t that make it a circle…
A Celtic knot spread is a circle.
A heart pushed in all directions to its outermost is a circle too.
I wonder over why a moment or an image or a thought takes hold of me.
I am helpless to let it go until I move through it mindfully
And make it my own somehow.
I write and write to clear my head and cleanse my heart.
always…there is more.
Bejo and her love
Souls don’t want to be told what to do…not really.
Bejo certainly didn’t!
She was the teller, never the tellee!
I think there is enough of that in the world already. Telling, I mean.
Perhaps, instead a soul wishes for a reminder that life can somehow bear sorrow and that love will always find a way…
At the age of 19 my grandmother married a man from New Orleans
who played minor league baseball by day
and a jazz fiddle by night…
She left him
Never to return
When my father was only three years old
They took a train back to her home in Texas
Hungry in both body and spirit…
I love mornings like this one…
If only I could be still for the whole long short day.
The whir of the fan, curtains drawn, soft light, quietly absorbed in transcribing the stories of my dreams. Breathing them into life.
Someone may read them…perhaps, no one ever will. Either way…it is ok.
Bejo with Dad
How much I take in! Every day…All the time! Even as I sleep I gather notions in the reflection of my nightscape. Gather and tend. Gather and tend. Sometimes it is too much. I cannot hold it all at once.
Some of it falls in the lined pages that hold my thoughts.
Letters slanting to the right, edge to edge becoming words, one beside another until a page is filled and my thought comes round in an ever widening circle.
What then…
Do I feel better…that I have taken time to listen.
For a few moments I have stopped the whole busy world, except for my hand.
I give myself over to a thirsty pen, rich with ink, making every last thing bright with possibility!
Some mornings I have a tight grip that fights its way, leaving me with a worn feeling up and down my arm. Those thoughts come painfully. Soreness follows them. Sometimes those are just the sorts of words that need to be written. Some days are like that.
But, this day is soft,
Sky and heart and words…
I don’t know what it will become.
Joyful or crowded or silly…only time will tell.
for now…
….the edges are blurred in a lovely disarray that leaves me hopeful.
There is the comfort of listening….to music, to my heart, to that which carries me backwards and forwards and everywhere at once…to take out of nothingness and make something worthy of an eager pen.
Bejo as a little girl on the farm in Bryan, Texas
Bejo lived more circles than I have ever tried to count…and loved deeply, often unnoticed.
A woman who changed her name when that wasn’t done.
And worked as many hours as they would let her to provide for an extended family during the Great Depression.
A woman so formidable that she had Two birthdays!
To be honest, Bejo was not overly fond of me when I was a child. That was just her way. We came to know each other when I was well grown. Then, she took me into her heart and showed me the depth of herself that she seldom shared. How grateful I am…
Bejo wrote…
Professionally with precision
Advisingly with a sharp tongue
Personally with a woman’s heart
And she did it All without the benefit of the Internet!
She wrote letters longhand
She taught me to write letters longhand
We lived far away from one another for most of my life
She kept my childhood letters
And I kept hers
I have them all now, tucked safely away.
She loved me I think…as I did her…
I often feel her close in spirit
Reminding me…of many things…
So when I pause
to wander my thoughts
and gather brilliant images
to create a new old story
one that I so long to share…she is with me…
another lovely circle coming round in beauty and grace
Write…she dares me…all that you live and love and dream and are…write to me…
ellie894 