this is something I wrote a few years ago. thought I'd post it.
I had this crazy dream a few nights ago. I was dead, in my dream of course, and I was wandering around an absolutely gorgeous landscape. Huge mountains cut high up into the sky, drawing my eyes upward to the beauty of the fluffy white clouds. But the sweet grass beneath my toes felt so incredible; I had to look down to make sure it was real. Oh yes, it was! Beautiful rolling hills of grass, tall trees dotting the turf in an effort to clothe it in shade filled my eyes with wonder. Bright wildflowers were scattered here and there in clumps, dancing together in the breeze, enjoying the sun that coddled their petals.
But this beautiful landscape was nothing compared to the people that were walking beside me: it was my family; my brother and my sisters, my parents, my sisters with different surnames, and a few of the boys who have become my brothers in this mortal life. But there was a man holding my hand; a man who was strong and sweet, gentle and firm, the man who had stolen my heart. He smiled at me as I gazed at him and I felt peace only true love can bring. Running in front of us, were half a dozen children, all calling back to me “Mommy look at me!” “Mommy, look at how fast I can run!” I laughed at the sheer pleasure I felt at being there with them, the joy they brought in my life, now my afterlife. I felt my heart melt as the man at my side let go of my hand, and began to run ahead with the children, scooping the smallest and slowest up in his arms, racing the very breeze that encouraged their feet. He turned back and shouted my name, beckoning with his hand. I turned to my mother, who was beside me and gave her a smile. She nodded, and I took off. I left the others behind and ran to catch up with my husband and children.
As we dashed across the green, I watched my children grow up before my eyes. The dark golden locks of my girls’ hair shimmered as they flew in the breeze, their features becoming more womanly with every leap and bound. My boys, my sweet boys, began to take huge strides, their powerful muscles propelling them forward, farther and farther away from me. I watched their shoulders broaden and their hands become strong and protective, just like their father’s.
Soon more joined us, grabbing the hands of my children as we ran, gazing at them with the same joy I felt when I looked at the man who once again held my hand in his. They were beautiful girls, clinging to the hands of my sons; tall, protective men gently caressing the fingers of my daughters. They ran with us, and then my babies were running in different directions, sending their love back in sweet sentences of pure adoration, their hands clasped tightly to the one they loved.
The man of my dreams gently slowed our pace with the pressure in his hand, until we were strolling through the meadows, the flowers and trees our only companions in the stillness of the day.
It was incredible: the beauty, the perfection, and the absolute joy. But just as all dreams do, this one ended with the sound of my alarm. The mountains vanished; their majesty melted into the cinderblock of my walls. The grass faded into the softness of my cotton sheets and the flowers morphed into the photographs on my walls. I was alone again, my pillow and slumbering roommate my only companions. Sighing, I was determined to return to this place, this haven. But of course, it didn’t happen; the responsibility in my spirit reared its ugly head, and I swung my feet over the side of the bed, the beauty of the grass and trees dissolving completely.
07 December 2008
25 September 2008
My Closet and I
I went through my closet this morning, looking for something to wear. I was running a little late, and the only thing I cared about was: comfort. Bright purple looked great, and so I pulled the simple, long sleeve tee off the hanger, and tossed it onto my bed.
Five minutes later, I was pulling it on and suddenly, I was overwhelmed with a memory. The last time this purple shirt had been dropped over my head, I was on my way out the door of 27 Palace Court, headed towards Green Park and Buckingham Palace. I nearly cried, as I pressed my face into the fabric, hoping beyond all hope, that somehow the smell of London would still be there, clinging to the fibers of the fabric. I searched for any sign of the delicious smell of rain, the polished scent of the glass windows of the Victoria and Albert, the ancient smell of the British Museum, the devastatingly beautiful green of Hyde Park. Unfortunately, the only smell that soaked my nostrils, was that of Tide, the laundry detergent that washed out all the pleasant memories of a past life.
I guess clothes can do that to you, bring back a memory. I remember what I was wearing on my first date, the dress I was wearing to audition for All-State Choir, the shoes I wore when I stepped off the plane in Rome, the shirt I was wearing when I puked my guts out into my sink, the pajamas I wore when I broke up with a boyfriend.
My closet is full of more than just clothes; it's full of days in the sunshine, nights with a million stars overhead, walks along the Tiber River, wind blowing at Versailles, and the hugs I gave my nephew the first time I held him in my arms. If walls could talk, imagine what amazing stories they would tell. If clothes could talk, just think of the people they've met, the hugs they've given, the cold they've banished, the places they've been, the defining moments they've influenced.
Maybe someday, we'll sit and have a chat, my closet and I.
Five minutes later, I was pulling it on and suddenly, I was overwhelmed with a memory. The last time this purple shirt had been dropped over my head, I was on my way out the door of 27 Palace Court, headed towards Green Park and Buckingham Palace. I nearly cried, as I pressed my face into the fabric, hoping beyond all hope, that somehow the smell of London would still be there, clinging to the fibers of the fabric. I searched for any sign of the delicious smell of rain, the polished scent of the glass windows of the Victoria and Albert, the ancient smell of the British Museum, the devastatingly beautiful green of Hyde Park. Unfortunately, the only smell that soaked my nostrils, was that of Tide, the laundry detergent that washed out all the pleasant memories of a past life.
I guess clothes can do that to you, bring back a memory. I remember what I was wearing on my first date, the dress I was wearing to audition for All-State Choir, the shoes I wore when I stepped off the plane in Rome, the shirt I was wearing when I puked my guts out into my sink, the pajamas I wore when I broke up with a boyfriend.
My closet is full of more than just clothes; it's full of days in the sunshine, nights with a million stars overhead, walks along the Tiber River, wind blowing at Versailles, and the hugs I gave my nephew the first time I held him in my arms. If walls could talk, imagine what amazing stories they would tell. If clothes could talk, just think of the people they've met, the hugs they've given, the cold they've banished, the places they've been, the defining moments they've influenced.
Maybe someday, we'll sit and have a chat, my closet and I.
22 September 2008
Rain, Rain; Please Don't Go Away.
It rained this morning. Actually, to be completely honest, it's raining right now. My window is propped open, letting the cool air circulate through my room, causing my poor heater to have a nervous breakdown.
There's something about rain though, that is amazing. I don't know if it's because of a simple song I learned as a young child, about how rain makes the earth clean and new, or if it's because rain brings on a certain level of comfort that you just can't find any other place.
It's the kind of comfort that makes you want to curl up on the couch, a fuzzy blanket wrapped around you, hot chocolate and cookies at your side, with a fantastically romantic novel in your hands.
There's a smell that accompanies the drops that scatter across the sidewalk, cling to the blades of grass, and soak your hair. It's the smell of mom baking cookies, soaking your nostrils with perfection the second you walk through the door after school. It's the exhilarating smell of running through puddles with your siblings, giggling as you splash each other and squealing with pleasure as your clothes begin to resemble wet paper bags. Rain takes you back to the city you love; the way the sidewalk smells as millions of people walk to work, the way the Thames rises up the edges of the dock. The way the Tube seems to become an incredible haven from a downpour. And the smell of rain thrusts you back to moments when you were held close by someone you loved; the way the water drips down his hair into his eyes, making them look bluer than usual, if that's even possible. The way he grins as he shakes the tree branch above you, causing a million and one droplets to suddenly cascade onto your face and neck. Rain brings the smell of wet kisses by the bell tower, hugs underneath trees, moments so completely perfect, you have to reread your journal, just to make sure they actually occurred.
What is it REALLY though, about rain that makes it wonderful? I guess I couldn't tell you in one sentence, not even five or nine.
If you think I'm crazy, just wait until the first snow.....
There's something about rain though, that is amazing. I don't know if it's because of a simple song I learned as a young child, about how rain makes the earth clean and new, or if it's because rain brings on a certain level of comfort that you just can't find any other place.
It's the kind of comfort that makes you want to curl up on the couch, a fuzzy blanket wrapped around you, hot chocolate and cookies at your side, with a fantastically romantic novel in your hands.
There's a smell that accompanies the drops that scatter across the sidewalk, cling to the blades of grass, and soak your hair. It's the smell of mom baking cookies, soaking your nostrils with perfection the second you walk through the door after school. It's the exhilarating smell of running through puddles with your siblings, giggling as you splash each other and squealing with pleasure as your clothes begin to resemble wet paper bags. Rain takes you back to the city you love; the way the sidewalk smells as millions of people walk to work, the way the Thames rises up the edges of the dock. The way the Tube seems to become an incredible haven from a downpour. And the smell of rain thrusts you back to moments when you were held close by someone you loved; the way the water drips down his hair into his eyes, making them look bluer than usual, if that's even possible. The way he grins as he shakes the tree branch above you, causing a million and one droplets to suddenly cascade onto your face and neck. Rain brings the smell of wet kisses by the bell tower, hugs underneath trees, moments so completely perfect, you have to reread your journal, just to make sure they actually occurred.
What is it REALLY though, about rain that makes it wonderful? I guess I couldn't tell you in one sentence, not even five or nine.
If you think I'm crazy, just wait until the first snow.....
30 July 2008
The Gaps
I was thinking today, about Minding the Gap. Oh sure, my initial reason for choosing this phrase as the title of my blog was simply because anything connected to London makes me happy. It automatically brings a smile to my face and peace in my heart. But you know, I guess subconsciously, I was thinking about several other things.
There are so many gaps in our lives that we often neglect.
How many times have we stumbled through the cracks of not calling our moms to tell them about our day or giving them a hug to say "thanks"? Honestly, I think I forget to mind that gap all too often. At times, she drives me nuts and I would rather fall through to the tracks below. It almost seems like that would hurt a lot less than dealing with the stress. But that's only my selfish attitude sneaking out of the carriage onto the platform. Life would be a lot happier, if I closed the gap between my attitude and her anxiety by giving her a hug, or telling her she's doing just fine.
What about the gap between friends? I often see a post or a note on my Facebook, and think "Oh, I should call her." or "I should see what he's been up to lately", only to blow the feeling off and toss it onto the stairs, leaving it behind as I jump on the train. There are so many wonderful people in my life, that I haven't taken the time to check up on in the last week. I think about all the friends I knew and loved in Elementary or Junior High, or even High School, that I don't talk to any more. People that meant the world to me, that I called the second I got a new toy or the cute boy that sat in front of me in Geometry asked if he could borrow a pencil. What happened to them? Which gap did they fall into, that I haven't bothered to mind?
What about that journal gathering dust on the bookshelf? When was the last time you minded the gap between you and your great-great-great grandchildren? Did I tell them about the time you forgot to call home when you were late for curfew and your parents flipped out? Did you tell them about getting your excitement over your first paycheck, the freedom and thrill of your first car, the breathless thrill of your first kiss? When was the last time you wrote: "my life is boring, but I know that someday this could matter to somebody"? It's such a simple task, pulling it down from the shelf, and with a bit of ink, recording our personalities on the page for generations to come. Who knows what an impact your diary could make in a few hundred years.
Is there a gap between strangers that we should mind? I think so. At the grocery store, do we see some one counting their pennies, trying to buy a gallon of milk or a loaf of bread? That's a dramatic example, but what about the woman with a shock of white hair, glasses so thick you wonder if it makes a difference at all, and old hands that have seen nearly a hundred winters? I'm sure she's aching for someone to jump onto the platform, take her hand, and help her into a place where she feels needed, wanted, valued. It doesn't take much, just asking her name and pointing to a picture of her grandkids in her pocketbook. It takes asking someone how their day is going, and REALLY meaning it. Closing the gap with a stranger could be as simple as smiling, nodding your head in their direction, or letting them go through the door first.
I think the smallest gap, is the one that is most important. The gap between us and our Heavenly Father. How easy is it, to drop on our knees every morning and night, just to say hello? Flipping through a few pages of the scriptures and learning about his life only takes five minutes. And yet all too often, we flip the light switch, fling the blankets up around our chins, and start dreaming without even giving Him a thought. That's a gap I certainly could mind a little better.
I don't know. I guess this could be pushing a metaphor into the depths of an English Teacher over analyzing the word "the", but it was just something I was thinking about today. It's so easy to mind our gaps. And yet it seems that more often than not, we're stumbling over the yellow line onto the tracks, forgetting to head the ridiculously perfect voice that echoes throughout the station, reminding us every five minutes to "Mind the gap, between the train and the platform".
It's not too hard, is it?
There are so many gaps in our lives that we often neglect.
How many times have we stumbled through the cracks of not calling our moms to tell them about our day or giving them a hug to say "thanks"? Honestly, I think I forget to mind that gap all too often. At times, she drives me nuts and I would rather fall through to the tracks below. It almost seems like that would hurt a lot less than dealing with the stress. But that's only my selfish attitude sneaking out of the carriage onto the platform. Life would be a lot happier, if I closed the gap between my attitude and her anxiety by giving her a hug, or telling her she's doing just fine.
What about the gap between friends? I often see a post or a note on my Facebook, and think "Oh, I should call her." or "I should see what he's been up to lately", only to blow the feeling off and toss it onto the stairs, leaving it behind as I jump on the train. There are so many wonderful people in my life, that I haven't taken the time to check up on in the last week. I think about all the friends I knew and loved in Elementary or Junior High, or even High School, that I don't talk to any more. People that meant the world to me, that I called the second I got a new toy or the cute boy that sat in front of me in Geometry asked if he could borrow a pencil. What happened to them? Which gap did they fall into, that I haven't bothered to mind?
What about that journal gathering dust on the bookshelf? When was the last time you minded the gap between you and your great-great-great grandchildren? Did I tell them about the time you forgot to call home when you were late for curfew and your parents flipped out? Did you tell them about getting your excitement over your first paycheck, the freedom and thrill of your first car, the breathless thrill of your first kiss? When was the last time you wrote: "my life is boring, but I know that someday this could matter to somebody"? It's such a simple task, pulling it down from the shelf, and with a bit of ink, recording our personalities on the page for generations to come. Who knows what an impact your diary could make in a few hundred years.
Is there a gap between strangers that we should mind? I think so. At the grocery store, do we see some one counting their pennies, trying to buy a gallon of milk or a loaf of bread? That's a dramatic example, but what about the woman with a shock of white hair, glasses so thick you wonder if it makes a difference at all, and old hands that have seen nearly a hundred winters? I'm sure she's aching for someone to jump onto the platform, take her hand, and help her into a place where she feels needed, wanted, valued. It doesn't take much, just asking her name and pointing to a picture of her grandkids in her pocketbook. It takes asking someone how their day is going, and REALLY meaning it. Closing the gap with a stranger could be as simple as smiling, nodding your head in their direction, or letting them go through the door first.
I think the smallest gap, is the one that is most important. The gap between us and our Heavenly Father. How easy is it, to drop on our knees every morning and night, just to say hello? Flipping through a few pages of the scriptures and learning about his life only takes five minutes. And yet all too often, we flip the light switch, fling the blankets up around our chins, and start dreaming without even giving Him a thought. That's a gap I certainly could mind a little better.
I don't know. I guess this could be pushing a metaphor into the depths of an English Teacher over analyzing the word "the", but it was just something I was thinking about today. It's so easy to mind our gaps. And yet it seems that more often than not, we're stumbling over the yellow line onto the tracks, forgetting to head the ridiculously perfect voice that echoes throughout the station, reminding us every five minutes to "Mind the gap, between the train and the platform".
It's not too hard, is it?
Hello, Boy.
I found Peter Pan one day as I ran through Hyde Park. Sweat dripped down my forehead and my trainers squeaked on the path which had, of course, been covered by rain the night before. I did my best not to fall over myself as I slowed my run to a walk, and eventually stopped at his feet.
"Hello, boy" I murmured, smiling to myself. He was just as I pictured, glimmering in the early morning sun, the Long Water reflecting the light onto his face. A squirrel ran around his feet, gathering nuts and twigs, no doubt stashing them in a hollow tree nearby. I laughed as he ran up and down the trees, through the grass, obviously driving the fairies around Peter to distraction.
I decided to take a break from running and spend some time with Peter. Sitting down on the wet grass, i grabbed my feet and started telling him about my morning. Of course he was totally enthralled by my story: waking up at 7:00, grabbing an English Muffin to hold me over till I got home, tying my shoes on the stairs, then jogging down Palace Court until I reached Bayswater, only to be stopped at the light. "That's the worst," I shook my head. "I hate jogging in place, with all the other Londoners looking at me as they drive by." I sighed, "Oh well." I told him about the crocuses that were beginning to appear in Kensington Gardens, the swans on the Round Pond, and the dog that followed me all the way down to the Italian Fountains. I could tell he was really interested, but unfortunately, I had class to get to.
Peter's a great listener, though. He nodded in all the right spots, smiled when I told him the funny parts of the dog chasing me, and felt sympathy when I told him about the light on Bayswater. When I said good bye, he very quietly told me to come again soon, and I promised I would come back the next day.
I miss Peter; probably more than anyone I ever met in Hyde Park. It's amazing what one person can do for you. Quite often, Peter was the first one I talked to in the mornings. He was always there, faithfully, to give me a smile and a good morning. On sunny days, we would spend hours together. I'd bring my sketch book or some stationary, and he'd tell me about Neverland. On rainy days, which happened quite often, I'd hurry by to say hello, my green umbrella sheltering me from the drops. But I couldn't stay long.
I can't wait to go back and say hello once again. I'm sure he'll remember me. I know that Neverland makes you forget, but after all; we met in London. On a January morning in Hyde Park
23 July 2008
Starting a Blog
So, I never thought I'd do this: this blogging thing. And really, I don't expect anyone to come on here and find some amazing insight into life. I suppose this is just an excuse to write something for someone to read sometime...hmm...sounds like a good reason right?
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