Author: Autumn

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Somewhere in Time…

Somewhere in time…

Somewhere in time we will depart from our conventional lives, so that we may chase after exotic pirates that lead us toward unfamiliar destinations. We will hunt for their precious ntreasure only after learning their songs and sharing a dance or two. With pockets full of their booty, we will skip barefoot along the shoreline, pants rolled up to our knees, damp from the tide’s incoming splash.

Somewhere in time…

We will hunt for overlooked beauty found in pieces of broken glass and bits of shells. Perhaps we will stumble upon a few spectacular oddities, too. We will save time to wonder what form these glorious but strange findings used to be, what whole they belonged to, what they could be now, will be now—now, that they are free from the way they used to be.

Somewhere in time…

We will wake up early on Sunday, when the birds are the only ones talking to one another. The world will still be too asleep, too groggy, too self-absorbed to notice just about anything else. We will wake early because we know this is that sacred, blessed time primed for uncovering secret gardens–secret gardens that you and I both know exist but never speak about out loud.

Somewhere in time…

bubbles

We will meet every Thursday evening, underneath a cascading willow tree that sips from a familiar creek. We will sit, side-by-side, with elbows loosely linked, on a large moss-covered rock. It will be perfect. It will be safe. It will be quiet—except for the random song of my favorite bird and for the wind whispering secrets about me into your ear.

We shall sit and ponder quietly and contently, all the while anticipating and hoping what is to become of us, what whole we might become now—now that we are free from what we used to be.

And, in between laughing about nothing and sighing about something, we will rest and reflect and learn how to love a little better, love a little wiser, love a little deeper.

Somewhere in time…

You will tickle my soul with a simple look. You will build desire with a longer than normal glance—a glance that suggests hope, that suggests promise for much, much more of something simply wonderful that could be. A promise that is revealed only in dreams handed out at dawn and promised at dusk.

And, as we laugh a little more before moving on from underneath that willow, we would leave behind the bones of who we used to be. We will bury those fractured and frail bones in a shallow grave. And those same bones will crumble and turn to dust in order to nourish both the daisies that once tickled our feet and the orchids that left us breathless upon our first meeting.

Somewhere in time…

I will write my secrets down on parchment, seal it with wax and place it inside the hollow of our willow tree. It will rest there, waiting for you to find on some sweet, auspicious day. You will read and pause, perhaps savor the intent and the revelation. While you read, the sprites will tickle me endlessly at the thought of you, the thought of what you are discovering in that very moment–the thought of you knowing what lies buried within my heart.

And, maybe, just maybe then, you will free yourself to smile a little longer, a little closer, a little softer. And, maybe then that sweet smile of yours will finally turn into a kiss. Maybe. Just maybe.

And, when that time comes, that some glorious, maybe, somewhere in time comes…

You will share a sacred secret you haven’t allowed yourself to trust, to believe in before this moment. You will give it to me, to yourself, to the universe, openly, willingly…surrendering, finally.

But, if you grow too bashful, too embarrassed in that some day, that somewhere in time…

We could always pretend someone else wrote that declaration, and that same someone else found our hiding place. And, when our cheeks blushed, we will be kind to one another and agree that this great fib is a truth only you and I know.

Somewhere in time…

We will both realize in the unspoken rest between heartbeats, just how special and rare what we have truly is. And, we will live the rest of our days never speaking again of what was hidden in that willow tree—at least not with our words. It would live among us, flitter about us, like magic, like eternity, like love.

Somewhere in time.

May your small light ignite something grand, as it only can….
Autumn

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Precarious

It begins with a short story, so I’m learning.

It started with a word, then a phrase. Those phrases and words became a sentence.

orange_with_white_flowers

That sentence grew to become a paragraph that carried with it a glimmer of meaning, a seed of an unknown specimen. So, I held my breath and watered it. I watered it knowing it might not grow. It might be a dead seed, after all.

But, I kept watering it anyway like any foolish writer would do. Any creative type has to do.

Soon, that paragraph sprouted meaning, and that meaning multiplied and expanded to begin to take a form, a grander shape with potential. After some time of tapping the keys and refilling my glass, twice… in-between the first capital letter and the last period there grew a story with a life and a memory and a moment. Within that life, that moment, that memory, flowered a tragedy for one but a victory for another, even if that victory will prove to be momentary.

But, any victory whether large or small is worth the ride. Yes?

And, that my dear, is the precarious birth of just one story— one story that will someday grow up to become a book of its own.

May your small light ignite something grand, as it only can….
Autumn

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Wonder A Little…

I have these memories from childhood.

red_flower

These memories include my father, a charming little town called Steilacoom in Washington State, and sweet little meandering beaches that give stunning views of the Puget Sound and nearby islands.

It’s a quiet kind of beautiful, a sacred beautiful.

I loved being there. Those were good days. Those were impressionable days…the kind of days that become part of your soul, and you carry into adulthood to revisit at random times for unknown reasons. But you do…revisit them both in the physical and the spiritual..perhaps hoping to find a clue, to find some meaning, some insight into something you may have missed because of age and inexperience.

Juxtaposed to this serene, protected beauty is the view of McNeil Island Penitentiary. My father would take my brother and I to a small beach that gave a clear view of McNeil Island. He chose this location on purpose…so we could stare at that prison and wonder about it.

We would watch the ferries travel back and forth from the prison to the ferry terminal in Steilacoom. We would wonder if they carried new inmates and what they did to wind up on that island behind those cold, hard bars. We wondered whether we would ever spot a human moving about.

We never did.

We wondered what kind of life was happening there. And, this made us appreciate ours a little more despite having a lot of uncertainty and very little of everything else. I learned much from those moments that really didn’t involve a lot talking. Wondering was mostly done in the quiet. My father isn’t much of a talker, even with me. But I learned how to listen in a different kind of way. And, I’m grateful for it.

My father…He taught us to skip rocks and to wonder a little more about things too big to really understand. I enjoyed that. I don’t believe this was his plan intentionally…to wonder and think about some heavy stuff…but this was the end result with me. As for my brother, well, I’m not sure.

I suspect my father was equally curious about that prison–an entity that seemed to house a dark and weird world in the middle of so much natural beauty. I’m grateful he didn’t shy away from sharing this curiosity with his two small kids despite it being a bit suspect to the conventional world.

I was mesmerized by McNeil Island. Still am. Fascinated and frightened by it simultaneously. I wanted to understand it, everything about it. I was terrified of the place and terrified of the people. Yet, I was oddly drawn to it. Drawn to it as long as I could be on that beach with the water in-between, with my dad, my brother and those rocks.

I felt safe as long as those rocks continued to hop along the water’s surface, as long as that island appeared too far away, as long as things were quiet. I could sit staring at that prison for hours on that beach. And we often did.

I still return to that little town every so often. The beach access is now closed. But, I still go as close as I can. And, I still wonder.

What about you? What do you wonder about? What memories from your early years skip along your life’s surface?

May your small light ignite something grand, as it only can….
Autumn

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A New Year, A Yes Year

2015 is my year of saying, Yes.

Yes to opportunities that scare the crap out of me, push against my comfortable habits, challenge my shyness, and confront my resistance toward fulfilling my dreams and seizing opportunities. It’s a year of saying, yes, and figuring it out–whatever it is–along the way, in the moment and usually afterward, when many mistakes are made. It’s going to be messy at times, imperfect often, and, I suspect, quite incredible.

I follow Elizabeth Gilbert on Facebook. She is a reflective thinker, a talented writer, a brave adventurer, who inspires and encourages myself, as well as many, to believe in the importance of cultivating our unique and creative expression. Our important, brave work.

One of her latest Facebook posts is currently promoting her next book being published September 22, 2015, titled, BIG MAGIC: CREATIVE LIVING BEYOND FEAR. To promote her upcoming work she is posting a quote from the book each Monday. The first quote seemed perfect, timely and validating. Just another nudge from the universe, as per usual, when you begin to step onto the path. When you begin to finally say, yes.

So here it is…

“Your bravery is the big strong voice (or sometimes the tremulous little voice) that says: ‘The new thing. I choose the new thing. I am absolutely terrified, but that’s only normal because I am a human being…yet still, I choose the new thing.”

And, so it begins…I choose the new thing. This online journal is one of my new things. I’m terrified to share my writing with the world. I’m terrified to publish my creative works and ship them out into that big ol’ sea of human beings to judge and to feel or to not feel something after encountering it. It’s out of my control. It’s a new thing. I don’t really know how to blog or be successful at it. I don’t honestly know much about the publishing world. But, I’m saying, yes. I’m choosing a new thing. And, I will figure it out, all of it, along the way.

Yes, means that I will publish a post at least once a week. I will share short stories, chapters from books in the making, reflections, curiosities and even some art. I will share my journey of the New Year of Yes and remain transparent about the glorious and terrifying struggles it will invite. It is my hope that you will be inspired, maybe even encouraged to step onto the path of your important work that only you can grace the world with despite how terrifying it may be.

May your small light ignite something grand, as it only can….
Autumn