TALE

3a : a usually imaginative narrative of an event : story

As a part of our literature studies, A and I read a children's version of Canterbury Tales aloud together.  We really enjoyed it and also enjoyed analyzing what the four tales we read had in common.  Before moving on to another read aloud (know a good children's version of Don Quixote or have another suggestion of a classic follow-up to Chaucer? please share!), we decided to do a joint Canterbury Tales project.

Our project?  We agreed to each write our own Canterbury Tale as if we were pilgrims on Chaucer's journey.  Like Chaucer, we'll use first and third person narration, we'll have a casual, story telling style and our tales will be about relationships.  (As A read through this blog post, she said, "Oops!  I forgot to use first person narration.  So you won't find that in her tale, after all!)  These are all things A noted about Canterbury Tales when we discussed them together. A has enjoyed writing her tale and was able to practice her script writing as well as her story telling skills - a double bonus of a project.  I did re-type her tale for her, since her typing skills are still a work in progress and it probably would have taken her as long to type her tale as it took us to read four tales aloud.  Without further delay, I present two tales.

The Friend's Tale

One day two friends were walking along a trail in the woods.  One was beautiful, but liked things to be plain and simple.  The other friend looked plain, but loved extravagant things, and adored her boyfriend.  As they were walking along, the boyfriend popped up in front of them.  Amanda (the second girl) shrieked, "Oh! Let's go walk with him!"  "No.  I just want to keep walking, me and you," said Mary (the first girl).  "Oh come on, please?" said Amanda.  "No! We never walk together anymore!" said Mary, "I always feel left out now, because you're always with John, talking about him or watching him!  We never have quality time together anymore."  "Oh. I'm sorry. Let's keep walking together."

Up ahead John was talking to Tim, his friend.  "I wish Amanda would give me some time to myself.  She's always right there!" "Dude, let her get used to having a boyfriend.  I bet that this is her first real boyfriend.  After a while, talk to her about it.  She'll understand."  "Thanks, Tim.  You rock, dude." said John.

Up ahead the girls were talking,  "You know," Amanda said, "I think that you would like Tim.  He's a nice boy.  He's got a lot going for him.  Nice, good-looking, smart.  If I wasn't dating John I'd date him." But enough about me.  How's your life, Mary?"  "Life's treating me well, Amanda.  I am getting along with my teachers, home and school a lot better.  Sarah is doing better in school."  "Mary, sometimes I wish I still went to school with you and the others. Our little gang felt so safe.  But Mother needs me to watch the little ones while she's taking care of Grandpa."  "We miss you, too, Amanda.  I'm always updating them on how you are!"  "Thanks, Mary.  You're my best friend."

The boys had stopped for a snack break.  They heard the girls coming and John groaned, "Oh no!  Here she comes!"  "Oh, hi!  Didn't expect to see you here!" said Amanda.  "I thought you were at the store working?"  "Well, today's my day off."  "OK.  This is Mary.  She's really smart and active and loves art."  "Well, actually, I dance.  I'm going to be in a ballet this year," said Mary.  "Mary! We have to be at the pastry shop in fifteen minutes!"  "May we escort you, lovely ladies?" said Tim.  "Sure, just hurry," said Mary.  When they got to the shop, Tim whispered something in Mary's ear that made her laugh.  "I'll tell you tomorrow," she said.  "See you then," he said.  The next day he caught up with her at school and whispered, "What's your answer?"  Mary said, "Of course!"  "What?" said John and Amanda as they walked up.  "Me and Tim are now boyfriend and girlfriend."  "Welcome to the fishbowl.  I'll brief you on the details," said Amanda.  And they walked off chattering.

The Innkeeper's Tale

A tale? Oh, is it my turn already? I’ve been so busy listening to all of your tales that I’ve not spent a moment thinking about what yarn I should spin for you. What’s that? Something funny? Well, my dear, I’m not sure funny is my style. My favorite tales have always been the ones that leave you sobbing your heart out – and I’m not sure that’s good traveling fare, now is it? So… nothing funny, nothing sad. I can’t very well tell you a tale of instruction, since I’m less learned than most. I guess I’ll just do my best. Let’s have another round of ale for everyone before I get started. It’s easier to listen with some sloshing between the ears, don’t you think? Ahhh, that’s more like it. Here we go.

There once was a traveler, much like us, you see? He loved the open road, the dust on his cloak, the dirt on his sandals. When rain or ice kept him cramped inside for days on end, he longed for the road like a priest craves the sacraments, especially the wine. He was at his best with blue skies above him and hard packed dirt underneath.

It didn’t much matter where he was going as long as he was going. He walked from Canterbury to Cardiff to Nottingham and back again. He knew this lovely country and all its nooks and crannies better than he knew the back of his hand. He walked slowly, or quickly, as the land demanded: strolling through fields with wild berries, always sure to sample nature’s delights, and striding through the forest’s darkest paths, lest those less scrupulous men who lurk there catch him unawares.

In all his walking, the traveler was looking, looking for the perfect place to lay his head, looking for a home that would be strong enough to keep his heart from wandering, looking for the thing that made staying well worth it. Yet the longer he walked, the more he questioned whether such a place existed. London? Too crowded, too cramped, too corrupt. Cardiff? Too bleak, too steep, too remote. Oxford? Too pretentious, too stuffy, too much. Was there anywhere worth staying?

After years – nay, decades – of walking, strolling, sauntering, striding, looking all the while, our traveler was forced inside. The rain was unlike any he’d ever seen. And being born in this land, the sir was not unaccustomed to the damp. If the Queen’s own England were capable of hosting a monsoon, this must be the one. Day in, day out for nigh on a fortnight, then two, our traveler waited.

The inn that held him grated on his nerves. The ale? A bit stale. The meat in the pies? Tough. The fire? Smoky and not warm enough. The innkeeper? A nice enough fellow, if a bit dull. His family? Likely more of the same, though the traveler did not take much note. Yet as time wore on, as days turned to weeks and the innkeeper’s hospitality did not waver, the ale did not grow warm, the pies did not grow cold, the traveler began to wonder whether there were things of value within these four simple walls.

One night, as he reclined by the fire, he observed the working of the inn from the corner of the room. He saw much that had escaped his notice before – for he had not deigned to notice much. The room, while simple, was clean. The floors were swept regularly by a brunette with clean fingernails, a gentle countenance and a braid down her back. The pies were served carefully, steaming hot, by a lad with a clever tongue, a willing smile and a winning manner. The pints were pulled full by the innkeeper’s wife, whose eyes roamed the inn for signs that a customer had had a pint too many. While she watched like a hawk, her eyes bright and alert, her heart was not bitter, but gentle. She cared for the inn, certainly, but also for those who lodged there, those who supped there, those who drank there.

Our traveler trudged up the stairs to his bed that night puzzling over what he’d seen. Could an inn in a village of little note to anyone be a place worth staying? Did the innkeeper stay here because he had to – or because he wanted to? This puzzle thwarted our traveler. He pondered it for days, as rain sprinkled down, poured in torrents and puddle in the lanes. He pondered it as he drank his morning coffee – hot and strong, just as he liked it – as he lunched, as he supped. And yet, for all this pondering, the traveler could not decide on the correct answer.

At last, on a day when the sun threatened to emerge, then retreated, defeated behind yet more steel grey clouds, the traveler asked the innkeeper for his tale. Was it one of woe? One of duty? One of joy? Over a pint of ale, the innkeeper told his told to the traveler. Like most tales, it contained pieces of each. The innkeeper had indeed inherited the inn. Not from his father, but from his father-in-law. And while the inn kept him in this village, it was his wife who kept him grounded. Had he had dreams of walking through fields alone and unencumbered as our traveler did? Surely, but it was now unlikely they would be fulfilled. Had he longed for city life – or at least to see what life was like outside the village where he’d lived since birth? Ahhh, yes. So why did he stay? The wife with the bright eyes and gentle heart, the girl with the braid down her back, the boy with the smile that crept from his mouth all the way to his eyes. These were his reasons why.

Satisfied, the traveler thanked the innkeeper for his tale and his hospitality. And when the sun finally shone forth the next morning, he walked the lanes once again. Still looking, but never seeing.

The Fear

The following post is a continuation of a fiction story that has been posted in installments on WordGirl. If you are interested in reading the story up until this point, click here.

I wake the next morning to find breakfast outside the door. The tea is somehow still warm and savoring it helps me shake off the vestiges of sleep. As I settle in to eat, my eyes fall on the clean white paper and pen awaiting me.

Sighing aloud at my stubbornness, I ponder whether I should be more motivated by not doing as Irene suggests or whether I should just do as my heart says and write.

Picking up the pen, I try to clear my mind of Irene’s suggestions as to what to write. What do I have to say? What do I want to remember about the journey so far? What do I want to forget? Maybe that’s the place to start.

Thinking back to walking out of those first four rooms, I hardly feel like the same person. Each step along the way has changed me. But a constant companion has been fear. Sure, I walked through that heavy door, leaving my fears and exposed hopes there, but I didn’t really leave them all behind. Maybe I just bundled some of them up, leaving a token few at the threshold and shoved them into a backpack that weighs me down, slows me down, keeps me down.

“So let’s empty the backpack onto paper,” I think.

Writing “Fears” in bold letters at the top of the page, I pause. What are the fears I carry around? I feel their presence, I know they are there. They are intimately familiar, almost a part of me. But I don’t ever examine them closely. If anything, when one pops up, I shove it deeper into the backpack and pretend it isn’t there. Closing my eyes, I reach inside myself for a fear.

Cradling it in both hands, I feel the weight of it and recognize it as one I have carried for a long time. Its familiarity is oddly comforting. I open my eyes to see the fear of failure staring me in the face. Failure looks up at me brazenly, unflinching beneath my gaze. Its reds and yellows scream caution and its blurred edges make it difficult to see exactly where it starts and stops. I find it hot, drawing my hand back quickly after a tentative touch. The edges are covered with tiny, spiky tentacles and its covering is carapace. Reaching underneath, I find it surprisingly soft and discover I can gently cradle it.

I put it on the table, realizing as I do so that this is a burden I will have to put down many times before it stays away. Even as I close my eyes to examine the next fear, I feel failure begin to inch back onto me. I thrust it away mentally and try to examine the slippery fear I now hold.

It feels slick, gelatinous, shifting in my hands. As I try to edge around its borders with my fingers, it seems to change beneath my hands. I open my eyes and get a quick glimpse of the fear of exposure before it disappears before my eyes.

Surprised at what I’ve found thus far, I once again close my eyes and picture the heavy backpack that has been with me through crevices, canyons and fire. The next fear that I cradle makes no attempt to flee. It sits, heavy and solid, in my hands, roughly the shape of a potato, but so heavy I can barely lift it. Blinking back tears, I see this is the fear that I am unlovable. The fear that at the end of this journey, or any journey, there will be no one waiting, no one who cares whether I make it or not.

I look at my large piece of paper with three small words on it and wonder how they can take up so little space on the paper, but feel so large on my back and in my heart.

And now what? I can't simply banish these fears. So what do I do with them now that I've named them? If nothing else, I now know what I carry around with me. So the next time failure bursts in my mind, flowing through my veins and my vision, I will know it for the intruder that it is. Because as much as these and other fears feel like a part of me, they aren't. I have, for one reason or another, chosen them. Maybe others gave me these fears to carry - either to spread their own burden around or to hobble me on my path. But I was the one who willingly fed the fear, watered it, let it take root and grow. And now it is not so easy to just put the fear aside. Now, I need to chip away at the fear bit by bit until it is gone.

Wanting a symbol of my resolve to fight fear, I pause to think about how to do this. How do I get past failure's spikes? How do I penetrate exposure's rubbery covering? What do I do to or with unlovability's density? Feeling the impossibility of my task bear down on me, I want to get up from the desk and retreat to the bed. I fight this urge, knowing I must do some small thing to fight back.

I use both hands to drag my fear that I am unlovable closer. Its smooth, cool surface seems impenetrable, but I nevertheless reach for my pen. Scratching lines so faint they can't be seen, I write J's name on the rock. I pause, then add the names of A, B and K. While they may love me only in the innocent way children take parents for granted, they do love me. I consider writing my own name on the rock's surface, but know this would not take away the fear's power but add to it. Maybe eventually I can confidently scrawl my signature as testimony that I am loved, but not yet.

I look at the rock. It sits there implacable, unmoved by my coarse scratchings. Needing a break from this thankless task, I stand and stride from the room, deliberately leaving my backpack and its contents behind.

The Note

The following post is a continuation of a fiction story that has been posted in installments on WordGirl. If you are interested in reading the story up until this point, click here.

Perhaps oddly, this did not surprise me. I was grateful and had learned to expect the unexpected since leaving my known world for this one. Small, unasked for graces abounded. I was thankful and sat to eat.

Upon finishing, I picked up my plate, thinking to rinse it in the stream. Under it, I found a note. I put the plate aside, opened it and read.

Sweet Shannon,
I hope you are recovering nicely and finding comfort here. Many have sought shelter and solace here before you and others will follow your sojourn here.

Do not rush. Rest. Rest. Rest. You will find a box of books under the bed and your other needs will be met in due time.

You may long to dive into a book as you read these words, but I urge you to first use the other gift you find here: set pen to paper and begin to understand why you are here. Free your fears, your wounds, your hopes. After airing them out, you will know whether to re-pack them for the next stage of your journey or perhaps leave some of them here.

You may feel ambivalence, frustration and anger as you think of me. Why did I leave you to walk that high wire alone? We will talk about this, I promise. But even now, you know in your heart that there are paths meant to be walked alone.

I will see you again. In the meantime, I wish you
Peace,
Irene

I slowly refold the letter and place it back in its envelope. Instead of picking up paper and pen, I look under the bed and find the promised collection of books. Amazingly, there are only two that I’ve read, leaving me many to choose from.

I pull out a few, studying the covers, reading the backs, flipping them open to random passages. I select one that feels right and place it on the pillow, then slide the box back into its place under the bed.

Now, I pause. Do I climb into bed with the book or do as Irene suggested and write? If I’m completely honest with myself, I do want to write. It’s having been told to do it that makes me resist. For someone who spent decades following the rules, I certainly chafe at the merest suggestion or hint sometimes.

Still, why should I listen to Irene? She’s one reason I’m here. Part of the reason my feet ache, that I’m alone in an abandoned hut, that I have all of these emotions waiting to be processed on paper. How dare she tell me what to do?!

Stubbornly ignoring the clean white paper and pen, I turn on my side and open my book.

The Water

The following post is a continuation of a fiction story that has been posted in installments on WordGirl. If you are interested in reading the story up until this point, click here.

I reach the stream just as the note said I would and it is all I could have hoped for and more. Magnificent oaks line the bank and it is along the root of one of these that I make my way into the water.

The water seems to be more than just water. It cleans me, but heals me, too. The soles of my feet emerge still red, but less blistered, less cracked, more whole. Grateful for this relief, I dress and sit by an oak, my feet resting in the cool water. I think back to my last moment of rest and solitude – it was near water, too, I guess: the river bed, where I contemplated whether or not to go with Irene to the settlement or return.

Had I made the right choice? I wasn’t sure yet. Going forward had brought more pain than I had reckoned and it was still too fresh for me to be blasé about having felt it. But one thing was certain. There was now no option of going back. Even if I could find my way back to the high wire, I wouldn’t be able to scale the face of the cliff to try again. But what would going forward look like from here?

Should I try to find the settlement I’d seen? Irene was presumably there. I’d seen her walk the high wire just before I fell.

And that memory of Irene triggered other thoughts. Not just thoughts, but feelings. I wasn’t sure how to feel about Irene just now. Part of me expected her to show up any minute, as she had on the precipice, in the meadow. But another part of me was glad to be alone right now, even if it meant finding dinner for myself.

Standing and carefully drying my nearly healed feet, I made my way back to the hut. Once there, I find a candle flickering and dinner on the table.

The Hut

As I approach the hut, I wonder whether I should call out. It clearly is a structure that has a purpose and has been cared for. Yet I don’t call out. I find myself hoping it has been abandoned, so that I can explore it, satisfy my curiosity. So I keep quiet – or as quiet as I can, hobbling through pine needles on scorched soles.

As I get closer, I see a word is burnt into the lintel above the door: Welcome. Oddly enough, I do feel welcome in the midst of these tall, quiet pines, the shade so different from the searing pain and light of the fiery water.

“Hello?” I call quietly, hoping for no response. I push open the door and look around it into the hut.

The small space is tidy, inviting, as welcoming as the lintel indicated. The planked floor has been swept clean and a red woven rug lies between a small bed and a table for one. The space is small, with two or three steps separating the table’s chair from the bed. But it feels cozy, not cramped.
The bed is covered by a hodge-podge quilt of many colors and fabrics. Washed denim coexists with emerald velvet, bleached, pale seersucker and thin linen. On top of the quilt is a neat stack of clothing with a note atop reading, “Please leave your clothes when you depart and wear these fresh ones. You’ll find a stream 20 paces to the left out the front door.” Unfolding the clothing, I find a crème wrap around skirt and a soft t-shirt a few shades darker.

I turn to the table and see another gift: crisp white paper and a pen. This needs no explanation and I find none as I look through the stack of heavy stock.

What I find instead is a table top, stunning in its beauty: the sanded wood has been carved intricately and colored in ocher, yellow and red. As I pull out the chair to sit and examine it more closely, I see it holds a surprise as well. The seat has been upholstered with an elaborate interweaving of fabric. Purples mingle with blues and reds splash through, making this simple space feel suddenly more throne room than hut. Feeling too simple and dirty to use such a stunning chair, I decide to clean off in the stream the note indicated.

As I turn back to the door, what I see elicits a gasp. The door, sanded but unfinished on the outside, contains a white beach bordering an ocean of fire. Bloodred wave wash up on a white shore, licking at the heels of a body laying there.

Too stunned to move, I catch my breath and wonder who did this. How did they know? Did someone see me wash ashore? How could they have known the water burned like fire?
Needing space to think, I head out the door, going several steps to my right before I recall that the note pointed me in the opposite direction.

The Beach

I make my way onto the beach, gasping as the sand rubs its way into the soles of my feet and the burns there. I mainly feel relief, relief that the pain is over, relief that there is no cliff in sight, relief that I am here. Wherever “here” is.

I don’t get very far before the throbbing of my feet forces me to sit. I hobble over to a log, still damp from the water, and nearly crash into it as I roughly sit down. I’ve only come a few feet onto the beach, but find I already need a rest. It will take some time for my body to do what it could before this. If I’m completely honest, I know it will take some time before my mind forgets the pain enough to plan without fear of it. I wonder which will heal first – my body or my mind?

I spend a moment just sitting, catching my breath and looking around. The bright sand is finely ground and would feel soft if my feet weren’t red, inflamed and blistered. Tall pines encircle the beach, their limbs swaying slightly to create a soft, soothing rustle. I can see into the darkness beneath the trees and long to get there for a rest, out of the sun, away from the water that brought me here. The more distance I can put between myself and what just happened, the better.

But the water catches my eye. From here, it looks so soothing, so inviting: not at all like the source of the pain I underwent so recently. It laps gently against the shore, bringing with it things that were once elsewhere. I wonder how much a shore changes over time. If left undisturbed, how long would a shell remain on the beach? Does the water drop it there, only to drag it back out again later? This is an intriguing line of thought until I remember that the water dropped me here. I’d rather not contemplate returning just now.

Motivated by the coolness that awaits me under the trees, I force myself up from the log and limp towards them. Pausing twice to catch my breath, I eventually make it there and am pleased to find the shade holds a carpet of pine needles and a breeze that licks my face.

If the beach is a place holding new treasures as often as the tides ebb and flow, this wooded glen feels quiet with long held prizes not easily offered up. It doesn’t feel as showy as the beach, but is appealing in its quiet confidence. The forest knows what it is and what its purpose is, while the beach changes and morphs, avoiding rest at all costs. It’s odd, now that I think about it, that the beach is such a restful place for me. It’s constantly in motion, while I love peace and quiet. I wonder if my enjoyment of the near-silent woods will increase as I mature and know who I am. Do I like the beach because I change and morph as constantly as it does?

Shuffling carefully along, I stop to rest against a tree trunk. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I see a hut a few meters in.

The Fire

The pole is ripped out of my hand as the air swirls and rushes around me. Before I have time to utter a scream, my body makes contact with what feels like liquid fire. I twist, kick, and fight, trying to push my way to the surface. Instead, I am pulled deeper into this pulsing redness which sears not only my skin, but entire body, inside and out.

I fight on, struggling to regain some control. I try swimming, but find my arms and legs won’t move like they would in water. I try climbing, but can’t get purchase on anything. The panic swirls in my mind, no recriminations about how stupid I was to even try this, just sheer panic. Recriminations will come later, I am sure. But for now, all I can think of is getting away from this pain. Yet I can not find a way out.

Finally, my energy waning, I stop fighting. I decide to let the pain overtake me and I wait. For death. For loss of consciousness. Either would be better than continuing to fight this losing battle. To my surprise, the pain ebbs as I stop fighting. Never retreating fully, but pulling out slightly from my body. Where once my spine ached with it, now only my head, feet and hands throb. I lay as still as I can, letting the viscous fluid carry me along. The pain never goes away, but I find I can bear it as it carries me along if I don’t fight.

Time passes. I wonder if I could now push my way out, so I again attempt to swim, only to find the pain shoot through my body, more powerful now than ever before. I go back to being carried along. I lose track of time as the pain controls my journey.

Eventually, the substance thins, the pain recedes and I wake to find I am on a sandy beach, its surface irritating my external burns, but its solidity comforting to my internal wounds.

The High Wire

Even holding the perfect balance in my hand, my mind and body freeze up as I look at the wire and the expanse below it. I can’t do this. I don’t know how to do this. I have never walked a tight wire, much less one stretched the length of a football field. And if (when?) I fall, it will kill me.

As if she can read these thoughts on my face, Irene says from beside me, “Terrifying, isn’t it?”

I turn my body to her. “I can’t do this. It’s crazy for me to even try. There’s no way I’ll make it to the other side.”

“And what if you don’t?”

I can’t believe she’s just asked me this. “If I don’t?! Look for yourself. I’ll die. Out here, alone. Painfully.”

“We’re all going to die. What choice do you have but to try? You can turn back. Go back to your crevice, or live in those rooms you bravely escaped. But is that living? Or just a different kind of dying? Are you alive simply because you are breathing?”

I understand the logic of her words, but anger wells up, spurred on by the icy fear coursing through my veins. “I. Can’t. Do. This.”

I don’t want to have this conversation. I want to hide, be alone, forget I ever found this place. I want the safety of what I know. But Irene is not leaving. She must sense my desire to shut down. It has to be written all over my face. But for the first time since I’ve met her, she does not comfort or pull back slightly when I need it. Instead, she pushes.

“I thought I knew you. Am I the only one who remembers what you’ve already done? Did you think you could use that plank to cross to the meadow? Was leaving behind what you knew you could do easy? Haven’t you changed at all? Why did you even come here?”

And now the fear turns to tears. My eyes well up and overflow as I stare across the chasm. The activity there seems to be gearing down and music accompanies the voices and the thrum of activity.

Irene’s words circle in my mind: Why did I come here? Is living the old way really living? Do I want to go back? Could I even go back? Why did I come here? Why did I come here?

Still fearful, but knowing I must set that aside, I ask Irene if I could have some time alone. She gives me a skeptical look, like she half-expects me bolt back to the meadow the minute she leaves. But she doesn’t say that. Instead, she walks over to the amphora and picks up a balancing pole. As she walks past me to the high wire, she pauses to embrace me.

“I’ll see you when you get there,” she says quietly.

And with no hesitation, she leaves. Her feet grip the wire, her pole perfectly straight, her eyes focused on her destination. In mere moments, she is on the other side. I watch her place her pole in a vessel and walk away, without looking back.
Holding the image in my mind of Irene’s confident, successful crossing, I step to the edge. I realize I am gripping my pole tightly, so I close my eyes, take a deep breath and relax my grip. Opening my eyes, I look down to ensure my feet are positioned correctly and take my first step.

The wire is tight beneath my feet, implying solid ground beneath it. I take a step, then two, using my pole to keep my balance in check.

And then I fall.

The Cliff

The sounds I heard earlier sharpen as we approach. I can hear metal strike metal, hammer drive nail into wood and the whoosh of fire being stoked. I try to focus on these sounds rather than those that accompany them: voices, voices, and more voices. Some singing, some talking, some rising and falling in heated conversation.
What will these people think of me? Will they know I don’t belong? Will they be able to see on my face that I have no gift worth sharing? Should I just turn back the way I came and not face the rejection that surely awaits me?

The stream of questions my mind throws at me grind to a screeching halt as the woods end and I find myself standing on a cliff. The height of this cliff and the distance from one side to the other make my journeys from the crevice to the meadow seem like a walk in the park compared to the high wire marathon that awaits me. And I do mean high wire.

A literal high wire stretches tautly from one side of the cliff to the other. My body and mind stop at the edge of the cliff and I look around.

A huge Greek style amphora sits over to my right, filled with long poles. Trying hard to keep my eyes away from the cliff and what awaits me, I walk over to the amphora. It is the largest vase of its kind I’ve ever seen. The top of it comes to just above my waist and the designs are intricate. Someone studied Greek pottery very closely to be able to create a replica this authentic. Looking closer, I wonder whether this is actually a replica – the scene encircling the amphora’s neck is classic Greek subject matter and even the slip is faded, as it surely would be after centuries of use. Where exactly am I?

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Irene says quietly as I continue to crouch by the vase to examine it.

“Yes, I love pottery. I took a class in it years ago and fell in love with the fact that beauty is only part of the reason for pots. I think the blend of beauty and utility strikes a chord with me. There's no question of whether it's art worth making since it can be used immediately. And it’s amazing what people were able to make, long before electric wheels, gas fired kilns and metallic glazes. What are these poles in it?”

“They help you balance on the high wire. There’s always an assortment, so every traveler can choose the one that feels best. Does one look appealing to you?”

Wondering whether there is another vase somewhere containing safety harnesses instead of guide poles, I lift a pole out. I immediately know this is not the pole for me. Even standing on solid ground, I nearly topple over as I try to compensate for the heavy weight on the left and extreme lightness on the right. I try a few others that range from too heavy to insubstantial until I find one that feels just right. It sits perfectly in my hands and seems to anchor me to the ground.

Having found my guide, I walk to the edge of the cliff and look at the high wire. I thought the plank was thin, but that was nothing compared to this.

The Stream

I meander down the trail, trying to clear my mind of the fear that clouds my very vision. My jumbled mind jumps from one image to another, brimming to overflowing with questions. But I know deep down that it is not my mind that I need to listen to right now.

Seeking a place to still my body and soul, I come upon a quiet stream bordered by rocks worn smooth over time as if in preparation for my need for rest.

Irene is right that I am stronger than I acknowledge. I would never have believed I could have faced my fears – and seen others face them – and walked right out of that room. And I still get a bit queasy when I think about the thin plank that kept me from crashing into the cleft below. So I can do things that are hard.

But do I really believe I have a gift? What could possibly be special about me? And could I honestly expect a group of gifted people to welcome me as one of them?

Sighing, I look down into the stream and let my focus move beyond myself. The rocks lining the river bed are multihued, no two exactly the same color. But this is only apparent when I look closely. From a distance of even a few feet, the riverbed looks grey, the individual rocks merging into a seamless whole. But up close, each rock shines its cobalt, jade, mauve, amber, and yes, grey.

Maybe the people Irene wants to take me to are like these rocks – similar from a distance, but unique in their shape, in their hue, in their gifts. What’s one more rock in the river bed?

Knowing that my decision has been made, I decide it’s best to go straight back to Irene. The longer I hesitate, the more I will question what I know to be the right path.

As I walk to rejoin Irene, I savor the quiet of the woods. I’m definitely not surrounded by silence, but the crunch of the leaves under my feet, the high pitched avian communications and the rustling of small animals is soothing rather than jarring. I see Irene ahead, sitting quietly where I left her. Her eyes are closed and her face is thoughtful. As I approach, I see small changes in her face – a fleeting smile, a wrinkled forehead that smoothes, a tensing and relaxing of facial muscles – and I know she is not alone. Her prayers are almost visible as they leave her and soar up to the trees and beyond.

Saying my own silent prayer for boldness, I sit down beside Irene and wait.

I don’t have to wait for long. With a satisfied sigh, Irene opens her eyes and looks straight into my own.

“Well?”

“Let’s go.” I say as I stand.

The Copse

We leave the exposure of the meadow and enter the copse of trees, walking slowly, comfortably silent. I find it easy to walk with Irene. Her stride matches my own and the silence between us is not fraught with tension, like a rubber band waiting to snap. Instead, the silence weaves threads between us, linking us in experience, if not words.

While the grove is the furthest out on this journey that I have been, it feels like a middle ground. There is little of the stark hardness of the crevice and the greens, while monochromatic, are not monotonous. I find myself relaxing after the daunting traversal of the gulch and the subsequent meadow. Perhaps a walk through the wood is what I need to detox after my time alone and ready myself to carry on.

But even as I feel my breathing slow and my gait relax, I hear sounds up ahead. Muted whacks. Sharp pings. Low, deep voices and light, higher ones meld in conversation. The sounds are not threatening, but clearly indicate there are people ahead. My stride constricts, my pace slows and eventually becomes a near tip-toe. In my desire to prepare myself, I have forgotten there is someone with me.

“Shannon? What’s wrong?” Irene says calmly.

“Oh. I was just surprised to hear people. Where are we going? I was enjoying the quiet calm of the woods when I realized there’s more than trees here.”

“Well, yes. There are more than trees. What you hear ahead is what I wanted to show you. Do you want to sit and eat before we carry on? I’ve brought lunch in my backpack. While we eat, I can tell you a bit about what’s ahead.”

Thinking I would like to prolong my stay in the leafy shadows, I quickly agree to lunch. Breakfast’s bread and water in the crevice seem a distant memory at this point.

Sitting together on dappled ground, we lunch and I ask Irene about the voices and noises I heard up ahead.

“As a mom, you’ve seen firsthand how we all have different gifts, right? Well, up ahead is a group of people who are all working together and as individuals to find, understand and use their gifts. It generates some noise, especially in contrast to the forest’s quiet.”

“How did they all get here? Do they all know each other? Do they live here?”

“They got here in much the same way you did: they chose to leave some things behind and walk into an unknown place. Most of them didn’t know each other before they got here and some live here, some come and go. There’s really only one rule: everyone’s gift is valuable and no one, not even the gift’s owner, can disparage a gift.” Irene says the last with a tone of gentle urgency and waits for my reaction.

Thinking to myself that this place sounds as scary and as thrilling as Shangri-La, I ask, “Why are we going there?”

“I think you already know the answer to that, Shannon.”

“How do you know I’m supposed to go there? How do you know I even have a gift?” I sputter.

“You do have a gift. Why else would you have come all this way? You have given birth to children. You can birth your gift as well. All birth brings pain, but it is pain worth bearing.”

“You don’t even know me. How can you know where I belong? What if I fail? What if I really set out to seek my gift and come up empty? That seems far worse than not knowing the outcome for certain.”

“Shannon, you can do this. You are strong. You are whole. You’re being made whole even as we speak. The holes inside that only you can see and feel will be no more. You believe this. Examine your heart and your mind and you will know it to be true.”

Sensing immediately the truth of her words, but hesitant to just jump in, I say, “Could I have a few minutes alone before we head on?”

“Take all the time you need,” Irene says as she clears lunch away and watches me wander down a trail towards quiet.

The Meadow

Waiting for me on the other side is the owner of the calm voice who encouraged me during the crossing. Smiling, I hold my hand out to her.

“Boy, am I glad that’s over. I’m Shannon. I know we’ve met before, but I was too shaken to properly introduce myself. I’m glad to see you again and have the opportunity to set things right.”

“I’m Irene. It’s nice to have you here. No need to apologize about before, I’ve been through some rooms like the ones you walked through and I think I emerged feeling much the way you did. You seemed to need food, drink and rest more than conversation, so I was happy to oblige.”

“Yes, that was exactly how I was feeling. Thanks for understanding that. Is this where you live? I’d love to have a backyard like this!” I say as I gesture to the lush meadow surrounding us.

Irene smiles and says, “No, this isn’t my home, but I do enjoy it here. Would you like to look around? There’s something I think you’d enjoy seeing, if you’re in no rush to move on.”

Assuring her that I am in no rush at all, we begin to walk through the meadow. It’s the best time of year to do so: the wildflowers are a riot of color, the wind is cool without chill and the sun bathes everything in a glow of light. Winter’s greys, browns and whites are nowhere to be found. Just color, color and more color. It’s hard to believe this awaited me around the corner from my crevice, which was day upon day of grey. Yet I find the rampage of color leaving me dazed. After days of being safely enclosed, the meadow’s lack of confinement is startling. The variety of colors and flowers excites, but also exhausts. I find my attention flitting from place to place, with nowhere to settle and stay for a moment. While I know this is not a battlefield, I am relieved to reach the safety of the woods.

The Abyss

Feeling calmer, I crawl out of the crevice and move towards the abyss.

I stop at the edge of the plank and look towards the other side. The meadow is the size of an urban back yard with an irregular border of trees enclosing it. Wild blueberry bushes can be seen even from across the chasm and my steady diet of bread and water in the crevice pales in comparison to the imagined taste of these plump blue orbs.

I look back, past my recent abode in the crevice, and see the heavy oak door and beyond it, the table. But there is room for nothing else here, so I steady myself mentally and physically and take the first step onto the plank.

After I’ve taken about three steps, I hear a voice say, “You know, you’re never going to be able to do this. You’ve never been good at balancing. You’re going to fall. And think about how much that is going to hurt.”

I recognize this voice. I've spent days, weeks, months trying to quiet my inner saboteur, but that doesn’t make it any easier to not listen. Her voice is so quick to target my weaknesses in the most sensitive spot. I focus my eyes a few steps ahead of me and try to clear my mind. The plank wobbles slightly and fear creeps under my skin, throwing tentacles outward with chilling quickness. Afraid to stop, afraid to turn back, I take another hesitant step and risk a look at the other side.

Standing there, I see the woman who prepared the table for me. The one who waited on the other side of fear. In a voice so different from the one in my head, she says, “You can do this. You’re almost halfway here. And if you can leave behind the comforts of home, the busy-ness of life, what you think you know and even your fears, you can walk a few more steps to get here. Think of what you've already done to remember what you can do.”

For some reason, the confidence in her voice seems stronger than the desperation of the voice inside my head. While my inner voice continues to insist I will fail, a hint of hysteria creeps in as the voice realizes I do not believe what it is saying. In fact, the inner saboteur doesn’t believe her own words. Like me, she’s heard the complete certainty in the woman’s voice and knows the outcome of the halting steps I have already taken.

And then, the board stills and I advance confidently to the other side, hardly noticing the narrow width my feet traverse.

The Crevice

Tired from the journey so far, I roll onto my stomach and fall asleep without giving the new ledge and meadow a second thought.


I wake in the morning to find a jug of lukewarm water and some bread. I read as I breakfast, having brought last night’s offering from the table with me when I headed for rest. The book is not great art, but it is an easy read and, more to the point, it keeps my mind off of yesterday’s rooms, what I left behind and what might await me.

I read.

And read.

And read.

Stopping occasionally to drink a bit more water, nap for a few minutes or stretch my legs.

But mostly, I stay in the crevice that seems made just for me and I read.

And then, after a few days of reading, eating and sleeping… I finish the book.

“What now?” I think to myself. Peering out of the crevice, I look back towards the table that once held food and a companion who had waited to meet me. Then I look towards the meadow that drew me in this direction a few days hence.

In the light of day, the plank to get to the meadow doesn’t seem as narrow as I remember– it seems even thinner, maybe impossibly so and the gap between the ledges seems cavernous. But what awaits me if I go back? A door that holds a room with all I fear most and a table whose offerings, while lovely, are not all that I want from this trip.

So I close my eyes for a moment, thinking slowly and deliberately. I picture myself straightening up on the ledge and confidently, slowly, successfully navigating my way to the meadow. Feeling calmer, I crawl out of the crevice and move towards the abyss.

The Table

Trembling slightly, I leave fear's darkness behind and step into blinding light and onto the precipice.

I take a deep breath. Closing my eyes, I exhale slowly and lean back against the closed door. Even with the door firmly shut, I can feel the fearful images crowding against the other side, trying to break through and swirl around me. But I was strong enough to go through the door and I will not let the fear come crashing through. I open my eyes to find I am not alone.

A small woman, with close cropped white hair watches me through serious, but gentle eyes. While I do not know her, there is something familiar about her. She’s an age my grandmother never reached, but seems so full of life it’s hard to believe her own life is mostly behind her. As I am processing the fact that someone else is on the precipice with me, she speaks.

“Shannon, I am so proud of you. I know that wasn’t easy to do. Those rooms are hard to walk through and even harder to leave. But you did it. You followed your gift. I’m here to help you take the next steps.”

Feeling like I couldn’t take another step, I blurt, “You mean I don’t get to rest here for a while?” The shortness of my answer takes me somewhat by surprise – I don’t even know this woman. She is unruffled and unsurprised by my reaction.

I apologize for my shortness and catch a look from her that makes me ask her, “Do I know you?”

“No, not really,” she says with a smile. “But I’ve watched you for quite a while and I couldn’t be happier that you’re here. I’ve been waiting for you for a long time. And you do get to rest before moving on. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Here, have a seat.”

This time, my mind is quicker than my tongue so I don’t demand to know why she’s waiting for me if we’ve never met. I’ve never been to the precipice before and I’m finding it a strange place thus far.

As I make my way to a table nestled on the ledge’s deepest spot, I realize what makes the woman familiar. It’s not really the way she looks, so much as the way she looks at me. It’s the way I look at my daughters when they’ve done something completely unexpected that gives a flash of who they are at the core of their being – a celebratory dance, a new way of seeing something, a smile that splits her face open. Why on earth would she look at me that way?

The table she leads me to is mirage-like. As I slide into the only chair at the table and take a sip of clean, cold water, I turn to ask my hostess if she’s sure all of this is for me. But she’s gone. I’m frankly too tired to go find her and just thankful to be alone after feeling crowded, bombarded, and hemmed in by my fears. Finishing my water, I sip a glass of room temperature red wine and nibble on a plate filled to overflowing with cheese, fruit and nuts. Reaching to refill my glass, I find a book sitting under the bottle. Several chapters later, I realize my eyes are tired and my mind is drifting. After re-reading the same passage three times without comprehending the meaning, I place a leaf between the pages, close the book and look around.

The table sits on the widest part of the ledge, to the right of the heavy oak door guarding my deepest fears and grandest hopes. To the left of the door, the ridge thins dramatically, curves and ends altogether. Just before it ends lies a rough hewn plank, about the width of my two hands together. The plank bridges a gap between the precipice I stand on and another, wider ledge surrounded by a verdant meadow. It looks much more accommodating than my current locale, but as I move towards the plank, I see it spans a chasm so deep I can’t see its bottom.

Having begun to replenish both body and soul, I know I need sleep, so I head towards the plank. I certainly can’t sleep on the table which fills the only available space on my side of the rift. I inch along the tight ridge. As I approach the section right before the plank, I see a crevice that appears almost carved to fit my body exactly.

I crouch down to peer into the crevice.

Inside, the stone floor holds a rough pallet. Crawling in, I find I can lie down fully, if not comfortably. Tired from the journey so far, I roll onto my stomach and fall asleep without giving the new ledge and meadow a second thought.

Balls in the Air

A fable for today:

Once upon a time, there was a woman. This woman was terrible at some things, so-so at other things and very good at a few things. These things became balls in her life and she found she could juggle the few things she was very good at quite easily.

She held the large ball of her job lightly on her fingertips, tossed it high in the air while she cradled the soft ball of her marriage and occasionally held the squishy ball of friendship. She was happy with each of these balls and even had time to read books when the balls were all in the air.

The woman decided she could add some balls to her life, since she was so good at juggling the ones she had.

In quick succession, she threw in three balls and named them A, B and K. Before she knew it, the three balls had become six, then nine, then twelve. How did these balls multiply unlike any others before?

The woman didn't realize it, but the three new balls each came with their own balls to juggle and until they were old enough, she had to juggle her own balls and theirs. To her astonishment and dismay, the woman was overwhelmed. She was astonished at her own incompetence, dismayed because she loved those three balls dearly and did not want to disappoint and overwhelmed because... well, you would be overwhelmed too if you were trying to juggle 15 balls when you once juggled only three.

She had gone from being very good at a few things to being very bad at many things, but the balls just would not go away and they kept coming at her faster and faster.

The woman tried to get rid of some balls. This worked for a time, but the balls would just come bouncing back, waiting for her to take them up again. And really, she wanted some of those balls. She had once found her job a light burden, but now it felt like lead in her hands. How could she lighten it enough to still hold it?

Some days, the woman wanted to just throw her hands over her head and hide from the bouncing balls. But that didn't really work and she felt worse than ever when she tried that.

The woman finally decided that balls were meant to bounce and stopped trying to juggle every ball every day. Some days she still felt bombarded by the balls and had bruises from dropping them on herself. But she reminded herself that the balls were not made of glass and would not break if she sometimes let them bounce for a while unattended.

If you see this woman walking around with her hands, arms and the air around her full of balls, please stop to offer her a kind word of encouragement.

The Inner Saboteur

A bit of fiction:

Dear Inner Saboteur,

It’s a little odd to address you so directly, since I normally try to ignore you, tell you to shut up, or just listen in silent acceptance. It’s especially difficult to address you in a civil, conciliatory tone, but that’s what I’d like to do. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about you and why you talk to me the way you do.

The way I see it, you’re not like Athena. You didn’t spring fully formed from my mind. You’ve evolved over time and are more likely a product of my insecurities, my fears and my failure to recognize lies I have been told as lies and not truths. I imagine the seed of your voice was planted when I was a little girl and I can picture you then, trying to build walls that words would not penetrate. You worked just as hard as you could, but the lies came pummeling through anyway, so you gave up and started hurling words back.

If you were an animal, you would be a porcupine. You prickle at the slightest provocation and are likely to sting any who approach you, including me. But unlike a porcupine, you don’t sting with quills but with words. Of course you sting with words. You are me, after all. And words have always been my greatest strength and worst weakness. Over time, I have curbed my tendency to attack others with words, but you, my saboteur, have not shown me the same courtesy. You continue to berate me with keen insights, cutting observations and subtle lies that I sometimes mistake for the truth.

I’ve tried this lent to ignore your voice and while it works sometimes, it is truly a battle. While I’ve tried to attack head on, you have retreated from frontal attacks and moved over to subtle sabotage. I have decided the best way to silence you is to listen to my Spirit instead of you. When I hear something unkind, it’s not my Spirit, it’s you. And while my Spirit wants the best for me, you do not. You want what is safest, what leaves me alone, what keeps me exactly the way I am.

So I guess you can keep talking and I’ll just stop listening. You see, I don’t need you anymore. I don’t need a porcupine to defend me because I have a Shield. My Shield listens to my Spirit and does a much better job than a porcupine of knowing the truth from a lie and of allowing the former through while blocking the latter. If you’d like to join me here behind my Shield, you’ll find a safer, more loving place than you’ve ever been.

Written In Love, WordGirl

Seasons

A bit of fiction today:

AUTUMN

The tree stands on a slight rise in the landscape. I see it from my window and watch as its leaves change ever so slowly. One day, I look and realize the green has completely given way to amber, russet, sienna. I’ve been meaning to take a walk anyway and the sudden awareness of fall’s presence lends urgency to my desire. If I wait much longer, the leaves might be gone altogether.

Pulling on a light jacket, I head out the door. My enthusiasm fades a bit as I side step debris, discarded wrappers and trampled plastic along the way. As I reach the tree, my heart sags slightly. It was more beautiful from my window. Up close, I can see young branches being crowded out, no one having cared enough to foster their growth. If someone doesn’t step in soon, the tree will be a tangle of limbs and branches, unattractive and dying a slow death.

As I head back home, I ponder the tree. What do I look like from a distance? Do I seem to have it all together if no one comes too close? Are my clothes, my family, my job flashy leaves that hide the tangle of my soul? At least I am blessed with a gardener whose shears carefully trim only what needs to go. Only he can shape me to be more like him, to be who he made me to be.

WINTER

As I sit in my favorite chair with a blanket over my lap and a cup of steaming tea beside me, I flip through the TV channels. Looking for something to hold my interest, I stop on a news segment. A bear hibernates onscreen. I put down the remote and settle down to listen. This black bear will be able to go 100 days without eating, drinking or exercising. He prepares for his hibernation months in advance – loading up on carbs, getting his den ready and hidden. When this fascinating story is over, I click the TV off. The weather is cold outside and I think about hibernating myself. I pull the blanket higher up on my arms and sip my tea.

How would I prepare for hibernation? What would I need to sustain me from participating in the everyday activities of life? How would God use a time of rest and quiet to feed my soul? Thinking about the bear that can go 100 days without performing regular daily activities, I ponder whether I can go 100 minutes before busying my mind, my hands and my heart with cooking, cleaning and working.

Closing my eyes, I try to picture curling up in a den, alone with God. What would he teach me? What could I learn from a time of rest to prepare me for the burst of energy and fruitfulness brought on with spring and summer?

SPRING

I look out the window and see a late birthday present peeking out of the ground. Tulips planted last fall in honor of my birthday are making their way above ground, waiting to unfurl their bold red petals for all to see. Smiling to myself, I finish washing the dishes and think about how difficult last fall was for me. I wasn’t even able to plant those tulip bulbs myself. While I had purchased them with every intention of putting them in just that spot in the garden, life’s events, my grief and my pain crowded out all thought of beauty or planning for beauty in months to come.

Luckily, I am blessed with a loving and kind neighbor who took it upon herself to do what I couldn’t. I wonder if age has given her a wisdom and insight that told her even though I was stuck in the depths of autumn, spring would come eventually. And these tulips would be there to remind me. To remind me both that spring comes and that some seeds take longer to germinate than others. Five months ago, I would never have believed I would be able to take joy from the simple pleasure of seeing a green stalk force its way to light, bringing a foretaste of the brilliant color to follow. But what, other than spring’s fruitfulness, could make washing the dishes a pleasure?

SUMMER

Even in the early morning, the heat is like a physical presence. Hoping to miss the worst of it, I drink just one cup of coffee and head out to water the garden. It’s surprisingly relaxing to stand here listening to the neighborhood wake up and watching the water make patterns in the soil. Who would have thought I would ever have a vegetable garden? I had to give up house plants after getting a cat because I couldn’t keep both alive at the same time. I would remember to feed one, but not the other and ultimately decided the cat’s needs were more pressing. Somehow a vegetable garden feels different than a house plant or flowers: more purposeful, more productive and with tangible, edible results.

Lost in my anticipation of just what those edible results will taste like, I suddenly see something that wasn’t there when I watered yesterday: the season’s first red tomato. I think back to yesterday, certain my spray of water landed on a backdrop of green, unbroken by this bright red splash. Yet there it is. I pause in watering to peer closer and confirm that a plant in my garden has yielded results. I gently pluck this gift from the vine and head inside, more excited than a reasonable person would be.

Perhaps I’m just feeling introspective today, but this tomato feels like more than just a vegetable to adorn my dinner plate tonight. It feels like a gift. Not a gift I’ve worked for, to be sure, but a gift nonetheless. All of my nurturing, weeding and oversight would have produced nothing without the sunlight and rain necessary to take a tiny seed and turn it into food. So I’m thankful for the gift. But while I didn’t create this tomato, it wouldn’t have appeared in my yard without me and that reminds me that God can use me. If he can bless my gardening efforts, inept though I may be, he can surely use me for other purposes he designs.

So... what season are you in?