“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

10.26.2014

hiding places and small stories


this year's pumpkin is smaller than last year's.  i thought at first less boastful, quieter, a bit more shy, but then i tossed a garland made of left over paper edges across the back of its chair, and thought perhaps not.  perhaps just a bit more more sly.  the queen of her own parade.

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i worry, you know, that i should have more - i've said it before, and i say it to myself all the time, that i should have something to teach, something to tell you that's deep and wise, but this week changed my mind.  this once again awful, sad, heartbreaking week in the world, when i found myself burrowing deeper into books that comforted me, books offering nothing more than just a good story. i swallowed the words like warm tea, like cherry flavored medicine, as if my mother were there, reading me a bedtime story.  it was late friday afternoon - i can pinpoint the moment - when i felt the shift in my soul, when i knew without a doubt those were the stories i want to share here. stories small enough to tuck into christmas stockings.  i have nothing to teach, but i have more than enough to share.  until that moment on friday afternoon, i couldn't have said that with absolute sureness, but then, there was that moment, the news on the radio in michael's office drifting into my office, and i knew it was enough.

the year is continuing to move by so fast, november now just a heartbeat away.  i feel as if i've been tied to its coattails, flying in the wind.  a piece of that garland in the picture above.  i already know my word for next year - movement.  that's how sure i am of myself, of the rightness of this.  it may not be much of a shift in the stories, but it's a shift in the storyteller, and who knows where that will lead?  i am still navigating, still finding new paths. months ago i lost the back to an earring, one that belonged to a pair of diamond studs michael gave me the year my father died.  gold.  shiny.  i thought it would be easy to find.  i shined flashlights and looked and looked and wore my bare feet across the carpet, but it was gone.  until yesterday.  i looked down and there it was.

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today is warm and full of sunshine.  i look outside at the bigger scatter of leaves outside the door and see that autumn is a bit more serious about showing up, but then remind myself that though the ginkgo across the street has gone all yellow, the big one on the corner is still green.  this morning the shadow of a hawk fell across the grass, silencing the birds - i tried to find it in the trees, but they are still good hiding places, and i never did.  

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8 comments:

  1. I love visiting you for all the reasons in this post. In my own way I share so many of the worries you state here, and I thank you for making clear to me what I know but don't always want to say. Thank you, my friend. xo

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  2. so. i just wrote of why choosing a word is your fault. my choosing and agonizing over a word. trying to remember my word?
    and after telling you all of the reasons... it is your fault...i do this. it disappeared. a laugh out loud moment.
    the word gods after me.
    but i still wanted you to know... you started this. it is your fault. now i must think of another word as this year comes to an end. i will start tomorrow!
    in my fondest, tilda

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  3. i already chose my word(s) for next year, too (on twitter)... but i'm sure to choose several others as well. :)

    whichever words you choose, they are always beautiful.

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  4. Your blog is the oasis I come to when the chaos is too much to take in...
    Thank you for being here.


    Noodle's crew, Vicki

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  5. Yes, it is your small stories that we visit to hear; the seemingly insignificant moments that remind us that the floor is covered in diamonds; we don't always see them, but they are always there.

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  6. I just found your blog yesterday and have read through many of your older posts.....if you wrote just one sentence, I would return. I don't always need deep and wise.

    happy to have found you! :)

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  7. i was recently asked to teach a course, and my initial response was panic. sheer, utter, thorough panic. now i'm trained as a teacher (undergraduate), and i've spent a goodly part of my life teaching others one thing or another - first through books, then through conversations, then through hands. i think that last stop is where the real learning occurred. but now, being on the finite side of infinity, i know this one thing for sure: i'm more student than teacher, and i have more questions than answers. something that just is, but is not always comforting or comfortable.

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