May We Never Lose Our Wonder
World events in the last few weeks have given me cause to wonder. In both positive and negative ways. I’m naturally a reflective person, so any time events happen, my heart turns to mulling over ideas and trying to understand. It’s been heartbreaking to see the response to attacks of terror, especially from those who label themselves Christ-followers or Christians. The response of fear, hatred, anger and venom have reflected something that is very Anti-Christ. It’s completely against the Good News that we are supposed to carry. So, this morning, I just wanted to take a moment and wonder what would be different if we chose to live in a place of wonder. To wonder and reflect on those things that we need to be challenged by and work on, and to wonder and reflect on those things that are brilliant and stunning and beautiful and filled with love and goodness.
The Hunt
Well folks, here is the next installment of Emmeline, sponsored by NaNoWriMo. I hope to get back to my Holstee Manifesto Series once I’ve caught myself up with the novel. Hope you enjoy a bit of fiction this evening. Much love and warm fuzzies to all my readers.
As we approached the dragon, it stood its ground, barring our way. Derek placed his palm out in greeting, dragging me along behind him. I wasn’t precisely sure what the protocol was for meeting dragons, but I didn’t want to insult him by looking him in the eyes. So I kept my gaze downcast, even as it paced back and forth. Derek stopped, a bit confused.
“Lig, what’s the story?”
Apparently this dragon had a name. I didn’t like the way that it kept staring at me and snorting, however. And I’m guessing that Derek didn’t either.
“Derek, she is claimed.”
Derek looked at me directly, with a great deal of compassion in his eyes. “Emmie, I need you to answer this honestly, ok?”
“Sure, Derek.”
“Have you at any point in time, to your knowledge, made a bargain regarding your soul?”
“Are you talking like a Faustian soul sale? That’s ridiculous.”
Read MoreDoing It Afraid 1: The series I was supposed to write…
Over the next month, you’ll see a bit more activity on the site. As I’ve committed to NaNoWriMo and finished my final academic piece, I’m now set to pursue my passion like my derriere is on fire. It’s taken me a while to realize that this is one of the things that I was born to do – because I can’t *not* do it. I love it. I can’t get enough of it. I love the sound of my fingers clacking on the keyboard, the scratch of a pen on paper. It’s all part and parcel.
I’ve decided, in full awareness of my own limitations and tendencies to procrastinate, that I will begin with regular posts on something I recently found called the Holstee Manifesto. I know it’s been out for at least two years, but it only recently entered my inbox. This manifesto reminded me of so many of the things that I remind myself of every day. So, I hope you come back and join us for the journey. I know I’m looking forward to it.
Read More
It was always you…
I knew there was something wrong as I walked up to the car. But I kept hoping I was mistaken. I pulled up on the handle and…
S**t.
It was open.
When I looked in through the window, I saw the frayed end of the cable that emerged from the tape deck. The thief couldn’t even be bothered to unplug the cable from the CD player. So I opened the door. I figured it could have been worse. It could have been a broken window, a stolen car. Then the strangeness set in. My five favourite discs were sitting on the passenger seat.
You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.
Someone had taken the time to open my disc case and remove the five CDs that were on constant play in my car. I should have been relieved. I could have assumed it was the musical angels watching out over me. But reality kicked in. Common sense in this case dictated that the thief was someone who knew me. And didn’t just know me, but knew me well enough to know the CDs that I cared about. Don’t get me wrong. I was incredibly grateful that I still had them. But the sense of betrayal from this wasn’t going to go away easily. Suspicion kicked in.
I knew the two people that it wasn’t…
The Gates Are Open
There was a cool breeze blowing bits of my hair into my face. Normally, I wouldn’t have minded, but at this moment, the last thing I wanted was the irritation of spitting fine strands out of my mouth. My fingers curled tightly around the hand clasped in mine. His hand was warm and calloused, every time I held it, I was reminded of the alarm clock that rang at 4:30am. He worked with his hands, building and renovating old houses. I could feel his strength seeping into me through his grasp. We were lying on the grass, staring up at the campanile. The clock seemed to be moving painfully slow, as we waited for it to toll midnight. Each blade of grass seemed to press into my flesh like a thorough acupuncture session. Even through my shorts and tank top, I could feel the strange little pricks to my skin. I had contemplated slightly more sturdy wear, but it was summer in California, and anything more than shorts and a tank top would have left me gasping and sweat streaming down my spine. I turned my head to face him. His long hair spread out around him like a halo.
“I’m scared.”
He turned to look back at me with an impish grin. “There’s no need.”
But how do you explain to your best friend that the thought of other worlds was a bit much, even though you’d been living with it for your entire life?
Read MoreWednesdays and Velvet Elvis
A Velvet Elvis hung on the wall. Next to a black velvet sunset. Beneath it sat a bright orange couch which I had fallen asleep on numerous times. This was my refuge, my safe place. It was public, so nothing could happen to me here. I was surrounded by those who loved me and would protect me at any cost. And once or twice a week, they would let me sing.
You walked into this place, and you felt a bustling sense of home. It didn’t seem to know its purpose, yet it seemed to be fulfilling it all the same. Tables out front had chairs filled with people, one hand casually drawing lit cigarettes to their mouths, ashtrays overflowing. The mugs steamed on the tabletop, decorated with drizzles of chocolate, swirls of whipped cream.
My chocolate drizzle was always the same. A treble clef. He said it was because I sang like an angel. No one ever really commented on my guitar-playing, but then again, I think the saying goes… “if you can’t say anything nice…”
And some nights, groups of us would laugh and dance. Or we would sit in the small pedestrian alleyway that led to the bathrooms. We would drum and we would sing, and our lives were rich and bohemian. Truth, Beauty, Freedom, Love. We had it all.
When it closed forever, it sold everything. Including the Velvet Elvis.
I bought the velvet sunset. It reminded me of safe places, love and beauty.
And when the doors closed for the very last time, I walked down Main Street completely at a loss. Knowing that the bohemian girl was going to go into hibernation, and I didn’t know if she would ever return.
When Desert Winds Blow
It had been an incredibly long day. I had left Berkeley early that morning, a bit rough from the night before. I’m honestly not sure whether or not I had even slept. But I arrived in Los Angeles on Saturday afternoon. I hadn’t come for a specific purpose, but then again, in those days, I ran full gypsy, embracing the road like a drunken lover. I had left Berkeley in order to run from something – I was usually running from something – and arrived in Los Angeles in order to escape.
Dead tired, red-eyed from lack of sleep, I decided my next step. It didn’t matter that it was nearing midnight, or that I hadn’t even rested in days, I headed out to the Nuart. It was Saturday night, and Sins of the Flesh was on. I had never wanted to perform in the show, but normally it was enough to go and see the old crowd. Various people would come at various times. But this night was slightly different. Someone was joining the navy the next day.
I think many of us were still wondering why
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The Whispered Life by Katherine Sturm is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.