icy air knocks
breath from
unsuspecting lungs
suddenly
transforming
lethargy into
mental lucidity –
or quite possibly, simply
questions of the heart.
***
unlikely embrace
the muddled
mind struggles to
grasp the hidden
mystery of
light and dark
tangible and spiritual
love and hate
plenty and want
pain and comfort
torture and healing
no matter the effort
there is no escaping
the confusing
collision of
treachery and peace
fear and trust
consumption and contentment
pursuit and retreat
slander and blessing
judgment and grace
quite impossible
to reconcile
the jarring
dichotomy of
alienation and belonging
weeping and laughter
violence and nurture
superiority and subservience
disillusionment and contentment
hope and despair
it’s easier,
perhaps,
to have one or the other
– give me right or wrong
black or white
up or down
hot or cold
great or small
important or insignificant
just never
allow one to
dwell alongside
the other
in peace – they say –
for that will
most assuredly result in a …..discomfort ……….dissonance ……………disaster
that cannot be ……tamed ……….predicted or ……………controlled.
despite unrelenting
incessant
grating contrariness,
a gasp is heard, why?
how long?
when?
for what reason?
will it end?
does it matter?
to question
is to hope,
to believe,
to be human,
to aspire to more
than tired
self-serving platitudes
blustery attitudes of
certainty and self-professed
infallibility.
one voice –
at first faintly audible –
emerges, becoming
a chorus
of unlikely
origin,
swelling from
bitter lament
rising to declare all is not lost!
in mystery
the breadth of
human experience
is embraced,
inviting paradox
along with conviction,
reverencing grandeur not above humility
honoring every person – every experience –
as valuable, beautiful, lovely.
Photo Credit: Irmgard Scheigets, Acrylic, Bücher, III.
..
…
. …an introduction to a book honoring the story behind each face...
.
.
….
This project was born out of years of stories told, lived, heard.
Stories heard
on planes
in classrooms
in church basements
one-on-one in quiet places
after public events
over coffee
in parks
on the phone.
Stories
experienced personally or
along with friends
people next to me
conference participants
clients
–all of whom I love and respect deeply.
You my think you see someone here–
recognize her–
but you will not
except in how she–
her story–
will mirror your own
or that of someone
you love and care about.
So many women’s and girls’ stories
would never see the light of day
(apart from the narrowly confined
context in which they were shared)
were it not for someone–
anyone with an open soul
and an active pen–
to give them life.
Their lives
encourage others’ lives.
So I’m stepping up volunteering taking the leap to…
…publish a compilation of flash fiction stories dedicated to girls and women, and to those who wish to see them overcome, flourish and thrive…
What you read on this site under Flash Fiction
gives you a preview
a smattering of both pre-edited and edited stories
which will appear in the book
Behind Each Face
For truly,
there are priceless
fascinating
excruciating and
exhilarating stories Behind Each Face.
On this day–the uncomfortable day between crucifixion and resurrection, darkness and light, horror and hope–we have the rare opportunity to allow the darkness to sink deeply into our souls. We tend to rush resurrection, searching for light, because we shudder to linger in crucifixion. It terrifies us, forces us to face our own tendency to betray, traumatize and sentence innocent people to hostile imprisonment and undeserved death.
Yes, we do that. It is done among us. Every day. Everywhere.
Sit with the darkeness for a mere 7 minutes today. Do it for the least of these.
Dedicated to my Mother on her ninety-ninth birthday. She left us seven years ago.
In honor of all Mamas everywhere!
“Thirteen; forty-five; seventy-one; ninety-nine,” she bellowed as she jostled through the kitchen door, flinging backpack, tied-together running shoes and disheveled jacket onto the floor beside the kitchen counter. Kate’s eyes gleamed, her face reflecting innocent pleasure at her self-assessed brilliant diversionary tactic. Her mother turned from her culinary task, faint exasperation turning quickly to her good-natured expression of amusement at her daughter’s endless tricks.
Nine-year-old Kate had a brain that worked overtime concocting games, puzzles, riddles, and whatever else would cause levity. This particular trick was far from new. Kate delighted in shouting out random numbers, trying to confuse her mother as she counted out teaspoons, tablespoons, cups, drops or pinches of salt, sugar, baking soda, flour–basically anything used in baking. Kate dissolved into laughter! She never tired of this game.
“Ahh, my dear,” chuckled her mother. “You almost had me there. If I’d lost count, this rhubarb pie could have been really sour.”
That hurled Kate into another gale of belly laughs. “Mama, I think you DID lose track.” Somehow she found this original trick utterly hilarious! At last she caught herself: “I think you really put 18 cups of sugar into the pie. Or was it only a half?” she teased.
Her mother laughed, love filling her soft blue eyes. “Oh Katie, sweetheart. You will never give up, will you? I think you caught me with that game once and then the bread was too salty. After that? Hey, I’ve learned to be careful with you around.” With that she jabbed the little girl’s side, making her squeal with delight.
“Go on now. Pick up all your school things and put them away. Then come back. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Kate was as curious as she was fun-loving. “Surprise? What is it, Mama?” she asked, squinting past her mother, trying to see what it might be.
“No! Not now,” her mother chided. “Only after you’ve picked up after yourself, Sweets!”
Kate turned; she grudgingly collected her scattered belongings and dragged them after herself into her bedroom, where they again were quickly discarded on the floor next to her clunky, wooden desk.
“And, go wash up, too,” her mother instructed from the kitchen. “Do a good job. And use soap!”
Kate was already in the hallway, half-way back to the kitchen! So, she turned around, momentarily sullen. She let out a long sigh. Now I have to wash up! What a waste of time, she grumbled silently.
But nothing deterred the feisty nine-year-old for long. Surely not when a surprise awaited. Tap open; soap squirted onto grimy hands; short swish; shake-shake; hand-towel. Kate didn’t notice the unmistakable gray smudge she left behind on the towel before she danced back down the hallway. She never noticed dirt!
In a flash, Kate scurried to the kitchen counter, turned her back to it, then hoisted herself up onto it with muscular arms. She virtually never sat still–always running, climbing trees on the farmyard, digging up something from under black earth. Only, she didn’t much like digging up potatoes or other things from the garden. Worms or long discarded shards were so much more interesting.
“So what’s the surprise, Mama? Please, tell me,” she begged, pounding her fists on her sturdy thighs.
Her mother’s eyes sparkled. She reached behind the food processor and pulled out a very large glass of ice cold milk, and then a small plate with 5 molasses cookies on it.
Kate’s eyes grew wide as if she were seeing a prehistoric animal. “FIVE?” she exclaimed with incredulity.
“Yes, 5,” Mama replied, reveling in the little one’s joy.
Many years later, Kate’s Mama would share her continual fascination with the little girl’s unmatched sense of wonder–the most simple things would elicit a response as animated as if she had been presented with a priceless gem! And then, a grown Kate would reply, “But, Mama. Who but you could put up with me and see the good in my antics?”
a
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Continued in Behind Each Face*
*Because this story appears in the recently published book, it is subject to restrictions as to where it can be posted in its entirety.
Life Matters 