It wasn't long before a few friends would be found,and, by far the closest and dearest of them was a young man who lived in the nearby town of Glendale.His name is Alan,and no matter the time or distance, he will always fly high in my thoughts.I'm not sure he ever has known that he was blessed by the other world,but, truly,he is.
He opened my eyes to the real world, away from the fast and furious insanity that passed for day to day life.Before I met him, I had noted beautiful sunsets and majestic vistas that could not be ignored by a blind man.But with him I learned to appreciate the fleeting and delicate jewels of the unspoiled woods that were more and more intrinsically becoming my home.I could stand in the freezing cold forever, noting and studying the rime of frost on brightly shaded blackberry brambles,marvelling at their delicate beauty.
It was with Alan that I first encountered the Fey, although at the time I didn't know it. I lost any fear I may have harboured of being with my baby alone in the woods.There was no place I would rather be than completely isolated in the middle of a deep forest.
It was on a soft summer afternoon that Alan,Becky and I had taken a picnic down to the lower meadow, to glory in the golden sunshine and listen to the buzzing bees.
Over the creek a small tree had fallen,spanning the water,bank to bank.Sunlight was filtering through the overhanging branches. It was such a beautifully inviting spot,I couldn't resist the urge to stretch out on the dead fall over the water.And Alan couldn't resist the urge to snap a picture.
It wasn't until the film was developed that we saw him.There he was, in plain sight,a small figure of a man, no more than a foot tall, sitting on the opposite end of the log from where I sat. He sat facing me, with his knees pulled up, staring right at me!He was surrounded by a golden glow.He had short , tightly curled hair , a largish nose and soft smiling eyes.
I was overcome with surprise that was quickly replaced by an overwhelming sense of peace.
I'm feeling the need to just sit back and savor this memory for awhile,so until later,Bless you!
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Today marks the day that I will never more return to the broom closet.
So, as all good stories ,I think the beginning is the best place to start , and so, I shall.
A good many years ago ,the stormy seas of my youth tossed me onto the shores of a place so beautiful,that when all is dark ,I close my eyes and go there still. Southern Oregon.More particularly, a small vale called Bull Run Creek. It was to be not only my home,but my very salvation, and though I often said as much, I was not to know how true that was for many years and many miles later.
A sad divorce and a loving Auntie dropped me and my very small daughter, Rebecca,there.Alone and isolated. No friends or family.No car or phone.No money or means, save a 50 gallon storage bin of dried red beans and a rickety barn that held several cases of antiquated C rations and more than a few boxes of crystallized dynamite (whenever the wind blew, the barn threatened to tumble over and give new life to the TNT). There was a house that had been added onto in every which way the lay of the land would allow.It was drafty and cold and none of the windows or doors shut tight due to swelling from the damp climate.There was a wood stove that was fairly ineffective thanks to a large hole in the roof where the pipe had once gone, but the pipe had been rerouted through the wall and even though the hole in the ceiling made a lovely sky light, it was not welcome that first Winter( when the weather dried, I faced my fear of heights ,and did my best to fix it,but it was far from perfect).
Except for a brief residence at a commune in Hawaii,I had never lived anywhere without the conveinences of modern life.But, it was the very necessity of depending on myself for the day to day needs of my child and mine that took me away from feeling sorry for our sad state.
There was no time for self pity. My time was spent gathering bark to burn and wild greens to eat as compliment to the beans.
The property itself belonged to my Aunt and Uncle,who lived in another state and were happy to have someone on the premises.It was through their association that I was able to make a few acquaintances down the road, who would look in on us from time to time to make sure we were still alive.
It wasn't long before the woods became more of a home than the house itself.
Becky and I would spend whole days and some nights down in the lower meadow by the creek,weaving daisy chains and playing baby games. There was a very special place we would nap, a perfect circle, no more than ten feet across,of tall Douglas fir trees. It was more magical than I could ever know at the time,being preoccupied with basic living. I did, however recognise the sense of peace and safety I felt there.It truly was my haven....More to come.Be blessed,friends!
So, as all good stories ,I think the beginning is the best place to start , and so, I shall.
A good many years ago ,the stormy seas of my youth tossed me onto the shores of a place so beautiful,that when all is dark ,I close my eyes and go there still. Southern Oregon.More particularly, a small vale called Bull Run Creek. It was to be not only my home,but my very salvation, and though I often said as much, I was not to know how true that was for many years and many miles later.
A sad divorce and a loving Auntie dropped me and my very small daughter, Rebecca,there.Alone and isolated. No friends or family.No car or phone.No money or means, save a 50 gallon storage bin of dried red beans and a rickety barn that held several cases of antiquated C rations and more than a few boxes of crystallized dynamite (whenever the wind blew, the barn threatened to tumble over and give new life to the TNT). There was a house that had been added onto in every which way the lay of the land would allow.It was drafty and cold and none of the windows or doors shut tight due to swelling from the damp climate.There was a wood stove that was fairly ineffective thanks to a large hole in the roof where the pipe had once gone, but the pipe had been rerouted through the wall and even though the hole in the ceiling made a lovely sky light, it was not welcome that first Winter( when the weather dried, I faced my fear of heights ,and did my best to fix it,but it was far from perfect).
Except for a brief residence at a commune in Hawaii,I had never lived anywhere without the conveinences of modern life.But, it was the very necessity of depending on myself for the day to day needs of my child and mine that took me away from feeling sorry for our sad state.
There was no time for self pity. My time was spent gathering bark to burn and wild greens to eat as compliment to the beans.
The property itself belonged to my Aunt and Uncle,who lived in another state and were happy to have someone on the premises.It was through their association that I was able to make a few acquaintances down the road, who would look in on us from time to time to make sure we were still alive.
It wasn't long before the woods became more of a home than the house itself.
Becky and I would spend whole days and some nights down in the lower meadow by the creek,weaving daisy chains and playing baby games. There was a very special place we would nap, a perfect circle, no more than ten feet across,of tall Douglas fir trees. It was more magical than I could ever know at the time,being preoccupied with basic living. I did, however recognise the sense of peace and safety I felt there.It truly was my haven....More to come.Be blessed,friends!
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