serenity

It is raining and I am home. I am reading Roméo Dallaire’s book “Waiting For First Light”. She purchased it for me, over a year ago, when we went to hear him speak. At the end of the talk I stood up and asked him if he was also there to acknowledge suicidal ideations were a real part of this injury. He looked at me, pained to the soul, and acknowledged he dealt with that every day.  One year later I dive deep and find myself reading his book. It is at this point I also find that acknowledgement I asked about, at the beginning of his book. That acknowledgement was tethered to a brave story called “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”.

camouflaged serenity

I read on knowing she is still beside me. She has that quiet beauty she often fails to see. Beside who I am, she can understandably feel small, even insignificant, but hopefully that flickers only in the public arena. I read and think about what I will write, as the stories keep ramming at the memory door barricaded in my mind. I manage the stories, for they are my fog, and I tell those stories they will publish when they can house beauty. Beauty is my weapon. Beauty and authenticity are watered with tears and emotion. They are now the comrades I use to reach my soul. I know camaraderie is fleeting, in this journey.

She is embodied beside me, and called Beth. She is always there, as familiar and calming as the sound of rain on the leaves. She is always followed by the waking of birds and the chatter of chipmunks, and squirrels. She is most certainly not Snow White, for she is beautiful. It is at this moment she gasps and says to herself “sometimes I write beautiful things”.

I stop my musings, pause, and ask her to tell me more, the following is what she reads:

Windswept Water

gentle dog

muzzle on my shoulder

a lullaby

sung to me in harmony

woven song of love and tenderness

a gift of forgiveness

to my soul

author: B. Bauman, from Walks With Ben

I am moved to tears knowing she has glimpsed her beauty. I ask permission to allow this to be public, on Graytuft. She grants permission and returns to her quiet serenity where she reads, writes, and pauses to feed the chipmunks, or do the laundry.  She is still definitely not Snow White and I ask her for a photo of Ben, her dog. That photo is intended for this post. She hesitates and asks me to reflect on what the post is really about and I go to my photos.

The whales from Newfoundland answer that call.

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