Looking toward the shore

There is nothing more lovely than sitting on the beach in the early morning, hearing nothing but the Lord’s wind and waves. I love that peace. I often sit with His Word. Sometimes just holding it for a while, feeling prayers before I open and read.

The beach is my favorite place to be alone. I just want to sit in the near perfect silence with only the roar of the waves, the morning birds and the breeze. I hear the Lord’s voice in the roaring of the waves and I picture looking out over the waves at my Human God, holding out His arms, welcoming me into His embrace.

There is nothing so perfect as that morning peace… unless it be holding a baby. Picking up a sad child and having her nestle into you arms in comfort, and immediately fill your arms and heart. That soft puddingy weight as they melt into your arms in trust.

I don’t like comparing myself to my Savior God, or putting myself in His place, and yet we are meant to emulate Him. And He compares Himself to a mother hen gathering in her chicks. He IS our Father. So wondering at the tiniest bit of what He must feel when we come to Him must not be too bad.

The open arms over the sea inviting me in. I long for that feeling of comfort that an innocent child feels when they melt into the safety of someone’s loving arms; the feeling in my heart when a baby’s head rests against it.

I wonder if I will ever feel that safety and that comfort and that sense of belonging; to feel completely safe with someone, to feel that deep feeling of peace.

I think the closest I come is when I am kneeling at the Holy Supper railing in the cathedral, very close to the open Word, tasting the bread and the wine, feeling the Lord’s hands on my head as I hear the words “The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make His face to shine upon you. The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace.” The words are whispered to me in a promise, and for that moment I feel the Lord’s love on my heart, and I believe in everything that He promises me. I feel safe, loved, wanted, needed. In short, I feel like a real human, created in the image and likeness of God.

I wish I felt that more often. I wish I could hold on to that feeling.

It’s unlovely and scary, but I guess the way for Holy Supper to feel lasting is to examine myself more, and remove the evils standing in my way. Repentance is the way to the Lord.

“The saying of God came to John the son of Zacharias in the wilderness. And he came into all the countryside of Jordan, preaching the baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of Isaiah the prophet, saying, The voice of one crying in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord; make His paths straight.” Luke 3:2-4

It is through repentance that we prepare the way for the Lord in our lives. I can approach Him, and feel close in the Holy Supper, but it won’t be a lasting feeling of living in Him unless I choose to actually live my life in Him, and that is only possible through repentance.

Things to do

So many things to do. Seems like a normal start to a blog post these days. I look forward to the day when that isn't how I feel.

I can't even remember what all I have to do today. Nothing of consequence until this evening. And just a bunch of little things before that. Like writing, finishing unpacking and laundry and general tidying and baking.

Then there are other things I could do, but they're even less important. But it's already 11. I have 6 hours to accomplish things today. If I had a house to myself they would be done already, but having other people around sometimes slows me down and sometimes encourages me. I guess it depends on the people.

Time to turn on some music and just do the things. Maybe later today I will wax more philosophical. I want to delve into some of the thoughts in my head, but for now I'm just writing a bit of crap to kickstart my morning.

Other Peoples' Opinions

I found this random thing at camp. I think I like it. But I'm gonna journal though and see what comes out at the other end.

Should we worry about other peoples' opinions of us?

It is true that He never told us to impress others, and He definitely told us to love them.

But how do we love other people? I think that sometimes we become less useful if people don't have a good opinion of us.

I don't have anything more to defend that point right now. So maybe I'm not getting anywhere. Overall, I agree with this picture. I'm just too tired to think or write.

I didn't sleep much last night. I held a baby most of the night, and I loved every moment. I'm just tired.

 I still intend to write more on this topic. And how I seek approval from other people. And whether or not other opinions and approval are healthy or unhealthy. I suspect they're probably both.

Bah. I'm done. Signing off.

Hearing hearts

I wasn't gonna try to write a post from my phone, but I stole my dad's computer because I NEED to write. I don't have anything to say. I'm tired. I should be napping. I'm supposed to be somewhere in 9 minutes, but I want to write something.

I like feeling this need to write. It's a good feeling. I've been at camp for a day and half but it feels like much longer. I love talking to people here. Every conversation is a gem. I think it just feels safe to be around like-minded people. I have like-minded people in my every day life, but this camp is just full of good people that I enjoy talking to. It's just a beautiful thing to hear someone else speak something that is in your heart.

I believe that I have one soul mate. I will run into him one day. But I have lots of kindred hearts. I run into kindred hearts less frequently than I would like, but more frequently than I'm aware.

I like feeling safe. I like feeling valued. And most importantly I love being around people who listen for the Lord. Who delight in His Word and in His life.

It's a beautiful thing to rest in the Lord.

JCC morning rambling - Koselig or Hygge?

Huzzah! I found people to write with at camp!

This friend knows that I love to write. She's the cabin leader of my Camp NaNoWriMo cabin. So, she knows that I should be writing this week. But I didn't mention it. She brought it up, or maybe her sister did. But either way, when they suggested getting up at 6:30 to write together I was super excited. Well, less excited about 6:30am, knowing that I would be staying up until at least midnight every night. I talked them into 7am, and I'm mostly just thrilled to have writing buddies. I'll sleep on the drive home.

In other news, I brought my kindle with me. These days I usually use it for listening to an audibook before bed. So I brought it almsot solely for that. But when they suggested writing (which is what I was going to do, just by hand) I decided to attempt writing with my kindle. I even have a bluetooth keyboard that I haven't used in over a year. It lives in my kindle case and I ignore it. But I plugged it in last night and it works! So much easier than typing on a screen keyboard. I'm sure that I will also write some by hand but this is a fun experiment.

Also, I am of the opinion that if you can wear a sweatshirt, you should. Or a sweater or whatever makes you feel cozy. It rained last night. It cooled off over night, also the building I'm in is pretty air conditioned. It's not cold in here, but it's not hot either. I am comfy in a sweatshirt on this misty overcast morning. My favorite! I love winter. I love cozy weather. Not because I love being cold, but because I love being cozy. I love sweatshirts, and sweaters, and fires and blankets and hugs and snuggling. I enjoy these things so much, and you just can't do most of these things in hot humid weather. I am loving how cool it is this morning. Okay, I just rolled my sleeves up cause I'm getting too warm, but I'm not taking my sweatshirt off. I will hold on to this cozy feeling for a little while longer.

Hmm. Maybe 6:30 would have been better. Our lounge is starting to collect people. All the people gathering to drink their coffee and shoot the breeze. I mostly enjoy it though. And since I'm just writing for the sake of writing it's giving me something to write about. Noisy morning people. I don't actually mind morning people. Sometimes I think that I am actually a morning person. I quite enjoy mornings. But I love it because I love being up before other people. I love the peace of dawn. So maybe I like mornings but I dislike morning people? haha. I'm not that terrible. I'm enjoying right now. I don't mind these people waking for the day. It's kinda lovely. But maybe we will meet at the meetinghouse tomorrow and Wednesday to avoid the interruptions.

Someone just sat down and asked about my kindle. She was quite sweet. I really don't mind these people. Maybe if I were trying to write bits of my story and was trying to get somewhere specific this would be difficult. But it's not bothering me right now. I am happy.

Self expression and fear

Turns out that I'm afraid of everything.

Music choices, clothing choices, hair choices, makeup choices, food choices, movie choices, writing choices, ALL choices. Why must I be so afraid of having an opinion?

But it's not even having an opinion that scares me. I used to have all the opinions in college. I would engage in Facebook debates. I would engage in discussions and arguments with people in college. I still like to toss opinions into a mix, usually they're detached opinions though.

The other day someone pointed out to me that though I have some strong opinions I don't hold on to them with my feelings. We were having a discussion about what is and is not working for us with the church as an organization. I have plenty of opinions, but I just sorta pull the pin, chuck a small grenade and don't have emotion attached to it. This is just my description of what this person was trying to express about what I had to offer. She was complimenting me, and I appreciated it.

But thinking on it now, I think that it's a defense mechanism. I have opinions, but if they're detached from my feelings then I don't have to care about if people reject or accept them. I just let them be. This can be a useful thing, but I think for me it is a wall I put up to protect myself from hurt.

I fear judgment. I guess? Is that it?

I have long been afraid of sharing a playlist. Why? I'm worried that people will not like the music I picked? Or worried that they will judge me by my musical tastes? I have mostly gotten over this fear.

For the most part I don't care if people like my clothes or not. I also got over this one a long time ago. I am fairly used to not caring what people think of my attire. Skirts are not always appreciated. I no longer care. That isn't to say that I'm not touched when people compliment me. I do appreciate that. And I'm hurt if people are unkind too. But the assumed negative judgments are gone. I don't know why I have these assumed negative judgments in the first place.

Why is there so much fear?!?

I am reflecting on a private journal entry I wrote in November 2014. Here are a few excerpts:

"You are being selfish." 

"You're taking the truth and twisting it till it becomes falsity." 

These are words that were spoken to me today. I think it may be the best relationship advice anyone has ever given to me.

And another:

I told a friend that I always want to hear someone elses opinion first, and he called me selfish. Because I'm forcing the other person to be vulnerable first. It IS selfish, and this is where the falsity comes in too. All falsities are linked to some truth, and what I'm doing is taking a truth (that manipulation is bad) and twisting it as an excuse to not really let my emotions engage. I can talk up a huge strom about things I care about, but showing that I care? That's vulnerable and scary, and it is NOT maniuplation. THAT is the falstity!

I can't actually tell at this moment if this makes sense out of context. But it's making sense to me so I'm leaving it in. The point is that I am afraid. And my fear is making me selfish. Am afraid of being vulnerable so I let someone else be vulnerable (even on a minuscule level) and then I shut them down.

An easy, and entirely stupid example is anytime we go to choose a movie. Do I have an opinion? Almost for sure, but I don't often share it because I'd rather get my second choice than deprive someone of their first. Does that make sense? See, it makes sense to me, and it seems noble. And that's where hell comes in. Swooping in, using a true idea and twisting it into something false.

This is why it's stupid, because I let the hells disturb even the simplest of tasks. Choosing a movie should not be a battle between heaven and hell. Or should it? Is everything? No, see, this is the thing: it's taking a small idea and blowing it out of proportion. But sometimes we must magnify the issue in order to see it for what it is. In this instance I can laugh and realize that declaring a decided movie preference is not going to make or break any friendships. And if it were to... those wouldn't be friendships worth keeping if a simple movie choice could bring it down.

See? See how insane my mind is? It's even terrifying letting anyone into this little piece of it. Because it seems so insane when I write an entire journal entry about it. Fear is crushing! So so crushing. So I hide away in a ridiculous little hole and let hell make me feel smaller and smaller until I am nothing. And in being so crushed I become paralyzed by fear and I have to remember to let the Lord flow through me. It is not I who need be afraid. Be still my soul, the Lord is on my side. It is hell that need fear the wrath that I am unleashing. Fear no more! I shall conquer!

One step at a time. Wonderful friends are encouraging me. I created a blog. These posts are public! That's one step. Sharing this post to Facebook? Alerting all the people to it? That is a step I shall one day be able to make, but for now, writing this at all is a step. One step at a time.

To quote a lyric from my dear friend's song:

One drop at a time with patience, trust, and hope
Let the water of life build my strength again

Working on it. One step at a time. Why is it so hard to trust the Lord's own words?

"Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven." Matthew 5:16

Movement and starting small

I have discovered that most of my rambling little bits of story that I just dump into the middle of are so often about people moving from one place to another. It almost always involves a few people walking and talking.

Starting here, ending here. And always in the middle of a conversation too. I just drop the reader into a scenario and into a conversation. No context given.

I don't know when I started doing this or why, but it's pretty consistent. I've only just noticed this recently. I wonder if it started in an effort to kickstart a story. Starting with a "Once upon a time" or a description of people, events, or a setting would get me hung up. So I would start in the middle. Maybe originally with a goal to go back and write the beginning, maybe not.

But now it's a pattern. I like to just jump in at the deep end. When I'm writing snippets as exercises I think it's probably fine. Maybe it's fine anyway, but it's funny to notice this pattern.

Sometimes it's hard to write anything at all. Right now that is my life. I didn't want to write the above. It didn't flow. Maybe if I had written it in story form it would have flowed better. 

"Why do you always start stories in the middle?" Hydrangea asked as we walked from point A to point B.

"Good question. I guess I haven't thought about it much," I responded, thinking back over the things I had written.

We walked on.

"Maybe it was an effort to kickstart my silly brain," I laughed. "I just enjoy jumping in, throwing the reader into a setting instead of gently guiding them to it." I thought for a moment. "It's like zooming out instead of in. I start close up, right on the characters and what they're saying, pan out to what they're doing, and then paint with bigger and bigger strokes until I have showed you my world. Some authors start with the broader strokes, creating a world and a setting and then introduce you to the characters and their motivations."

I looked up at Hydrangea to see if she had followed my train of thought.

She was thinking about it. "I think that's accurate," she responded. "I haven't read all of your work, but I can see how that's a theme in your writing.  Do you know why you always start close in and then slowly pan out? Do you think one style is better than the other?"

I thought about it as we walked under the something sky in some kind of weather.

"I think it is because whatever story I'm telling, it's for the characters. Everything is character driven. Not so much plot driven. I know where the characters end up, their friendships.... I mostly know their goals and motivations. But the world they're in matters less to me. I just want to know how and why they care about each other. What they're doing to make each others lives better. I don't care where they are. I just want them to be happy. Sometimes I let them be unhappy for a bit. Sometimes things don't work out amazingly, but I'm afraid that what I care about most is weaving friendships. Saving the world is secondary. My characters care about saving the world... because they care about each other."

Hydrangea smiled at me. "I think that makes sense. And it makes sense that you would begin by having two characters talking. Or a handful of characters. Why do you think that they are traveling? So often your characters are going from one place to another. Have you ever thought about that one?"

I had. But I thought again.

"I don't rightly know," I admitted. "But maybe two people sitting in a living room feels too empty. Maybe it's because I know that for myself I talk best when I am in action myself. Words fall more easily from my mind to my tongue when I am walking. It's all well and good to sit across the table from someone or on a couch, but when I need to process my thoughts it's useful to be walking or driving somewhere. It frees my tongue. And in my writing, I guess it's the same way. Something about the momentum of moving forward makes it feel like the story is going somewhere."

Hydrangea nodded. "Are you happy with that?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, if you start in the middle, if your characters are in motion... does that bother you? Or are you fine with beginning your stories like that? I guess what I'm getting at is do you think there's something wrong with this habit you have formed? Or are you fine with it?"

I thought about what she was saying. Was there something wrong with this form I had chosen?

"What do you think, Hydrangea?" I asked.

"Do I get a say?"

"Yes, I need to know if someone else is okay with it. I know what I think, but what I think isn't enough. I want to know what others think. It has to be okay with someone else. Someone outside my mind!"

Hydrangea just looked at me, a smile creeping over her face. "Silly," she said. "I'm not outside of your mind."

I raised an eyebrow. We had arrived where we were headed. This journey was complete. Another journey would start again. Another pathway in my mind would need to be explored. But this pathway was tread. I had arrived at the stopping point.

Approval outside my mind was waiting on the other side of another journey. But for now, I had walked this pathway with myself. Unwinding an idea in my mind that needed to be talked through.

And that is why I write. To talk things through. To figure out what is in my mind. To get it out on to paper... or a screen. So that I can see it out there. Outside of myself and evaluate it for what it is.

Little Rosie Dutchess

I found it! My sister and I co-authored this when we were kids. She was between 10-16. And I was between 6-12. I know we wrote it while sitting in our treehouse. And those are the ages we were when we had a treehouse. Here's our little masterpiece:

It was a dark and stormy night, in the middle of July
When little Rosie Dutchess began to cry.
When the sun began to rise,
Little Rosie Dutchess dried her eyes.

She was crying ’bout a baby who had just been born.
Another little Dutchess made her quite forlorn.
No longer Mother’s baby, nor Daddy’s queen,
Nor little Rosie Dutchess, but little Edward Dean!

All the coos and gurgles made her aunts quite “thilly.”
It also charmed her uncles, including uncle Willy!
This was the last straw, no more could she bear.
How could little Edward? How could he dare?

She put one a pink dress, and pink sandals too,
She was dressed all in pink, but she felt rather blue

She went down for breakfast, but none was to be found
She went into Edward’s room, and no one was around.

She walked into the parlour, she could not believe her eyes,
Her uncles and her aunts gave her a great surprise.
On the table lay several gifts and a cake,
The tags said “for Rosie”, there must be some mistake.

“These gifts are for me,” Rosie excitedly said,
And then she noticed little Edward lying in his bed.
He was softly breathing, that precious fragile form,
Little Rosie Dutchess thought “I’m glad he was born.”

Fearful Frettings

I must do all the things. I went shopping and played ukulele with my nieces. But now I just want to play ukulele and accomplish nothing else.

But I must clean and I must do laundry and I must pack for camp. And I must eat all the veggies so they don't go bad while I'm away.

Sunblock. Sunglasses. Things I will forget.

I have never been so inspired about writing before. I love to write. I wrote stories when I was a child. I wonder if I can find the first story I wrote. About Toodles and baby Cindle. I don't know if it really was the first story I ever wrote, but it's the first I remember. I was too young to write so I dictated it to my mother, and I added drawings. I can still picture them now. I wonder if my parents kept it. I should seek it out. I remember it being an excellent story.

I also co-authored a poem with my sister when we were young. About little Rosie Duchess. I wonder where that went. At one point I had it memorized. Maybe I could piece it back together?

It was a dark and stormy night in the middle of July
When little Rosie Duchess began to cry.
She was crying 'bout her brother who had just been born.
Another little Duchess, made her quite forlorn.

She put on a pink dress, and pink sandals too.
She was dressed all in pink, but she felt rather blue.

And I can't remember anymore. I wonder if I ever typed it up, or if it's still in a box of papers from my childhood.

I also wrote a few poems on my own. I remember tucking the sheets in their red folder under my mattress so that no one would find them. I imagine they're gone too. I never liked sharing my stories or poems with others. I have always been afraid. Afraid of what? Afraid of what's in my mind? What others will think of it? I don't like opening myself up to criticism. So rather than sharing and getting feedback good and bad, I held it all in my entire life.

It's like a story I once watched unfold. My nephew would be out with his mother, and the cashier would offer him a balloon. He was a polite little boy, and he would decline with tact, even for one so young. I asked him if he didn't like balloons, and he said that he liked them, but he didn't want them to float away. So even with my assurances that I could get it safely to the car and safely to the house afterwards, he didn't want it. He was too afraid of losing it.

I think this applies to so much of my life. I'm too afraid of what I will lose that sometimes it's not even worth trying. People are afraid of each other. It hurts to open up to another human. So the risk of losing a friendship or relationship holds us back from even beginning. Or with my writing, the fear of criticism and rejection stifles me, and while nothing stops me from writing, it has stopped me from sharing.

I have been afraid for too long. This year I made it my New Years resolution to share music at least once month. I think I have succeeded in sharing at least twice a month. And this summer I have been sharing my writing with others too. It's still scary. But it's getting easier. Because people are kind.

Have you ever been dead?

I wrote this last fall. I never had a plan for where it would go. I wrote more, but I never liked it as much as I liked this opening little scene:

“Have you ever been dead?” Sean asked me.

My instinct was to immediately say “No!” What a strange question! But I thought for a moment. I feel dead on a weekly basis. Not in a depressing way. It just is part of being alive. But he hadn’t asked me if I felt dead. He’d asked me if I’d ever been dead.

“No,” I answered, as if the answer could have been yes.

“Why did you hesitate?” he asked.

“Because you didn’t ask if I’d ever felt dead. You asked if I’d ever been dead. I haven’t.”

“Well, have you ever felt dead?”

I hesitated again.

“Why the hesitation now?” he asked again.

“Well, because I feel dead on a weekly basis… and that sounds depressing.”

“Is it depressing?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “Cause I don’t think I’m a depressed person. It’s just part of being alive. Parts of you die.”

“And that’s not depressing?” he asked, with a slight laugh

“Not really,” I said slowly. “Because parts of you have to die. Yeah, they’re parts of me that I love. But I don’t want them.”

This time he hesitated.

“You know,” he said slowly. “That makes a lot of sense. You can love something, and still really not want it in your life.” He paused again. “I guess part of you wants it. Cause when you remove it, it does feel like death.”

I smiled at him. He understood me. And how wonderful it was to feel understood! We sat in silence for a few moments. It just felt good to be with him.

At last I broke the silence. “Why did you ask the question in the first place?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said, and the corner of his mouth went up as he turned slowly to look at me. “Because I was dead once.”

Tabula Rasa

Crazier you say?

Somehow words must write themselves. Fall effortlessly from my pen. My brain is working so fast I have no time for good handwriting. Spelling errors abound. Legibility isn’t a factor. Just random words scrawled out on the back of a strange story.

But not strange enough. I can’t let loose. The words must fit together like puzzle pieces. I crave order. Everything in its place. Words have order but I crave the madness!

Nonsense words? Ideas that don’t make sense? Maybe everything is just beginning to feel too logical. I can’t write crazy because I’m too crazy inside. Nothing strikes me as crazy anymore.

Branches sprouting from someone’s mouth as they attempt to speak?

Commonplace!

Climbing solid lightning?

Nothing weird about that!

Hearing colors. Seeing sounds. None of this is crazy. The words continue to make sense. The words themselves create order from the mess inside.

That is why I write. I crave order. I long to let go. To give someone wings. To make them fall. But it’s not about control. It’s about letting go and getting lost in the magic of storytelling. Letting the characters take their own path and the story emerges before you.




Nothing is too crazy for sense.

Writing by hand unleashes a different part of my brain. I crave order so I like the cleanness of typing. I like autocorrect.

But a blank screen is numbing. I want to look elsewhere, calling it inspiration when really it’s just distraction.

But a blank sheet of paper is full of life. Full of possibilities. Full of potential. I see words waiting to take shape. And it has an impermanence. It doesn’t have to be perfect because it can toss the paper into the recycling bin. Or not.

Sorry little paper, full of life. Full of hope! I did not mean to disparage you. Maybe I won’t toss you.

Yesterday I typed up handwritten notes. They were someone else’s notes, but I enjoyed it. Normally I don’t write by hand because it feels slow or like a waste of time. Really it’s just laziness. Not wanting to do the same work twice when I could have just written this on the computer to begin with.

Or could I?

That’s the thing. When I begin some randomly, rambly post on my computer I throw it away. I think that it’s not worthwhile. Not saying anything, so what’s the point?

It doesn’t matter whether it’s crap or not. Write the crap! So that it doesn’t infest my stories. I delete the crap before I’ve even started writing because it feels dumb. But it’s crazy useful.

So here I sit, writing by hand. Writing crap. Huzzah!

The Destroyer

Darkness caused faltering. The alignment of the world was out of sync.

“Best not be out in this weather, miss,” an old careworn man said to me as I walked on the pathway between connection and nothingness. “Storms a brewing.”

“Do storms brew?” I asked. Normally I would have kept my head down and eyes before me. Maybe I would have nodded at someone who spoke to me, but today I was feeling vibrant.

“What do you mean, lassie?” the man asked, clearly startled by my response.

“What do storms brew?” I asked. “Do they brew the salty air and the deep smells that are causing my nostrils to sting with longing?”

He shook his head at me and hurried along home, probably to batten down the hatches as one does when a storm is coming.

But not I. I intended to go headlong into the madness. Didn’t they know? Couldn’t they feel it? I could feel the storm. Not like someone with rheumatism feels it in their old knobbly knees. I could feel it in my spirit.

The sky was an ominous gray-green. The wind felled trees as it ripped along the border of darkness. But it wasn’t raining yet.

Suddenly there was a streak of solid black lightning and a burst of thunder so loud I could feel it inside me. I heard a scream in the distance. Why was everyone always so afraid of a little thunder? It gave me life!

I let out a cackle of mirth. It had come!

Swiftly, I glided to where the lightning had struck and stepped on to the solid gray pathway it had left in its wake. I could feel the excitement bubbling inside me. I was afraid of it. I hadn’t been this happy since the stars had disappeared, and I was sure that this sensation was going to rip me apart.

Desperately I felt for the lighting chalk as I climbed through utter darkness toward the stillness. It was going to happen at last!

Blaythes

Bone achingly cold, the party trudged through the snow, icicles clinging to their hair like fractals. It was no ordinary journey they were on, for they must reach the portal before it closed.

“We’ll never make it!” one blaythe called out over the roaring wind. His breath crystallized on the air, giving his words tangibility.

“Not with that attitude!” the cold one said, spitting out his words like they were unwanted apple seeds.

“Not with any attitude,” the blaythe grumbled under his breath. He turned his back on the cold one and continued beating his path through the snow.

The others followed behind, the cold one surveying them looking down his sharp nose at them as they passed.

“You!” he said, grabbing a fistful of a small blaythe’s jerkin and hoisting him up till they were nose to nose.

The small blaythe shuddered as he felt the warm sticky breath of the cold one entering his nostrils. He had known this would happen, as much as he had known the cost of leaving his family for this fool’s errand. But when he had registered, he had not known that they would be placing the cold one as the master of this expedition. He had been full of hope. He knew that he must do this, for his wife, for his children, and though he hated to admit it, he was doing it partly to prove himself. He wouldn’t let himself get away with one more minute of idleness. He had to break the cycle that he had been trapped in for 22 years.

He had told his children, when he had left them behind, that he must go in order to fight off the evil that threatened their very lives. He knew that when he painted them this picture of his mission, of his task, that they imagined that he was off to fight dragons. Off to save the world from some outside source of evil.

But his wife knew the truth: the only dragons her Jaq was going to slay were the dragons within. The thing that had been tormenting his mind, and preventing him from connecting with his children or even his wife. He had cried when he had left his Merrydew behind, but she had kissed his forehead and told him that she believed in him, and would love him no matter what. So he had kissed her, held her tight, and set out with a heavy heart, but full of determination and a little bit of hope.

The hope had long since departed, almost as soon as the cold one had been placed in charge of the march, Jaq’s hope had faltered. In it’s place was a darkness that he couldn’t shift.

Maybe the cold one knew how much Jaq feared him. Maybe he could smell fear. Jaq wondered what fear smelled like, but right now, all Jaq could smell was the fearsome odor of the cold one’s breath as it filled his lungs, making him want to gag. But he must not show fear, even if the cold one already knew it, he must not reveal any more of his weaknesses to this monster.

“What?” Jaq gasped, trying to sound more resilient than he felt.

“You’re slowing us down with your short little legs. Pick up the pace or I’ll be forced to leave you behind… where you belong.” His lip curled cruelly, as he let out a light snarl. “Get back in line, and don’t let me see you slacking the pace!”

He released Jaq, who stumbled over in the snow. Feeling foolish, and a mite bit angry he picked himself up, brushing off the snow and looking around, trying to pick up a bit of his dignity too.

But dignity meant holding his head high, and the winds were biting so he kept his head down and pushed on. He would not give the cold one the opportunity to call him out again.

“Hey,” someone whispered. Jaq looked up and saw that one of his traveling companions had fallen into step with him. He nodded to him, but kept his chin tucked into his scarf and turned his eyes back to the bleary snow below. But his companion continued, “That was uncalled for,” he said.

“Why are you telling me?” Jaq said gruffly. He didn’t like being singled out by this hairy bloke any more than he liked being singled out by the cold one.

“Hey now, friend!” the fellow persisted. “I only meant to take your side, offer my friendship. The names Howke.” He offered his gloved hand to Jaq who took it and gave a begrudging smile in return, which was probably missed by Howke because of how little of Jaq’s face was visible through his many layers of protection against the harsh weather.

“What brings you here, Howke?” he asked.

"Why must I write?" Wokmuh asked.
"Do you have to write?" Iokbirg asked.
"Yes! I do have to write?" Wokmuh responded stubbornly.
"Then you answer the question," Iokbirg laughed. He turned the question back on her. "Why must you write?" he asked.
"Because I come alive when I write!" Her eyes flashed with excitement. "I discover new worlds hidden inside me! and I discover things about myself!"
"What do you discover?"
"I discover grief I didn't know I was hiding. I discover strength that I forgot about. Sometimes I look deep within me and find something far outside of myself. I get caught up in the dialogues because I care more about how people interact then where they interact."
"Why don't you write an entire story about two people, and never once describe where they are or where they're going? For all we know, maybe they're suspended in space. Or sitting underneath a table with coloring books spread out in front of them, with too many crayons."
"It sounds to me like you should describe things. And I should continue to have people talk and talk and talk. And then have someone else enter the pictures, just to create drama, and then have more people talking and talking and talking."
"Pass the crayons," Iokbirg said. "I will paint pictures with words. And you can weave relationships with your pen."
"I prefer typing," Wokmuh admitted.
"Bring forth characters with your little finger!" Iokbirg laughed.