On those who never forget the way

From The Story Girl, L.M. Montgomery,

 

“I wish there was such a place as fairyland—and a way to get to it,” said Cecily.

“I think there is such a place—in spite of Uncle Edward,” said the Story Girl dreamily, “ and I think there is a way of getting there too, if we could only find it.”

Well, the Story Girl was right. There is such a place as fairyland—but only children can find the way to it.  And they do not know that it is fairyland until they have grown so old that they forget the way.  One bitter day, when they seek it and cannot find it, they realize what they have lost; and that is the tragedy of life.  One day the gates to Eden are shut behind them and the age of gold is over. 

Henceforth, they must dwell in the common light of common day. Only a few, who remain children at heart, can ever find that fair, lost path again; and blessed are they among mortals.  They, and only they, can bring us tidings from that dear country where we once sojourned and from which we must evermore be exiles.  The world calls them its singers and poets and artists and story-tellers; but they are just people who have never forgotten the way to fairyland.

On Otis, Rose the cat lady, and the real neighborhood danger.

“The thing you need to watch out for in this neighborhood, honey,  is the cats,” she told me as we stood in the middle of the street between our houses, meeting for the first time. She looked tired and her cigarette rested in her hand by her side as she tried to keep it from my direct breathing path.

Her skin showed signs of sun and wear and she coughed viciously in between sentences.

We learned about Rose the cat lady who owns half the block (and nearly 50 cats) and how the man who sold them their house left one specific dying wish, whatever you do, do not sell this house to Rose the cat lady. Under no circumstances.

In her yard is something not unlike a small zoo enclosure that houses cats. And one day, as I sat on my porch, I promise I saw three black cats walk out the front door to greet their owner at the end of a work day.  Her hair was fire red and short and the cats walked in single file line down the sidewalk.

They used to live in the country with ten acres and feel like fish out of water here in “this part of town.  So, if you knock on his door after 9pm and he’s not expecting you, he’ll be holding a shotgun. 

Speaking of water, they love the coast, specifically “our coast” and asked us if we’ve ever been to the ocean, like they were the only ones.  They want to move closer to the sea and run a charter fishing company and a boat that would take the women and children searching for shells and mussels in the cape.  Her face lit up when she talked about cooking mussels over a fire on the beach and popping in your mouth.   We were kindred spirits for only a moment when we spoke of the beloved sea. 

We learned about Otis, the block’s self-elected neighborhood watch.  He keeps an eye on things and if there is something to know, ask Otis.  And Pippy, whose name she doesn’t remember, but it might as well be Pippy Longstocking.  And then another neighbor came home and they exchanged passing remarks about car transmissions followed by “that one, she’s buckets of crazy,” to me.

Meanwhile the kids climbed up and down the stairs and went for a walk back and forth in from of our house. A grey cat strolled down the sidewalk and one kid ran away, the other chased it.

And so the story goes of meeting some neighbors and Rose the cat lady, Officer of Safety Otis, Pippy, and the real neighborhood danger, cats.

I almost forgot, the tomatoes. He grows 600 each year in his garden and wondered if we like tomatoes.  Well, sir, if we like tomatoes… You’re all a little bit nuts around here, but you had me at garden fresh tomatoes.

on the part before anything else

Rain fell softly on a cloudy day in May. The sweet coolness waltzed in through the open windows into the room, creating a delightful little reverie that invited my senses to dance.  Candlelight flickered on the mantel and Perry Como's timeless voice filled the air.

My love for the rain is great, but my fondness of rain and open windows is greater. It makes me feel free and wild, while it calms my heart and gently washes over my soul.

“You know what is great about our front porch?” I said to my husband, sitting in the next chair.
“Everything,” he answered without hesitation.

“Well, yes, but because it's there, we can keep the windows open during the rain and that is marvelous and beautiful.”

He nodded.

Just another piece of evidence.

Life has been intense lately with so much uncertainty about income and jobs and such things of adulthood. But there has been great evidence with every step of the faithfulness and goodness of the one who knows and I'm choosing to rest in that place. Collecting all the pieces along the way that will give us strength and carry us.  Refusing to let go of the one certainty that will always remain. That He is.

Yesterday, I was sketching on the back porch, my hands were blackened with charcoal and my kids covered in paint. I opened to a page dated two months ago and it read,

“Only upon hearing the last note can we realize the beauty of the melody that has been created.”

This journey has been amazing, full of adventure and wonder and risk. And in the middle or near the end, or wherever we might be, there is challenge and struggle and the growth that forever changes main characters. But, like a good book or a beautiful song, redemption comes. Unless this is a Shakespearean tragedy, in which we all die, or The Great Gatsby, where nothing of consequence ever happens to boring, lazy, apathetic people, or anything written by Hemingway, where everything is meaningless and depressing, of course.

I've had a hard time writing lately, despite the fact that everyday I've been pouring words into my journal and morning pages as earnestly as I can. The words have been jumbled madness and I had determined they we never worth making known. However, no good story ever consisted of, “Everything is perfect and easy. The end.” Not one.

And I think that at some point, I let the exhaustion quiet my voice, rather than letting this part of the story be heard.  Rather than letting simple words bring peace in the way the writing process does, I gave them permission to roar and howl about in my head, because I thought they were safer there.   Clearly, that’s where they were the most dangerous, like shadows cast on a wall in the dark, when in reality, it’s a stuffed toy on a shelf.

So, today, I'm just going to write about the rain falling and the way the air carried a song and cool breeze, on a Tuesday afternoon.

And that's all.