Journey – The Word Worker

The Bridge

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It only appeared in the fog, the old bridge. Not the morning fog when the rising sun burned off the surface of the river. The rare sunset mist defying the golden glow spilling over the horizon. The mist that was both there and not there, with impossible shapes darkening it. With the bridge that couldn’t be.

She had seen it before. A child’s vision, obscured by the cynicism of time. Only his disappearance had made the memory real. She hadn’t been to the river that night, when they said he drowned. She hadn’t been there, but she knew anyway. He would never have drowned.

He had crossed the bridge. Of course he had crossed. He probably just wanted to look, to know where it went, what those dark shapes in the fog became when met face to face. He wouldn’t have thought about it at all, never would have meant to leave her like that. But mist never lasted.

She could see it now, old stone glowing gold in the damp. He could come back now. Any minute she would see him, a little older, rushing back to reassure her and plead his remorse. But how would he know? What if he missed the fog as she had that night? Already the mist began to lift, and she could almost make out the wall across the river.

With a gasp she ran, oblivious to the sole of her foot scraping through the hole in her shoe. The worn strap on her old knapsack fragmented under the sudden strain, depositing her entire life behind her. She clutched the stone as she stumbled onto the span, gasping, desperate. If she held on, if she kept going, it couldn’t vanish. He would come.

She stumbled forward, calling frantically. The sun flared once behind her before gloom closed in. A few more tottering steps, just a few more and she would find him. He hadn’t been able to come to her, she would go to him. They wouldn’t need to go back.

A shadow coalesced beside her. She whimpered, not afraid, relieved. Here was someone to help. The figure smiled, took her hand. She followed, docile. The mist had lifted, of course it had, she didn’t need it anymore. The bridge had brought her home.

Water of Life

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Hera’s hands rested on her trembling knees, breath coming in deep gasps. The bowl perched on a rock nearby, but her head swam, threatening to make her black out. She knew why the Wise Ones required this journey. She did know. But the sick trying to force its way up her throat questioned.

The bowl was old, older than even the oldest Wise One. And ugly. Hera thought it looked like a rotten orange, which churned her stomach even more. It had been found long ago by a boy on the cusp of manhood, drunk from out of need and carried home out of curiosity. Not until the boy failed to age for years after did the ancestors learn its nature. And its danger.

So many had died for the bowl in those days. So many twisted by its gift, a curse to the undeserving. So those who were left set it here, to be retrieved only by one with great strength of character. At the coming of age, every boy and girl set out to climb the mountain between sun up and sun down. Once up for the bowl, once down to drink, then back up to replace the bowl. Few succeeded.

Everyone believed Hera would fail. The smallest and weakest of those born in her name year, she stood small chance at physical prowess. She smiled at the secret she knew. To use the bowl, strength of will mattered most. She stood on the mountain, where many turned back too soon.

She forced a deep, ragged breath and reached for the bowl. With the first step down her legs threatened to give way, but she took another step anyway. The hardest challenge was yet to come; few made it up the mountain, but fewer still could bring themselves to return the bowl after drinking. Only the wise ones knew the fate of those without honor. Hera would not fail. She would be a Wise One. She must be a Wise One.

White

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She stopped just below the rise, nervously adjusting her shield. The bridge of her nose was starting to hurt; whiteout suits weren’t designed to be worn more than a few hours. How many days ago had she left the Dome? Did days even exist out here?

She sighed and watched a flock of frostlings whirl above the lone tree on the ridge. They settled quickly, one or two fluttering up again as if squabbling over a perch. She glanced from the tree to the track before her and stabbed her pole viciously into the packed snow under her snowshoes. Just one hour couldn’t hurt. Under the tree would be a welcome rest from the endless white.

She trudged ahead, trying to ignore the burning in her thighs. How long? The tree was just on the ridge, but distance was deceptive out here in the White.

She wondered if anyone would look for her. A wry grimace stretched against the irritating shield. After the shouting match in the precinct over her report on the tracks, they might be relieved if she disappeared. Even if they did search, they would never find her in whiteout gear. She would find out what, or who, else was out here in the White. One way or another, she would find them.

Wait

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This morning I found myself reflecting on my husband’s and my history. When I was a teenager my family attended an annual lecture series at the small college he attended. The students were responsible for a lot of logistics as part of their education, so we would have run into each other multiple times over the course of those weeks. He was 18-20, I was 14-16; we weren’t on each other’s radar and have no memory of meeting at all during that time. Ten years later, a mutual friend introduced us, and the rest is history.

There have been times I wished we had met earlier, had all that time to spend together. The truth is that if we had met as kids we probably wouldn’t be together now. Those ten years shaped the characteristics that drew us together, characteristics that we did not possess as teenagers. We both went through things: failed relationships, first jobs, successes and failures, and other challenges that helped us discover independently who we were. By the time we found each other’s orbit we both understood what we were looking for and how to recognize it.

It is a lesson I have worked very hard to take to heart. So often we try to rush life, demanding whatever we want in the moment as if the course of our lives depends upon it. We push harder and harder, younger and younger, and look back on our lives with regret and bitterness that our rushed decisions didn’t produce the fruit we wanted. My life would look very different now without those ten years. I would likely have ended up marrying one of those failed relationships I mentioned and it would still have failed, or chasing one of those challenges in a fruitless search for fulfillment. Even if a second opportunity to meet had arisen I would likely have rejected it based on first impressions, never realizing the change time could produce.

There is a right time for the right things to happen in our lives. We have to learn to appreciate the wait. Waiting is not wasted time; it’s growing time. What do you choose to learn from your experiences? What changes are you willing to make after your failures? What do you learn about yourself from relationship challenges, and what characteristics do you learn to pursue? No one knows what they really want until they have experienced all of those aspects of life. Celebrate the wait.

The Sun Tree

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She stopped on the last rise overlooking the coast, breath catching in her throat. She swallowed painfully around the lump of it and sank to her knees. Shades of red and purple bathed her, along with the waving grasses that now slid around her shoulders in the ocean breeze.

For a thousand years her people had told tales of the sun tree. The great tapestry in the Hall of Ancestry depicted the Leaving, when the Ilanga had been forced from their beautiful sea haven by marauders from the Invisible Lands. They had built a new life for themselves in the deep forests, and the Sun Tree had become the myth of a far off Heaven where one could join the ancestors in eternity.

They had mocked her quest in the Hall, declared what she sought reachable only in death. When she persisted they denied her aid, believing she would abandon her purpose. Her heart drew her on, however, and she had slipped away in the darkness, living on what the land provided.

And now she faced the Sun Tree itself, its light held in sacred trust in the embrace of wide leafy arms. She rose on shaky legs and stumbled forward down the slope, her own arms outstretched. She stumbled with a cry of pain and, still bent double gripping an injured foot, failed to see the red and purple sails rounding the nearest point.

Trash Day

There’s a running joke that the day after Christmas all the moms blow their stacks. Let’s face it, we all know the feeling of waking up to the piles of empty boxes, wrapping paper, and new toys that don’t fit anywhere. That’s why this year I can’t wait for Trash Day.

I don’t mean the day the trash can gets picked up, although that’s pretty important. Actual Trash Day requires an empty can ready to be filled. Before all the empty boxes get thrown out, the house gets purged of all the old clutter. The kids will sort through their rooms for unappreciated or broken toys and “treasures” that no longer hold value to them. Mom and Dad will declutter closets and corners that hold unnecessary collections.

This year the clutter seems worse than ever. Perhaps less space is available as the kids grow; clothes do take up more and more room. Perhaps we’ve simply hit several developmental leaps at once as we leave preschool for good, discover hidden talents, and surge inexorably toward adolescence. I’m leaning toward the latter, as most of the piles seem to be supplies for various growing interests.

As much attention as I am paying to physically cleaning out old things, the things represent something much more to me. The last few years have delivered many struggles along with the lessons to be learned from each. As a result our lives seem to be cramped and overflowing inside trappings and constructs that we have outgrown. As we physically fill our trash can with discarded things, we mentally shed our old selves in order to make room in our lives for new ideas and new beginnings.

Many people make New Year Resolutions in an effort to set their lives on track. Most find themselves unable to keep such contextless promises to themselves because they have no room. We make no special resolutions here; instead, in Trash Day we experience a completely fresh start.

Floating

I was living the dream. Traveling the world, seeing all the wonders, all while never leaving my house… it was my whole bucket list. Of course, I hadn’t actually meant never literally.

It was three years to the day since I woke up to find my cabin floating on its tiny plot of land high above the forest. Three years since I had set foot below. Three years since I had encountered another human being.

I had no idea why it had happened. All I knew for sure was that every morning after I had woken up hovering over a new location. Until this morning. Two days in a row over the same lonely lake. I frowned, pulling the blanket closer around my shoulders and clutching my steaming cocoa mug closer.

The surface of the cocoa rippled, then sloshed over my hand as the ground beneath me lurched like an elevator preparing to descend. I stared as the mountain peaks began to rise above my head.

Wormhole

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She could still see the town below as if through a pea soup fog, street lights shining incongruous against the blue sky. It was near midnight when she had walked out of the glare of those lights into the darkness of the hills. She hadn’t expected the night to be so dense, nor for it to explode into sunlight within a single step.

Nothing made sense. The asphalt-paved county road she had chosen for her escape was now nothing but deep ruts in a sea of green. No trace remained of the farms and homes that had skirted the town; only bare, rolling hills marked the horizon instead.

She had shaken her head wildly and hefted her suitcase. It was a hallucination. Or a dream. Or… she had marched onward, ignoring the evidence of her senses. In a minute she would be alright. In a minute everything would be normal. When sweat had trickled down the back of her neck she had turned back to see the town bathed in white shadow, and knew.

She had been so desperate to get away, to disappear. Walking was a long shot, but it was the only chance she had to escape his omniscient fingers that probed every corner of the world. Her suitcase dropped from nerveless hands and she collapsed to her knees beside it in the red ruts. She would wait here. If he didn’t walk up that wagon trail by nightfall, she could breathe. A different time? A parallel universe? It didn’t matter. He would never find her again.

Going to the Circus

Let’s go to the circus, Leo! I want to see the elephants dance, don’t you? And the pretty ladies on the big swings! Those are my favorite. I ‘m gonna be one of those pretty ladies when I’m big. Cause I like to swing, too! Don’t you like to swing, Leo? Maybe tomorrow you can swing with me.

Maybe they’ll let you be in the circus. I bet you’d be the best lion they ever had. Don’t be scared of the guy with the big black rope that makes loud noises. He won’t hurt you. He just has to make everybody think he will. You just roar and wave and we’ll all clap real hard.

Do you think there’ll be clowns? I’m kinda scared of those. They smile weird. They do make fun balloons, though, and I like those. Maybe, if you hold my hand really tight, I won’t be scared when a clown gives me one.

Can you see the big tent yet, Leo? We’ve been walking a long time and I’m tired. I thought we’d get there faster, didn’t you? I’m hungry, too. I bet Mommy has some animal crackers. Let’s go home and have some. Then all the animals can be in our own circus! Won’t that be fun, Leo? Come on, let’s run!

Ruts

My husband and I love to go fourwheeler riding. Anyone who does any kind of off-road riding knows that trails develop because they have been driven over. Someone found a way through the woods or whatever terrain and others followed the tracks because the first person proved that path was passable. Enough vehicles pass that way and the dirt packs too hard for plants to grow, leaving an obvious dirt road. Dirt turns into mud, tires plow through it and dig channels, more tires follow the same channels because obviously the first guy didn’t sink there, and the ruts get deeper and deeper.

At first it seems so much safer and easier to follow the same path that everyone did before you, but eventually something else happens. The ruts get deeper while the ground between them stays the original height. The tires going through the ruts carry vehicles, and eventually while the tires could go through the ruts the vehicle frame can’t make it over that middle hump. It’s stuck. The tires keep spinning but the vehicle doesn’t move.

The only way a stuck vehicle is going anywhere is being pulled out by another vehicle. Sometimes the process of being pulled out breaks important parts on the bottom so the vehicle doesn’t run anymore. Suddenly using those established ruts became very expensive and caused a whole lot of trouble for more than one person. The problem is usually fixable, but going the easy established way isn’t easy anymore.

Sometimes life can be like that. It’s so much easier to just follow established paths without really paying attention. It’s what everyone else is doing, so why change anything? We don’t even notice we’re in the ruts until we’ve sunk ourselves so deep we can’t go forward or backward. When we finally manage to get out of the roubles we caused, often we are so broken we still can’t go anywhere and the need to heal consumes the time we could have used to reach our goals.

Don’t follow the ruts.