I know not where she came from

[pjthompson]

In the evenings, I pause in my chores to take the cat on a supervised trip into the back yard. She’s proven time and again she can’t be trusted not to jump over the wall and go walkabouts—which, we suspect, is how she got lost from her previous owners. She does so love the back yard. She’s quite insistent on going out there, fussing and whining until I relent.

I always relent, because my dirty little secret is that I go out there as much for myself as her. Min makes a great excuse. I love to to feel the wind in my face, listen to the birds, watch the gloaming slowly overtake the leaves of trees and plants, golden and syrup-rich. It’s serene, one of the few things in my life right now that fills me up rather than takes away.

So as I sat in my serene place last night, I thought—mostly in a peaceful way—about letting go of so many layers of things. Letting go of fears, letting go of needless guilt and worry, of giving it up to the inexorable ebb and flow of the universe. Not give up on life, you understand. Still in there, still fighting the good fight, just reconciling myself to the fact that the universe will always have its way in the end, no matter what I or anyone else does. What I needed, what I need, is to give up the illusion of control, to make peace with that.

We’re none of us helpless flotsam in the grand old river of the universe. I truly believe things travel along with us, keeping us in the free-flowing stream as long as possible, as much as possible. Little markers of hope and fellow-feeling, sometimes larger things that buffer and stand guard. At times, the smallest things can bring the largest upwelling of hope, allowing us to float free. I don’t know what these things are, where they come from, wouldn’t care to define them in narrow human terms, but they are there as long as we allow them to be. We can’t be protected forever. Nothing can be. Sometimes we’re going to smash into rocks, sometimes we’re going to dip below the surface. Sometimes, when the time has come, we’re going to drown. It’s the nature of the journey. It’s easy to be philosophical about all this when I’m in my serene place. Difficult when I’m having trouble treading water.

From the perspective of my usual chair last night I tried to think of some better way of treading water. I wondered if, along with the illusion of control, I also had an illusion of receiving help along the way. I looked at a patch of ground near the bird bath where a few days ago I’d moved a brick that had been overgrown with moss. I saw a little face, tilted to the side, peering back at me from the fringe of the moss, just before the precipice where the brick had nestled. One little arm was raised as if she swam hard against the pushing tide of moss. I was far enough away to wonder if she might be an optical illusion, a trompe l’oeil composed of bits of leaf matter, blossoms, and hope.

I got up and drew close. There was a face, and a tiny arm, a small ceramic figurine lodged into the ground. When I pulled her out I saw she was a little fairy maiden, sitting on a leaf, resting one elbow on a thimble while the other, the one she’d been swimming with, rested on air where she’d broken off something. She had quite an Alice in Wonderland quality to her face, but I don’t recall ever owning a piece of garden ceramic with such a whimsical girl. I’d swear she hadn’t been there when I moved the brick. My hand was right there two days ago, but I didn’t remember seeing her. Clearly, she’d nestled amongst the moss a while because she was partly embedded in the soil, leaving a hollow when I pulled her free. The moss had surrounded her as it had the brick. Perhaps I’d been too distracted at the time and hadn’t noticed her, or…

I looked up at the faces hanging on the garden wall. Flora and Ivy smiled serenely back at me. Green Man looked grumpy, as always, but I wouldn’t absolutely swear there wasn’t a twinkle in his eyes. Probably the gloaming. Magic things always happen in the heavy, rich light of twilight.

Mirrored from Better Than Dead.

Comments

[sartorias.livejournal.com]

That was lovely--thank you.

[pjthompson.livejournal.com]

Thank you.

[mnfaure.livejournal.com]

Thanks for this glimpse of gloaming magic!

[pjthompson.livejournal.com]

You're welcome. :-)

[pdlloyd.livejournal.com]

I don't know whether that was fiction, or real life, and I don't want to know. The world needs this. Thank you for sharing this beautiful moment with us.

[pjthompson.livejournal.com]

Thank you very much, and you're welcome.

[bogwitch64.livejournal.com]

Magic happens betwixt eve and dusk, in the gloaming light of either and neither.
:)

I'm glad magic happened for you, your kit along for the ride, upon coming to such weighty conclusions about things. They're all connected, though it's sometimes better not to dissect those connections lest they come apart. Let them stay nebulous, yet known.

Thanks for sharing your moments of Zen.

[pjthompson.livejournal.com]

Glad to. And yes, I agree. Best to let them be what they are.

[kmkibble75.livejournal.com]

There's a lot of random awesomeness here. I love that Min forces you into having a bit of meditation every day, and I love that a fairy randomly showed up in your back yard. It's the sort of story that almost begs to be Big Fished in its retelling.

[pjthompson.livejournal.com]

Yes, Min is my helpful familiar. I may have to collect these twilight pieces sometime. Right now I'm just happy to be able to write something now and again.