What will we do?

I had a long discussion about the Petroleum industry last night with a friend. He reminded me that they are projecting that we'll be out of oil reserves in less than 80 years.

He vehemently pointed out that it's time to prevent the horrible consequences of not being proactive in switching our reliance upon oil… Deprivation, war, starvation, no electricity, no heat, the collapse of Western ‘Civilization’ as we know it. All of the things that we've come to rely on will be gone or made unavailable because transportation is impossible.

I don’t know whether he is right or not about those consequences, but I started thinking – what would be affected in my very own living room by the lack of petroleum oil?

• No plastic for the TV remotes – therefore no remote.
• No TV either – because most of it is either plastic, glass or some sort of metal
• No Xmas Stockings – they’re polyester, no paint for my fireplace screen – a lot of it’s petroleum based,
• No artificial greenery on my mantle,
• No Plastic pot for my ivy. I bought that when I could no longer lift the ceramic one up onto its rightful place on the mantle.
• The clothing on my ceramic angel.
• The DVD cases. For that matter – the DVD’s.
• Candles – they’re made from paraffin –
• CD’s --- OMG Will my CD collection will become sooooooo valuable people might kill for it?
• My DVD player, cable box, the TV stand – all obsolete and totally unavailable once there is no more plastic to create them.
• My Christmas tree – because I have an artificial tree…
• Xmas lights – the coating on the copper wires is plastic.
• Most of my ornaments have some element of plastic in them.
• The fabric on my rocker and my Lazy-Boy recliner are made of some sort of polyester.

• The ribbons on my tree…
• Scotch tape – OMG will I have to live w/o scotch tape?
• The artificial flowers I have here and there.
• The plastic bag I have in my wicker basket trash cans.
• All of the clocks in the house except for the old wooden wind up that doesn’t keep accurate time.
• The rugs.
• The drapes.
• The throw blankets.
• The table cloth on my dining room table.
• Coasters.
• The wax on my varnished furniture.
• The mineral oil that I put on antique furniture.
• The pegs on my guitar. The capo and tuner for it, the strap, and the handle on the guitar case.
• My son’s trumpet case.
• I think my Dad’s old clarinet is wooden (I don’t really know because I don’t play – yet) But the case is definitely plastic.
• My cell phone, the wall phone (yes I’m a dinosaur – w/ a land line.)
• The keys on my spinet piano – plus all of the ‘elbows’ inside that make it possible to have a waist high piano instead of one six feet tall.
• The boxes that my Christmas cards came in.
• The stuffed animal in the chair in the corner.
• The stuffing inside the chair in the corner.
• There’s probably a petroleum element in the glue that makes post-it-notes possible (I don’t know – it’s a secret formula).
• There is plastic in my window frames – so the glass will fall out.
• The window screens.
• The rug runner next to my front door.
• My Chap Stick. Heck most of the contents of my purse (except the money).
• The batteries and memory chips for my digital camera.
• The Lampshades. The switches that turn the lamps on and off and the wires up the center. Light switches, power plugs, heck – even the wires in the walls of the house have plastic on the outside.
• My glasses.
• Most of my lingerie, my socks and my sweater (I’m wearing cotton blouse & skirt so I wouldn’t be sitting here starkers. But I'll be sitting here freezing my butt off because my windows have plastic in their frames, wishing I could read the book in my hand, but unable because I can't see it and it's dark.)
• And last – but definitely not least --- my computer.

All of these things will not be possible – once the oil runs out. None of it. Not a single thing. We’ll have to find alternatives. And frankly not everything has an alternative.

Bees are dying at an unprecedented rate – or being taken over by those African Bees that don’t make honey or honeycomb. So we can’t plan on using beeswax to replace the lubricants that will no longer be possible.

What medicines would no longer be available? No plastic bottles/caps for my ibuprofen. Could I even get it? No fuel for the trucks.

And how would the world change if trucks couldn’t get fuel to deliver food – like veggies? Seafood would only be available to those who live on the coast. Beef only for those who live inland. Chicken – ok they say that nearly everything ‘tastes like chicken’, so it would be available everywhere, even if it were actually pheasant, snake, turkey or something else entirely…

It's Time. Time to do what all those 'Green Earth' fanatics have been trying to teach me for years and years. Eighty years isn't very long. Those intervening years will slip by quicker than any of us thinks possible.

It’s time to look for alternatives. It’s time for us to be prudent. Save, reuse, and reduce. Combine trips to the store. Carpool. Take mass transit. Get a more efficient car. Plant our own gardens. Stop using plastic bottled soda/water. If it doesn’t come in recyclable material – do without it.

Walk when possible. I suppose this means I’m going to have to do more business with my local merchants. They’re kind of expensive. But maybe if I have to carry the groceries by hand (or in my Li’l Red Wagon) I’ll only buy what I’m actually going to eat, and will waste less.

I ask you to think about what we have that our children will not have when they are fully grown.

I ask you to think about the mess in our landfills that we are leaving for our grandchildren to deal with.

I was really angry at my mother for not caring about my Grandmother’s china, so I could inherit it…How angry are my grandchildren going to be at me for blissfully drinking bottled water? For not caring whether the bottles were recycled? For running out to the store at midnight just for milk, when we could have eaten eggs for breakfast instead of cereal?
What is the price that they will pay for my ‘convenience?’

And do I have the right to ask that of them? I don't think so.

I Shall Be Still

The weather turned cold, affecting everything in my life. I probably need to get outside - into the watery winter day, and walk down the path that is hidden under the snow in the photo. Truthfully it's not that cold, but the chill discourages me for some reason.

I don't know how it happened this year but October came and went. November too. And I never noticed. We're nearly half way through December, my holiday preparations are done without me even being aware of how much I accomplished. And now the only thing I have left to do is make about 1,000,000 Molasses Krinkle cookies...

If the dog can convince me to step outside the house on that path we both might shiver, but in the end we'll be happy that we went. But instead I sit here quietly, dreaming up story plotlines - without writing them down, talking on the phone for hours with friends, petting the dog, and generally being content with what is going on in my life.

So even though I'm a writer with books to write, and queries to send... I find that I just want to curl up under a blanket, with a cup of hot cocoa, and read a good book.

I believe that I shall give myself some freedom to just relax for a week or two, and when I've given myself permission to just BE long enough - the urge to DO will return.

But until then,

I shall BE still.

Gayle

Honor the Dream

A young twitter friend asked for help today. She says she is working on her dream of becoming a writer. Spending a great deal of time writing articles for money, writing for a monthly contest, and writing fan fiction. She is not writing in the book of her dreams. She is not writing for fun.

And my heart aches for her.

My heart aches whenever I see anyone set aside a something joyful so that they can earn a living. My heart cries out "NO. Don't do it. You'll spend years aching, wishing, wanting. And sometime later in life you will discover that you no longer remember what it was that created such joy."

Years and years ago I stuffed my dreams into a closet. I had to do that in order to stay in my marriage, a marriage that ended anyway. I have only recently been able to excavate what my dreams really are. So in spite of sounding a bit like a "I want World Peace" speech from a Miss America Pageant - here they are:

- Change the commandment of "Honor Thy Father & Mother" to "Honor Everybody." My dream is that people treat each other with respect, all the time.

- No child is ever brought into this world who isn't wanted. Even if that means that they choose not to have the child. I'd prefer that young women respect themselves enough that they take precautions. And I know that there are families who want children. So as a culture let's make it easy to adopt. Let's figure out what the issue is and fix it so the process is easy. All children deserve to be wanted.

- If you discover you can't care for a child in a healthy manner - either get training or, in loving sacrifice, give your child to someone who can. No judgment. Just an honest assessment of your ability and willingness to meet the needs of a growing soul.

- I'd really like to see us teach young people how to never sell themselves short. Selling yourself short is unfortunately easy, and you end up spending years & years unhappy, not really understanding that you did it to yourself. So if we could figure out how to teach our children, or allow someone else to teach them, how to reach for the stars, what a change that would be - for everyone.

- Turn yourself into your own ideal partner. Let go of your emotional baggage, from childhood, young adulthood, and any apparent 'failures' along the way. Learn how to be loving, respectful, kind, generous, patient, full of laughter, intelligent, wise, impulsive. Whatever characteristics that you desire and want in your partner. And from what I'm seeing around me - your ideal partner manifests in the outer world. But even if he or she doesn't, you have released the baggage that keeps you from being awesome.


-Accept that there is magic in the world and live with the uncertainty of when and how it manifests
OR
-accept that there is a process to that magic - learn how the process works, and accept that you will know how and when the 'tricks' will happen. And in the process become a magician/scientist/alchemist.

(Personally I like the magic, and yet I hate the uncertainty of the magic. So I am having to decide whether I want to become the Alchemist or learn to live with the uncertainty.)

These are not the expected answers that others ask about when they say "what are your hopes and dreams?" They want to know what kind of fancy car I want, or where I want to travel. They want to know what stuff I want.

The stuff isn't all that important to me. Oh don't get me wrong, I love sleeping indoors in my heated room on a cold December night. I prefer to be able to buy gas for my car, and eat several times a day. I love the antiques that my grandparents gave me, and the paintings I created during my earnestly artistic phase.

But that is just stuff. It doesn't ease the ache that I feel all around me. It doesn't really increase the Joy in the world either.

I have seen children bring joy to their parents, even those who were really broke. I have also seen children neglected to the point where they had to scream and hit in order to get their mom's attention. I prefer the former. And if no child ever has to suffer the neglect and abuse that I've seen that will be all right with me.

And so after years of ignoring my dreams, of stuffing them into a closet, I am taking steps toward them. The task ahead of me is grand, and frankly a little overwhelming. I'm not quite sure where to start. So once more - baby steps. I begin by changing myself - respecting everybody. By showing the children around me love and caring. And praying that someday everyone will be honored, regardless of age, size or current earning capacity.

It is my hope that after talking with my young friend this afternoon that she is taking some time to write what brings her joy. Because it is the joy that will, in the long run, make her life worth living.

And so I ask you, Dear Reader, what is it that YOU dream of?

Stuck as a Bean Counter

A new story for your reading - does it work this way? I don't know, but there are sure a lot of people who say - rewrite the story - and come unstuck. Plus it was FUN to write.

SHE was not lost! She was never lost. She knew exactly where she was. She was stuck. Stuck as a Bean Counter. Stuck in not allowing. Not allowing money to come into her life. Stuck, keeping joy from manifesting in her life. Stuck not moving forward in her career. Stuck not allowing love into her heart.

She was stuck.

Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. And it had started eons ago. God only knowing how much living she had done - stuck.

Stuck in the act of being birthed into the life he had always dreamed of. With no money for a midwife - and unwanted to boot - his family had broken the ribs of his fragile body in order to save the life of the mother. Allowed him to die, having never lived and never accomplished the things that would save thousands upon thousands of lives. His desire to live had been so strong that he had struggled to breathe with broken ribs, lungs damaged beyond repair, until finally sometime late in the night he had given up and let go of the fragile body.

What was keeping her stuck was the idea that they had trained her to be something she was not. Trained her to count beans, when she was at heart a planet mover, a world saver. Trained her to be small, bound her up in rules and strictures that kept her from breathing.

And yet through it all, her will to live was so strong that she had continued to breathe, living shallowly. Though each inhalation was a struggle, she had kept taking breath after breath. Hoping that someday she would break through whatever it was that she needed and that someday what should have been her birthright – air – would come easily.

And finally the burden became so difficult that one day she said “Enough. ENOUGH. I DON’T WANT TO PLAY THIS GAME ANY MORE. I’m going to change the game.” And so she did.

She re-wrote the birth story.

This time his mother was laboring to birth a new fragile life into the desert that was the family’s love for each other. His father had so valued both the life of the mother and the fragile life waiting to be born that he had called for a midwife. She arrived not long after to find the nearly born baby stuck, coming feet first - ready to hit the ground running. Not understanding the ways being human, he was expecting to come full into life – ready to move about and be productive.

Gently and tenderly, this woman had talked to both mother and babe, with voice, energy and hands. And she had persuaded him to pull back his foot so that he could spend a few more uncomfortable minutes being turned. Patiently the woman had turned the babe inside the mother until clenching his fists in impatience he was finally in position to be born. Three contractions and he was out, telling the world of his arrival. Finally relaxing his fists he allowed himself to be soothed.

This child, loved, nurtured and wanted, grew eagerly into a strong young man, creating a new irrigation system, bringing water to the fertile but dry desert. Staving off the drought that held the land in its grip for a decade, he found a way to bring water up from the depths of the earth to water their crops when the rivers ran dry.

In his lifetime he became the patriarch a loving family who found creative solutions to whatever was standing in their way. He built a legacy of Joy and Prosperity that they shared with all, for the betterment of not only their own tribe but all tribes.

With the prosperity that came, he provided midwives for all, so that fewer children would have to be sacrificed to save the life of the mother. And because there was some thread that had known that he had been unwanted, he created a system where unwanted children could easily be matched with parents who would love and nurture the child, no matter the age.

And so the woman, having dreamed a different story, began to breathe. She could feel her ribs moving, muscles relaxing that she had not even known were tense. Letting go of angst and sadness that had kept her from building the life she truly wanted.

She became the planet mover – the world saver - which she had been born to be, never counting another bean in her life, and never missing it. She and her partner founded a dynasty of brilliant inventors and world movers who found creative, loving solutions to problems that had plagued mankind for eons.

Living a long life together, they lived the kind of life that had only been spoken of in myth, larger than life. She was free to generously give her time and energy, caring for those who could not care for themselves.

What's a Tweet betwist Friends

On March 30th, 2009, I finally caved. My friend Bridgeblder had been nagging me for nearly six months to join Twitter, so that I could make some connections. Get out of the cave that I had crawled into after my divorce. She enticed me with a "writers' chat". And I, grumbling all the way, finally joined.

The original Sunday afternoon writer's chat was so overwhelming - that I almost didn't go back. But under her browbeating, I timidly started following random people that I saw along the way in her tweets. I figured if she liked them, I probably would. And for the most part I did.

There have been some followers who have come and gone. Some I never notice, because they are either silent or what they write doesn't interest me. But some of them have become close friends, in a really strange way. I never expected the in-depth metaphysical and philosophical discussions that have occurred. The emotional support and depth of friendship that I feel towards my favorite people. Here we are, technically strangers, and yet I'm closer to a couple of these people than I am to my own family (except my brother). And that might not be right because he and I talk about every 2 months, not daily.

Some of these friends have watched me crawl out of a Dark Night, cheering me on and sometimes even taking my hand by the love and comfort of their words. And I have done the same for them. None of us knowing the depths of the gratitude felt for the support, or the changes wrought in our Tweethearts and friends. But we have been hear for each other. Occasionally pushing them into the 'pool' of awakening - in a form of tough love. But more often, catching them gently as they fall, giving them a soft place to land. It's what we do for our loved ones. We give each other ¸.•*' '* Sparticle Hugs *´`*•.¸ [Sparticles are Sparkley Particles]

I was lucky enough this week to be in the right place at the right time to catch one of my friends in free fall. Stopping that downward tumble was as natural as breathing for me. This is someone that I love. Why wouldn't I? This is the same person who has asked me some of the most soul piercing questions of my life. And who has challenged me to step up to the plate. Who knows how far reaching our actions and our friendship will be? I don't. But it will be interesting to see the changes unfold.

I met these incredible new friends because my old friend badgered me to join a writers' chat. Thank you dear BridgeBldr.

Gayle

Welcome Home

This story was 1st published in Booksie.com 1-16-2009 - 17 people read it. No one commented. This fiction is written to help me understand the possibilities of ascension. Does it work like this? I don't know. But it feels right. I have left the story essentially unchanged though my life has changed since this was written.

It was frightening for me at first, because so many could not see me. Yet I was still there. I was not dead - there was no body. But I was gone from their sight. As if by magic. I moved among them, touching and trying to comfort them. Yet all they did was brush me away, as if I were merely the touch of a fly.

There were a few who knew that I was there. Small children, and the very aged, but I still had a body. And the man that I loved got lost in grief for a time. But I kept leaving papers on his desk. And soon he began to read them.

I could not write, but I could move books from one place to another. I could pick up pieces of paper.

‘Read this’ I’d whisper in his ear. ‘I am here. Do not grieve for me. Live your life, Love, and you will see me soon.’ His heart healed. And he let go of his grief, long before anyone expected him to do so. So he must have felt me loving him.

He began to devour the writings that I left for him. He began to devour the things that I had sent to him over the years, which he had kept in folders on his computer. He called my friends and asked for their help. For somehow he knew that if he could only understand one critical thing, that he could achieve all of his dreams.

But what was that critical thing? Did his heart long to be famous if love was not part of the picture? What use was a big house, if he was the only one in it?

He began taking longer and longer treks into the wilderness, wilder and wilder he explored. Searching for a guide to teach him.


Until one day, he went to the Forest of the Ancient Ones, searching for answers. Arriving shortly after dawn, he simply sat. Leaning against the rough bark, he rested quietly, allowing his mind to become still. His breathing slowed, his eyes closed partway, and his heart calmed. Peace stole over him that day.

He melted into the tree, feeling the life blood of the earth rising toward the treetops of the Ancient One, and his eyes widened. For finally, he could see me, sitting next to him, cross legged, leaning against the same tree, smiling my quiet smile.

“What do the trees say to you?” asking him the question that he had asked me so many years ago.

“That they are glad that I have finally come. They say that you are really here, but that usually I just cannot see you,” voice barely above a whisper, he smiled for the first time in months. Then his smile disappeared as he spoke again. “But what use is it for me to know if you are here, if I cannot touch you.”

“Are you sure? Take my hand.” And I reached out to touch his knee. For the first time in months he felt my hand, warm and tender. Not thinking it was merely a trickle to be brushed away.

Fingers entwined in mine, he looked at our hands in wonder. “But you’re gone? How can you be here? I must be dreaming.”

“No, I have always been here, waiting for you to stop lowering your energy in grief. I have always been here, loving you. Now you must trust. Trust that you are ready for the shift that is occurring within you.”

He leaned back against the trunk of the old tree once more, and I told him the story of ascension. How one day I was playing with the energy in a crowded room, and I just disappeared. Right in front of people.

It had not been dramatic, except that they looked around, and then dismissed my disappearance, as though I had merely stood up and left the room. Their minds had not been ready to accept the reality of what they saw, so they simply forgot it.

But I had still walked around. I had still moved from place to place. I found that moving by thought was easier than driving. I learned to fly again. At first it was awkward, like swimming through mud. But eventually I got the hang of it. And then I remembered him. And went in search of this delightful man, only to find him immersed in grief. For to him, I had evaporated, leaving a hole in his life.

We talked the afternoon away, leaning against those old trees, holding hands, the other visitors of the park ignoring us completely, as though we were invisible. It was almost dark when he finally stood.

“I must go now. I’m supposed to be with the kids tonight,” regret filled his voice. “Will I see you again?”

“Take my hand; I have something to show you.” And we walked off into the forest. Finally reaching a clearing, surrounded by a half dozen of the Ancient Ones, we stopped. Puzzlement filled his face as we began to glow.

“Children, come here,” the words were spoken at barely a whisper, and yet they carried out into the Forest, on a wave. The Forest fell quiet and one by one our children stepped out between the trees. “They have always been here, because they did not forget. Somehow they were allowed to remember that they belong here. How they lived in both worlds, I do not know, because I couldn't do it. Perhaps it was as like a game of role playing. But they are here. Now. They live with me. All of our children. Both yours and mine. And other children come and go. It is comfortable, and we are used to each other now. Though at first it was awkward, because your children did not wish to be disloyal to their mother. But we adjusted, and they have helped me to understand how to come and go between the energies, of high and low. In that way they could visit you, and then return here to recharge and renew. Though I can't seem to do it yet.”

“Many of our friends are here too. Not all, but the ones that we loved best are here. And I am glad that you have finally joined us.”

He was concerned about getting out of the park before they locked the gates, still caught up in the idea of the lower energy. His children laughed, and told him that there were no gates here, and that his car would be all right. And that he should come and see our home. . Surprised that they should say our home, he was nearly overwhelmed when we arrived at a comfortably snug home. The boys climbed to their shared loft, my daughter was preparing supper. Pausing a moment in her movements my daughter hugged me, and then went to stand in front of him. ‘Welcome home,’ was all she said.

Shaking his head, he sat at the simple table, while I got him a drink of the clearest, coolest water he had ever had. Clean and tidy, our home was not large, but it was cared for with love.

After supper, my daughter hugged us both again, patted each boy on the head, and went to the door. “I’ve work to do tonight. Is there anybody you especially want me to love, mother?”

“Why don’t you check on your father? In fact you might want to take him to a movie. I think he’s kind of lonely.”

“It’s getting harder to manifest a body. I’d rather he brought his energy up,” she complained. “Will he ever ‘get it’?”

“You know that no one is kept out, except those who will not love. So sooner or later, your father will get it, though he may have to die to do it,” was the answer heard through my sigh. “If he can learn it from you, then he need not go through that pain. Good luck, you’ll need it.” Nodding, she waved as she went into the dark and closed the door.


“Am I dead?” asked the man at my side.

“No,” was my reply. “You are finally vibrating high enough to shift to a new dimension. Here, we live our lives, creating that which we want, no more, no less. We live peacefully, because there is no need to take things from someone else, when we can make whatever we want.”

“I don’t understand.” His face reflected disbelief.

“We have no crime, no war, because they are caused by fear, hatred, and wanting. Those are lower vibrations, and whenever someone falls to these levels, they cannot maintain their place here, so they simply shift back to the old. But after living here for a very short while, most people are changed forever and no longer wish to live in the lower vibrations. So they work hard to elevate their energy through allowing love back into their lives. This allows them to shift back to this level.

“You are here now, and may stay, if you wish. Or you may return to the lower vibrations, and this will seem like a pleasant dream. But sooner or later you will reach for this dream again. You may stay if you wish; you may stay in our home, with me if you wish.”

“Is this real? Are you real?” was his question.

“I am as real, and as passionate, as I was in my old life. I am more loving that I was then, there. And I am still not easy. Remember that I have told you, I will never be easy. You will have to put effort into loving me. For without that, we will not be a vibrational match, and we will simply drift apart. Easily, naturally. The choice is yours.” And I sat quietly, looking into his eyes, waiting for him to decide.

His breath became ragged, for a moment as the implications sank in, and he said “I want a purple balloon.”

A moment later, from the loft a voice was heard – “hey, I’m trying to read… Do you mind?” And a lavender latex teardrop floated down to land on the floor next to his feet.

“Oh my god, this is real. And you knew all along. Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“I tried, but I couldn’t find words that you could understand and believe. All I could do was love you. And I couldn’t wait for you to come with me. I tried, but it just didn’t work. So I came first.” Tiredly, I smiled. Reaching out my hand, I continued. “I promise I will answer every question that I can. But let it wait till tomorrow. For now let’s just go to bed, for I have been waiting for you.” He stood, the twinkle in his eye said he knew exactly what I meant.

Building with a Song

She had work to do, and no office to do it in. They had outgrown their old place. The tiny house where she and her husband had raised their family. It had been home for her children, and accustomed to it, they no longer remembered the larger house that had been part of their early childhood. But now they were nearly grown, off doing their own things, leaving her alone for much of the day.


But Gia knew that she needed a bigger place to do her work. All her life she had drawn people to her who needed healing of some sort or the other. And now she felt the call to help the walking wounded more effectively. So she had begun opening her home and her heart to the friends of her children, and the people who wandered into her life like a stray pup. Often so emotionally battered by life that they snapped at everyone, even the hand that fed them.


Gia had never thought of herself as a gentle woman, yet in her heart, she tenderly took these lost souls in and through patience and hard work, brought them out of whatever private hell they had been in. She would have laughed at anyone who said that she was really a softie, but she had a secret place in her heart for anyone who tried, failed, and picked themselves up to go again. Her children knew a bit of this secret, but they did not understand the depth of her fire, for they had not been through the hell that she had growing up.


Hands that should have been tender had been brutal. Words that should have been spoken in love were used as whips on the young Gia. Chores that should have been easily accomplished were made infinitely more difficult by their unceasing demand.


And yet, in spite of hiding her wounded heart behind walls and hardness, she had these tender spots. She found enough courage within her to change how she talked to her children. Not playing head games with them, she learned to ask for the behavior that she wanted. Though in order to do that she had to figure out what she wanted. It was an interesting journey for the wounded Gia, peeling one layer of pain away to reveal a sweeter, stronger woman, just as one would peel an onion.


She knew that part of her healing was to help heal others who had been wounded just as she had, with words, with fists, and with cruelty. And so she stood there, looking out over her land, having the time, the space, and the willpower. Missing only one thing, the money. And no money meant no materials.


She had been clearing the land the hard way, the old fashioned way. With an ax. Pulling up the scrub, using it to create fences and foot paths through the woods, fill in the low spots, and cover over the muddy ones.


But finally all that preparation was done. She stood in the midst of the clearing, ax in hand and realized that there was nothing left for her to cut. The trees around the area had ribbons around their middle. These ribbons marked the edge of the yard that would surround her new home and office. They would shade her home in the hot summer sun of Arkansas. They gave protection from the winter winds too. But it was the fierce heat that she was most worried about. In the winter you could wrap up in a blanket or put on another sweater, but in the summer it was hard to take off enough clothes to keep cool. Trees helped that tremendously, which was why Gia didn’t want to cut any more of the tall sentinels down. Besides they made her feel safe. Protected, watched over. And she had never had family and friends who did that for her.

But there she stood, ax in hand, uncertain what came next.


Sitting carefully on the ground, she crossed her legs and just enjoyed the peace. Once the building began, there would be no peace in the clearing. And so she enjoyed the silence. A silenced filled with the stirring of mice and voles, fluttering of butterflies wings, twittering of the yellow and blue songbirds, as well as the harsh cawing from the neighborhood crow. The silence was anything but.


As she listened to the cheeps, and whirring, the knocking and the clicking, she began to hear a pattern, a song really. And hearing it, she began to hum along. It began tentatively at first. Just a quiet humming. The song of the Forest seemed to quiet momentarily, as if listening to her song, and then it began again, quietly at first. In her heart she heard the melody of the greenwood and allowed her voice to grow, adding a harmony, tentatively at first. Gradually, the sound grew, echoing through the forest. Eerie, haunting, and soulful, her song echoed the Forest, and the Forest echoed through Gia. Each note sliding up and down the scale, harmonizing, shifting, swooping and diving. The song drove on. Harmony interweaving with melody, until she was not sure which was which.


Eyes closed Gia sang from the heart, pausing only to breathe, listening to the excitement growing within the Forest. It had been many years since anyone had sung with it. Enjoying the playfulness of it. Stretching here, singing close harmony there. The only dissonance came as a pickup drove down the gravel road nearby. Radio blasting, momentarily silencing the Forest. Only to have the shifting melody start up again as the dust settled. The song returning stronger than before.


Eyes still closed, Gia found her self lying down in the center of the small meadow, feeling that her body was alive, perhaps for the first time. As though she were larger than her skin. Weaving melody and harmony, into Forest and home. Bringing each separate sound into the melody much the way a builder would bring each separate board into creating a building. A home.


Totally focused on the swelling symphony, she didn’t hear the quiet rustlings around her. Didn’t feel the wind dance, ebb and flow, enveloping her lifting her, Didn’t feel the earth move as the clearing reshaped itself.


So totally focused on Listening and Singing, she didn’t see what was happening around her. Didn’t notice until the melody wound down to its end, gently slipped into silence as the last note faded away.


Eyes still shut; Gia felt vibrant and alive, wishing it could go on and on. Knowing that soon enough she had to return to everyday living, she allowed herself the luxury of a short nap in the dappled sunlight.


Finally the sound of a dog barking in the distance drew her back to her body. Sighing, knowing that she still had to figure out how to build her home, she struggled to a sitting position rubbing the sleep from her eyes.


Confused by what confronted her, she thought she was still dreaming. For before her was the home and office that she had envisioned. Built already. How could that be? She knew she must still be dreaming. For there was no way that these structures in front of her could be real. But the details were so vivid, so real.


She’d never been able to get anyone to understand exactly what she wanted. Her hands had been unable to draw what her heart had wanted. Her words a poor substitute for the vision she had carried all these years. And yet it was standing before her. She’d even managed to dream the guest cottages that she’d seen one time in a movie, so that the people who came to get her help wouldn’t always be underfoot. There was even thick, lush grass in the yard. And the dirt under her fingers was different from the poor sandy soil that had been there before. It was rich and black, and the plants growing in it were strong and healthy. Everything she had ever wanted, down to and including, the flower garden underneath the front windows.


She knew she must be dreaming. None-the-less she stood and went to investigate. The house of her dream didn’t include furniture. Nor did it include window screens. Amused at the missing detail, she started to laugh. Gia began to run through the house looking at everything, touching each new thing, still unable to believe that she wasn’t dreaming. She wondered why the wood of the window sills looked as if they had grown up from the ground. The kitchen had just the kind of faucet she had seen at the hardware store and wished for, knowing it would never happen because of its expense. In her dream it had happened.


Gia joyously spent the rest of the day wandering through this new home and office.

When Nathanial had come home, supper wasn’t even started, much less ready and Gia wasn’t in her usual places. Worried about her, he decided to go the only place he could think of – the clearing. She had been working herself near to death to clear the land. And he was concerned for she had never stayed so long.


She heard him call through the woods, as he hiked up the path toward the clearing. Positive that she was still asleep, that when he stepped into view, Gia greeted him as if she were a mere girl again, skipping across the yard. Puzzled by the wonder on his face, she peered up at him. As tears ran down his face and he pulled her into his arms, Gia realized that she was not dreaming.