This is an email from The Story Box, a newsletter by Scribe.
A Year Full of Emotions
90+ stories and poems to read to make you feel alive
The year 2019 is coming to an end and it is with immense joy that I write this last letter to you before entering a new decade.
And if I am so happy, it is thanks to all of you: the writers who knocked at the Scribe’s door and wrote stories and poems with all their heart, the readers who were always present throughout the year, supporting the talented pens with their claps, their answers, and their sharing.
Thank you so much for continuing to make this publication shine around you thanks to your daily contribution. Thank you for sharing its values and cultivating its difference which makes it a unique publication on Medium.
This year has been incredible, rich in words and emotions. I can’t count the number of times your stories have sent shivers down my spine.
This last month, Marianna Saver, Lisa Wathen, J.D. Harms, and Erios De Kir were the featured writers in the Scribe’s column. I hope you were able to discover their stories directly via the publication’s homepage!
This column dedicated to Scribe’s talented writers will continue in 2020, with perhaps a little sister to be born! Other featured sections will also appear next year to highlight more great stories on Scribe’s homepage!
For the New Year edition starting this Sunday, I’ve chosen to give a floor to the great John Dahle. Go to Scribe’s home page to read his latest poems!
To celebrate the end of the year, here is a selection of more than 90 stories and poems that I have had the privilege of publishing over the past twelve months.
I hope you will take as much pleasure as I do in delving into these stories. Feel free to share in the responses the stories that have thrilled you the most in 2019!
Happy reading and happy New Year! Take care of yourself and your loved ones, and never stop reading and writing. See you next year to continue our journey to the land of words!
— Thomas
The Love I Have For My Brother, The Addict, by Stefani Vader
My brother’s story is sad, heart wrenching. Why? Because his struggles began before he even took his first breath of air.
When he was born, he had FAS (fetal alcohol syndrom) and was born addicted to cocaine.
When he was about one-and-a-half, my parents were contacted about accepting a new foster child.
I will never forget that day.
Why we absolutely must print photographs, by Malinda Meadows
It is a perfectly square box, with diagonal wooden panels. On the top, there is a missing piece with jagged remains; never to be repaired but always holding the threat of administering splinters. A worn golden latch protects its contents, the photographs partially peeking through the broken slit.
Rester vivant, by Valentin Vieira da Silva
Lorsque, plus jeune, on partait avec mon père dans les Calanques à Marseille le matin (assez tôt : il devait être sept heures, sept heure et demi), je me souviens, je prenais avec moi des barres de céréales chocolatées bon marché et ma gourde en plastique qui sentait le plastique et faisait que l’eau aussi sentait, et goûtait, le plastique.
Maman dormait encore lorsqu’on refermait délicatement la porte derrière nous.
Plus tard, on arrivait à l’entrée des Calanques (généralement Sugiton ou Morgiou, mais cela pouvait être celles d’En-Vau aussi), face à la pierre et à l’herbe sèche, à cette odeur si particulière de la mer le matin caressant le thym et la mousse oubliée au creux de la roche.
Écrire ou la recherche de la liberté, by Marie M
Pour écrire, j’ai besoin de temps, d’espace, j’ai besoin d’avoir l’esprit libre. Toutes contraintes devraient alors disparaitre pour permettre à mes doigts de filer sur le clavier, capable de créer des phrases, des idées, peaufiner un article…
Si la liberté n’existe pas alors la créativité se tarit et je me sens démunie face à une page blanche qui inlassablement le reste. Ainsi, j’attends, je laisse passer les heures, les jours, les mois, je me fais patiente et me trouve l’excuse de ne pouvoir vraiment écrire puisque mon esprit n’est pas libre de toutes contraintes.
I Was Absolutely Terrified To Be Pregnant — And There’s No Shame In That, by Michelle Zunter
I think it’s pretty safe to say that every woman who has ever given birth had fears of the unknown while they were pregnant — especially the first-timers.
I was full of fear from the first moment I found out I was pregnant up until the actual birth. In fact, I think I was still in shock that I was even pregnant at all for most of my pregnancy.
Why’s a Girl Like You Alone?, by Jessica Brauer
“Why’s a girl like you alone?” he slurred, weaving his hands through mine, pushing a curl of my hair behind my ear. Every neurotransmitter in my body filled with preparatory breath for one, big, harmonious, panicked song.
Please. Stop.
“You’re beautiful and smart and funny.” The skin on my neck tightened–tiny cracks spreading like wild rivers across my trapped knuckles. I forced my lips to curl and my eyes to sparkle, while I thought about slamming his weathered face into the coffee table.
Money is a Game of Hats, by Maggie Beaudett
money
is a game of hats
the more you have
the bigger
Letting Go of the Old, by Karen Banting
I stood facing the water and my legs felt strong beneath me. The cool breeze prickled my bare arms and whistled through my thin cotton shirt as I wrapped my arms across my chest. I’d built up some heat on my walk, had stripped off first my jacket and then my sweatshirt, and now it felt good to be cool. When was the last time I felt the wind on my skin, I wondered. Did it always feel this good?
11 | Père, fils, sain d’esprit, by Raphaël Hennebois
L’ironie a voulu que vienne de moi la partie qui manquait à mon âme… Ma longue période d’abstinence rédactionnelle m’a poussé à revenir sur mes pas. Au fil de l’étude de mes œuvres passées, sans doute lancée par une naïve quête de la Flamme Perdue, j’ai repéré un gimmick, aussi malsain qu’inconscient. Tous mes personnages principaux partageaient la même névrose : l’absence d’une figure paternelle.
No One Wants To Gather Dust, by Bridget Webber
The Remington Standard, a good typewriter in its day, collected dust in the loft. Its keys were old and cranky. Yet, they longed to speak.
“If only,” they thought, “someone would tap out a story.” “Or, better still, let ‘us’ tell a tale.”
“What would you type?” inquired an ancient broom, who remembered the days when she swept cobwebs and debris to reveal fine parquetry, but now was as redundant as the typewriter.
I Want You to Understand Why Black Mental Health is Taboo, by Tiffany Anderson
When I was diagnosed with Social Anxiety, some of my black family disapproved. I remember my aunt telling me, “You’re not an anxious girl, you’re just shy. Black women aren’t supposed to be weak, and neither are you. You need to stop acting like you have problems when you don’t!”
Those words seared into my mind like a branding iron. I was denied my chance to end the stereotype. Even worse, I was feeling “not black enough.” As a black woman, weakness is never an option.
Feelings on Tiny Papers, by Agnes Louis
My fingers froze an inch above my keyboard as I stared at a picture of my parents. One of my father’s arms draped around my mother’s shoulder. My father’s smile rarely looks natural in a picture (it always looks a bit like a forced passport photo smile) but in this pictures, both my parents were smiling naturally, beaming with happiness.
It was taken August last year, on my mother’s 48th birthday. Her last birthday celebration. She passed away the next month.
Lavender Lemonade, by Jessica Lovejoy
the acidity of this drink
mirrors the bitterness of your absence
have you served it to me on purpose
it felt good on my lips before
but things have changed
I don’t smile anymore
when
I taste the things
that taste like you
Piano Playing at Dusk, by Michelle Muses
Her slender fingers arch across
the cold surface.
She begins playing the old piano,
unfurling memories, each pirouetting
in vivid color across a glossy sea
of black and white.
Why I Use a Pen Name, by Elle Rogers
Hi, my name is Elle. Except legally, it’s not. Elle is (phonetically) my first initial and it means, simply, “she” in French, a language I studied and love. As for Rogers, that name is a combination of both my maiden and married names.
It’s like an encrypted cipher key, no?
So this is my confession.
Why I Want to Share My Story of Sexual Abuse, by Jessica Lovejoy
I hesitated to publish my story on sexual abuse in the workplace for fear of oversharing and to avoid criticism or judgment, which victims typically experience when they come out and tell their story. Especially because I never reported the boss who sexually assaulted me.
Victims face criticism and disbelief when telling their story; it’s the ugly truth. And the victims who share their story of abuse years later, but never filed a report or told anyone when it happened to them have to deal with self-inflicted guilt and externalized shame.They are criticized for waiting to speak up and never reporting their abuser.
I love my friends — but I don’t want to see them every day, by Sabine B.
I had a wonderful time last night, hanging out with my best friends. We did yoga, cooked dinner, played some table games. It has been a while since the last time we got to spend the whole evening together, and within minutes after walking into their apartment, I realized just how much I had missed them.
Mid-way through the dinner, my friend asked me if I had any plans for tomorrow. They were going to watch the second episode of Game of Thrones on a home projector with a couple of other friends.
I said “yes” — and just as the word came out of my mouth, I felt both ashamed and frustrated with myself.
The Simple Therapeutic Impact of Empathy on Our Lives, by Sylvia Wohlfarth
Once again reflecting on the variety of my 50 posts to date which give an insight to the person I am, i.e., someone who can drown in Weltschmerz, fill to the brim with pity and sadness for other people’s trauma, and feel anger at injustice.
All of which I work into a frenzy of writing, to finally emerge from the abyss — I like the drama — and settle back into my balanced happy old self. This is reflected in my writings on the more humorous, kinder side of life. What a mix, indeed, of different feelings and emotions. Can you relate to this?
He Asked, “What If I Cheat?”, by Christie Alex Costello, MBA
Him, “What if I cheat?”
Me, “You are human, yes?”
Him, “Well, yes.”
Me, “So you may fail and so may I. Just tell me the truth and allow me to accept your imperfections.”
Him, “That’s it?”
Me, “Telling me will be harder than you think, but yes. Bring me the truth and allow me to navigate those murky waters with you because not knowing is far worse than understanding.”
Why We Need Art, by Daria Krauzo
The power of art is the power to wake us up, strike us to our depths, change us. What are we searching for when we read a novel, see a film, listen to a piece of music? We are searching for something that alters us, that we weren’t aware of before. We want to transform ourselves, just as the work of my favorite writers transformed me. Books are my private mean to overcome reality, they are reliable, warm, and always available.
Should I Be Friends with an Ex?, by Tesia Blake
I have always fervently believed exes shouldn’t be friends. I’ve made it clear in no uncertain terms before, dividing opinions and pissing a lot of people off. But then I guess that’s my bad. Who knew implying some people might be psychopaths just because they remain friends with an ex could make anyone so rilled up?
Beats me.
Belated, by Elle Rogers
Were you to make a foe of me
I’d slow my steps so I could see
the fear contained in gasping sips
of air too tight
and mind that slips
too easily into a fall
and when I met you
Contrast, by Giovanni Sonier
Looking out my window this morning
I spied a flock of kingfishers soaring upwards
Their wings whirring at an alarming rate,
You can’t help but envy the happy souls!
For their careless freedom and their quills
When they glide through a calm spring breeze
Or suddenly fly off into the wide blue yonder
My Every, by Andrew Knott
Every question that makes me laugh
Every hug that breaks my heart
Every kiss goodnight
Every time you fall asleep in my arms
Every walk home from school, the sun’s light turning your brown hair gold
Every time you say, “Daddy, I need you”
Summer Night, by Paola Ritucci
The road is dusty
The wheat gives way to sunflowers.
I breathe you into the bones.You have this turquoise stone,
I mirror in it.
How Beautiful am I Now?, by Erica Graham
To say this morning is hectic is a massive understatement. I reassessed the time needed for my morning routine resulting in hitting the snooze button one too many times. My children were slow to rise, and breakfast took longer than expected. We are lost in the bustle of teeth brushing, the kids dressing themselves, me redressing the kids appropriately for the weather, and scavenging for lost shoes and socks.
Des Fantômes, by Maxime Der Nahabédian
Ces derniers temps je regarde beaucoup de photos de mon père. Elles ont été prises quelques mois avant son départ. Il était bien vivant, il faisait beau. Il était devant moi, assis sur un banc avec ma mère, elle était tout sourire. Lui a le regard quelque peu dans le vague, on le croirait absent.
Pourtant il était bien là, pourtant j’ai bien vécu ces moments avec lui, ces vacances en Ardèche, cette journée à Vals-les-Bains sous un soleil de plomb.
What Shall I Write?, by Annie Shaw
Every morning, every evening, every free minute of my day. The question bounces around within me. What shall I write today?
The options are limitless, the possibilities are endless. Like the ocean stretching out in front of me when I stand by the shore.
I could write about a young girl and her family who crash-landed on Earth a decade ago, during a vacation to another planet.
My Little girl!, by Shruti Sinha
I have a little daughter
We all love her laughter
She keeps me busy all-day
and worries are at bay
She says a lot with two little eyes
Her smile is our everyday prize
She fills our life with immense fun
7 Days, by Agnes Louis
Here is a story. Told in my mother’s voice, post-death. This tale will be a fusion of true accounts laced with fiction. I hope I can provide you a glimpse of my world, my culture and maybe, you can take a thing or two for yourself too. This is the prologue — the beginning of an end — of the ‘7 Days’ tale.
Stay, by Heather R. Parker
stay
stay for just a moment
linger in my arms
crave my touch
as sighs
soft as butterfly wings
escape my haunted lips
Read To Me, by Austin Briggman
she opens the door
and walks
into the room
taking a seat on the foot
of my bed“what are you doing?”
“i’m writing babe”
she finishes her drink
wiping her mouth
Joint, by Laura Romero
write whatever comes to mind
put your thoughts on paper
are you scared of looking them
in the face?
of seeing them on the page
black ink
on a blank canvas
looking back
at you
Legend of Her, by Shringi Kumari
Step into her — the forsaken temple
Her red sandstone body
is starving for prayers2500 steps lead
to her melancholy
to red dust, lying scattered
under her delicately tied feet
Se Souvenir du Ciel, by Valentin Vieira da Silva
Cela fait longtemps que je n’ai pas écrit.
Que je n’ai pas vraiment écrit.
Alors oui bien sûr, je pense à des phrases, il y a des mots qui me viennent.
Parfois même c’est très beau.
Je veux dire: je suis étonné par la beauté de ce qui me passe par la tête.
De ce qui me traverse.
Mais cela ne peut cacher le fait que lorsque je m’assois pour écrire ou lorsque je m’arrête de faire ce que je fais pour écrire, rien ne vient. C’est comme si il y avait l’envie et l’innocence mais rien d’autre à récolter que le silence.
We The Millennials, by ZUVA
Death was fertilizer in the soil
And sweat was the rain.
Off the backs of blood and pain, our seeds were allowed to germinate.
But what do we have to show?
But fear of the known
When We Fight, by Jenny Justice
It’s true
Sometimes I can’t believeThat my dad is actually dead
That my mom does not seem to miss me much, call or talkThat my sister isn’t talking to me, still, for years
It’s true that I battle these feelingsBriefly and in confusion a bit every day
And yesterday when I mentioned
I Will Only Love You Twice, by Ansel Guarneros
Remember that autumn,
that warm day
when we saw the first leaf
of a tree
falling down?We watched it fell
slowly
like dancing
moving from side to side.
Fatal Funnel, by Trisha Traughber
We trickle into the cornerless
room suspended in thought
experiments, bullet points dappling
the screen, light pooling, projected.
Instructions tangle, take on absurd
forms. How to
construct a sense of security
out of classroom materials
Wild Heart, by Annie Bell
Our hearts. Separate. Free, whole, capable and strong.
Wild and to ourselves they belong.Individual, but connected by love.
Together, but nurturing what each individual is capable of.Neither heart is fragile but we treat each tenderly.
We are on the same side, our shields are down, we embrace vulnerability.
An Artist, a Dog, and Their Muse, by Joe Pregadio
Paintbrush gracefully glides by his hand
Like a prism disperses white light.The flow of his lines threatens to wake the sleeping Labrador.
He can hear her sighing, breathing heavily.
Eyes shut tight she sees only what’s in her dreams;
Paws clawing through the sand, longing to swim in the cool, Atlantic waters;
The allure of chasing the Snapper, to bite through its flesh;
The flavor of domestic, canine victory.
Because I think I Love You, by Joseph M.
Bullet casings on hardwood floors,
Such intimacy,
Every shot missed,
By your choice,Movement slowed to a crawl,
Standing across the room,
Stiff shoulders against old walls,
Waiting,
First Frost, by Matthew Donnellon
And, the morning brings,
the first frost of the season,
I Remember, by Lynne Nardizzi
last night
or maybe it was last yearI woke up from a dream
only to realize
it was not my dream
it was yours
Children of Atoms, by Ash Sturg
I wonder at the wonder in your eyes
as we speak of magical things
some more real than others
one strain captivating you entirely
as it
divides
infinitesimally,
unifies impossibly.
Reflexion, by Heather Huffman 💙
As I look at myself
a drop of water
disturbs
the mirror of the lake
causing ripples
distorting my image
The Grieving House, by Sarah E Sturgis
She says the empty house is like a cemetery now, full of strange sounds and creeping shadows. A house without people is like a morgue, only the dead remain. All that lingers are floorboards and stone, cold stone without warm feet to weather away at their molecules.
Let’s Dance, by Lorna Ye
When the sun dips
in the pastel of mellow orange
halos of lights embracing us
let’s dance
Write A Letter To The Darkness, by Annie Shaw
A few months ago I was in a very dark place. The darkest I think I’ve ever experienced.
I had completely lost myself and life didn’t make sense. Going through difficult times is challenging enough but it’s made worse when dark thoughts keep trying to convince you that life is pointless.
After weeks of trying to ignore this darkness, I got really mad one day and wrote a letter to it.
I’m Cold and I Will Always Be, by Abdullah I. Shawaf
My hands are always cold
that’s how I like them.
In winter
they remain at the same temperature
because they don’t feel
what they are made of
— cold.
A Heart For a Heart, by Leona Brits
Standing still at the center of the living room, she looks to a painting on the wall. She is absent-minded, she doesn’t hear him walking towards her, in slow pacing, as if time is suspended.
He stops in front of her. Cupping her pale face in his hands, fixing her dark brown eyes, he asks her “What are you feeling?”
She takes a step back, increases the distance between them, one so short they could hear each other’s breathing.
Sentences, by D. E. Fulford
I was forever taking headcounts of my students, as if somehow, by constantly staying abreast of exactly how many other bodies occupied the classroom, I was mentally exerting some type of control over the situation. Just as any confident, competent educator should. (…) And since I’d recently learned that one of my younger brothers was set to spend the next 35 years in prison, no quantity or quality of thinking was going to change the situation or make it any easier to handle.
Broken Walls, by Katia
In the blaze of chaos
One striking gaze
Struck my soul
You broke my first wallIn the velvet darkness
One tender kiss
Electric spark
You broke my second wall
Who am I?, by Ayushi Goel
Who am I?
I am a woman living in a city with her small-town dreamsWho am I?
I am a daughter, sister, and wife who doesn’t meet any of their needs
Behold the Handmaiden of the Lord, by Jennifer Furner
My grandmother is a saint, at least that’s what Father John called her, and he should know, even if he did drink and smoke and curse like a sailor. She did, after all, raise five children in a house built only for two, cooked all their meals, made sure they said their prayers. She raised them in the Catholic Church, raised them to be altar servers, ushers, and Eucharistic ministers, raised them to devote every weekend to the Lord. She and her children and later her grandchildren volunteered at every Lenten fish fry, every summer church festival.
Everything Is(n’t) Fine, by Carly Sutherland
How dare you command me to smile.
We are nothing more than complete strangers yet you assume you have enough power over me to demand such a thing and I’ll comply?
You’re teasing. You think it’s cute, or funny, and that I’m the unacceptable one for not playing your game. But the truth is,
You don’t know me —
The Perfect Sunday Afternoon, by Mathushah.S
Bodies spilled together
On the warm bed
A mess of hair
Cocooned under her neck
Today I Give Up, by Joliane Martel
Today I give up
I’m not holding on anymore
I won’t cheer myself up
Today I lost a war
My Soul Was Made for the Rain, by Thomas Plummer
Water streaking on the window,
the stillness of a late summer afternoon,
fading light stealing my day as my room grows darker,
my soul was made for the rain.
Relentless, by Jesse Wilson
Tonight is not a special night
It offers no solace
to words forcibly pushed by anguish
Purposely placed
The words come, they standstill
occupying what was once an empty space
When Someone From Your Past Discovers Your Writing Online, by Jessica Lovejoy
Asa personal essay writer, it shouldn’t surprise me when someone who I hoped would never find my writing, finds it. It happens, and it isn’t ideal, but as long as they aren’t reaching out to me or harassing me, I accept it’s just part of the job.
If there’s anything about myself that I want to keep private, well, I just don’t write about it.
Everything else that I’ve shared, I’ve shared truthfully and happily, knowing that someday my ex-boyfriends, my old friends, co-workers, or family members might stumble upon my personal essays.
Everyday, by Maeli Santos
She could be selfish,
but she chooses to love you instead.She could be lazy,
but she chooses to wake up with you instead.She could drink the entire bottle of wine,
but she wants to share it with you instead.
I Borrowed Strength, by Sonia Motwani
The women of my household
breathe strength as their second name,
they itch it on the topmost layer
of their raw skin and
wear it with all kind of humbleness,
They speak of it as their
Own mother tongue or as if
The Path of Love, by Bella Linda
As a young girl, I was infinitely creative, sweetly mischievous and alive through and through. Over the years of growing into a woman, I felt more and more overwhelmed with the road that life took me on. What started at the beginning of puberty was an innate fight with existence.
I stopped trusting myself, god, and other people. I built the habit of victimizing myself, feeling like everybody was able to deal with the harshness that the human experience entailed, besides me.
Numb, by J.D. Harms
A last bastion of feeling
the tingling fades
to be replaced by shooting moments
the sting like
the sound of a shot
This Junction, by Sam Kimberle
Half awake or half asleep
we can sometimes find
each other
for a moment
there is an opening
in our hearts enough
for the momentum
to pick us up
and bring us together
embracing all that we have
First Time, by Michael Keller
He swam through currents of flowing darkness,
careful to rock with the ebb and flow
of her hips — her breath — her soul.
Her eyes were iridescent,
pale emeralds reflecting galaxies above.
The Mystic, by Erika Burkhalter
I saw the owl last night.
Her great wings sliced the silvered air between the pines.
The night, draped in shades of grey,
almost concealed her,
but her shadow slipped through.
Mama Was a Green Thumb, by Lee Williams
Mama was a green thumb.
She always had a plant nearby. In the family room. The laundry. On her bookshelf. Framing the kitchen sink. Posted on sun-drenched windowsills. She couldn’t help herself.
Even among the tidy chaos of her desk in my father’s office, between valleys of stacked paper copies, jagged manila envelopes, and oak-framed candid photos of her children, a vine would snake, or a random bloom — brilliant pops of pink or canary yellow or explosive red petals — to punctuate the bland with a splash of life.
Coming Back to Where You Started is Not the Same as Never Leaving, by Ana Martins
My journey since I finished my bachelor in Sound and Image was bumpy. Crossroads are full of possibilities. At the time I was desperately trying to chase what I thought were my dreams — animation, cinema, digital games.
Ever since I was a little girl, I have always fallen in love with stories, might be they from books, songs, movies or games. Ever since I could talk and write, those stories were never enough for me. I always needed to create my own.
In An Individualistic Society, by Maymuuna
Today I looked around
And I noticed that everyone is broken
I looked through a lens
That made me see the broken pieces
That were us
Aloneness and Loneliness Aren’t the Same Thing, by Bridget Webber
“Don’t be lonely” said my aunt. I couldn’t fathom what she meant until I realized many people aren’t comfortable by themselves. Unlike me, they think it’s important to be with someone all the time.
When there’s no one around, they fill the environment with distractions — switch on the TV or radio — because the background noise helps them feel less alone.
I consider knowing solitude has the potential to be beneficial a gift.
I wish I was still there, by Alice Evergreen
The view from across
The room is…so much colder
The Red Chamber, by Tapan Avasthi
Ever seen a prison of love,
A lock-up made to hold a daisy dove.
One such jail I know from history,
Its very thought makes my hair bristle with mystery.
Emerald Breath, by Kat of Magik
I love rain and the green deep forest burning me with its thaw of thorough tales, verdant spaces so full of presence they permeate my dazed skin. I want to learn more of these ageless layers, how the pine needles crumble silkily back to a thousand prayers each year; the way the world of imagination begins anew whenever I come here.
What Love Is, by Elle Rogers
Love is arms that feel like home,
a heartbeat matching beat for beat your own.It’s calm and strong.
It’s laughter.
It’s not happily ever after.
The Miracle of Story, by Lisa Wathen
Nothing is better than story, whatever form it comes in. Cave paintings tell us that we’ve been storytellers since before written language, probably going back to the earliest stirrings of spoken language. Our ability and drive to tell stories, and the unquenchable desire to hear them, is the soul of what it means to be human.
Story is palliative when we are ill, refreshing when we are jaded. It is instructive, encouraging, inspirational and, of course, just plain entertaining.
This Christmas Give the Gift of Reading, by Joanne Roche
Okay, at the moment potions and lotions are a delight to the senses and the sparkle of jewelry puts a twinkle in the eye, edible gifts are always appreciated for the moment on the lips and novelty items a source of mirth and merriment in the spirit of the season. But moments pass, they are fleeting and the objects of our affection today all too often become just more stuff in our lives tomorrow. It is the same where toys are concerned.
In fact, when it comes to gifts for children I think there is great merit in the saying ‘less is more’; my fear is that more may lead to sensory overload and divert the attention from the kind of concentrated focus that is important developmentally.
Weather Is Always The Same, by Erios De Kir
For the rain to end
I wait,
seems like never,
it is the fate,
going through the storm,
thinking it’s the norm,
maybe that’s how it is,
how it should be,
living in the rain.
Paradigms of Change, by Pamela J. Nikodem, MS
We are stuck in our paradigm
Never looking up
We hold our heads higher, our necks strengthened tough.
We walk around acting like Our words are all we have
When in reality, the simple things to do are to let go.
Quiet Days, by Mark A. Schrader
I — This is one of my quiet days
How long will it last?
No one can know.
Though through this day
My mind does grow.
The Enigma of Life, by Simran Kankas
Be curious to solve the enigma of life,
Be calm to get the answer,
Continue crossing the maze of life,
That’s the only way to become its master.
Unsolicited Advice, by Shilpa Vijayakumar
How to be happy, how not to.
How to be alone, how not to.
When to fall in love, when to love oneself.
When to leave, and when to stay.
Catch a break, they say, learn to fight through.
Little do they know, I was just fine.
Remnants, by Yardena Schwersky
I stand here, alone, a solitary
lightning rod beneath the blanket
of storm clouds roiling overhead.The wind blows, lifting up
whatever isn’t strong enough
to remain earthbound. It brushes
by me and carries away the smoke
rising from my charred skin.
I Love You, and I Don’t Know Why, by John Dahle
I love you, and I don’t know why
It sweeps across my soul like a burning fire
It’s intense, much more than any desire
Nothing you can do to change my mind
Time after time, it’s always you I find
Sharing a Starry Sky, by J.W. Parr
Tell me, is it true
When I see the stars at night
La Dolce Far Niente: The Sweetness of Doing Nothing, by Elaine Mead
A few years back I wrote a guest blog for an Aussie based site called Little Wren. The blog was titled ‘The Sweet Art of Doing Nothing’.
It was written at a time when the concept of doing nothing was imposed on me due to current circumstances, rather than an active choice. Although I tried to take this in my stride and embrace the gaps of nothing that seemed to swallow up my days, I was relieved when I transitioned into a different and busier phase of life.
The Forest, by MARTIN de la FOI
A young boy stood before the forest. ‘I am here now’, he said, but the forest didn’t reply. “I could hear you over the fields”, he persistently insisted, “What do you want?”.
The forest looked at him. For a moment, the wind stopped, and with the cracking sound of trees awakening, it mumbled softly, “What I want is nothing, what I give is everything”.
It Was Your Smile that Broke Me, by Mora Mitchell
I saw a picture of you today
With your half a smile
and wandering gaze
Maybe the pain of losing
you hasn’t entirely gone away.
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