A gesture of hand in chivalry, “whenever you’re ready, milady.”
He walked to the passenger side of the vehicle and opened her door. Only when it was fitting or natural. They were independent, not always doing things for one another, but when they did it was always appreciated. Sometimes they played with each other, pretending and dramatizing scenes of make believe, it was fun.
If a woman should extend her hand to a gentleman, palm down and extended or before her so that it is clear a handshake is not what she had in mind, the gentleman simply places his lips lightly against her skin, poses her fingers for a second, and then allows her to pull her hand away. A slight bow from the waist.
Chivalry.
Don’t be chivalrous. Chivalry was once the script used by medieval knights to protect vulnerable people. Women, children, the elderly, and those who were sick or disabled. It was a prejudice, one of good intentions, to protect those, who the scribes believed, could not protect themselves. Over time it has changed to one dedicated strictly to women. But women are fully capable of doing things themselves. The chivalrous gestures should be done out of romantic intentions. Romance in the tradition of a gentlemen in company of a lady.
Courtesy. Courtesy is the politeness in attitude and behavior to everyone. Courtesy does not discriminate. Chivalry is for the significance of romance.
Author: Rosaceae
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Carriage
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Permission
There is a quality of grace in waiting, satisfaction achieved through diligence and patience, wings blooming from cocoon in transformation. Sometimes it is an act of instinct. Sometimes it is a desire, for something later to come. That no matter where it may go- despite the prestige that may be reached, the artistry conceived, the wisdom that may be acquired. To be able to love another, with all one’s heart and soul, that, that will always be enough. And even through separation, a life in which two fall back into one another.
‘I’m never the man that I ought to be. Never the man that I sought to be. But always the man I chose to be.’
…
She knocked on the door, 4 knocks followed by 2. Footsteps approached the door. He looked through the peephole, “what’s the password?”
“Oh, I don’t know… sunset?” He opened the door.
There’s a trick to keep all your passwords the same, and yet all different. An easy way to remember every single one of them and still disparate enough to prevent others from decoding.
Pick a word, any word, a word you like.
Let’s use sunset, in this example:
Letters are changed with numbers, symbols, and capitalizations, and symbols may be added further: Suns3t^
The alterations come dependent on the usage, added prior to or after the word, in accordance to the space. Beach – 08, Café – 05, Park – 11. Can you figure it out? The numbers resemble the last letter of the place being entered. The last letter of Beach is h, h is 8th letter of the alphabet, Café, e, the 5th letter, Park, k, 11th letter. Pick and choose where you want to take what you want, making sure that it fits, being consistent. The first letter? The second? The third? Adding it into the chosen word. Suns3t^08, Suns3t^05, Suns3t^11.
Further encryptions can be added specifically for financial, or personal spaces. Bank, k, 11th letter. Change all financial spaces to include another decryption, such as capitalizing the last letter of the word as well. Suns3T^11. But choose a word, for us- we’ll use Sunset. That’ll be our daughter’s name.
It can be made as complicated as intended (e.g. reverse order of alphabet numbering), or as simple enough to remember (just changing a little bit). The only password you will ever need in a single word. Knowing the security and safety is all from you. -
Morning
Her father had words of wisdom.
“You always have a choice, darling… It’s just whether or not you choose to see it.” For love is that which enables choice, always stronger than fear.
She was wearing a loose sweatshirt barely covering her inviting lingerie, loose enough to reveal one side of her shoulder and hiding the other. An ivory beige apron twirling and draping. Her socks were cute. It was a stumble, a dream. He never expected anything from her, but the gestures were always nice. She loved to cook and clean, especially moreso when she was happy and in love. But as much as she enjoyed it, he did as well. For a clean house created a relaxing environment, comfortable when things got out of hand, and a well cooked meal meant that the time/ effort was put into experience for growth.
He walked up from behind and held her in his arms, kissing the back of her neck from behind. “Good morning”, she said noticing him. She turned around as he leaned her against the counter top, holding her close, “good morning”, he said in a slow transition toward her lips.
“Smells amazing.”
“Let me do the dishes today”, he said kissing her. -
Painting
A note laid on the table, the handwriting was neat, looking perfect, must’ve been written by a girl. She stopped by the flower market to pick an arrangement of florals that morning, it was a modern storefront. As she entered, a fresh delicately innocuous air of freshly-cut blooms was about. Metal buckets brimming with a multitude of floral compositions, neatly in abundance along the forefronts of the store, as water drips over the edges onto the ceramic floor. A fresh selection of arrangements made for display.
A sensation of peace and harmony, blowing through a gentle and inviting spring breeze. Wrapped across thick brown paper covered packaging atop the table, and taped amongst the edges to hold. Black ink with thin and thick curves elegantly writing the words, “For Summer”.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”, a voice entered from behind. I don’t recognize that voice, she thought to herself. But I’ve heard it from somewhere, she turned around.
…
“What does falling in love feel like?”
“It’s hard to explain honey”
Summer continued painting; a scenery of sunset. Her father looked at her and smiled. Splotches of paint across her face and hands, unsure if deliberate or intentional. A canvas by the window, and a collection of paint, dollops on a palette. “It’s like painting. At first, the canvas is blank, and life is drawn in black and white. As pretty as it may be, something always feels missing…
One day you may meet someone, and they start painting a world of colors into it. When that happens- life is just not the same anymore.”
“That sounds beautiful”, Summer replied in amazement.
“But you have to look at the whole landscape.”
“What does that mean?”
“A painting is more than the sum of its parts… A cow by itself is just a cow. A meadow by itself is just grass, flowers. And the sun peaking through the trees is just a beam of light. But you put them all together, and it can be magic (Flipped).”
Don’t you think it is magical?
Everything in this world is magic, except to the magician -
Sunday
Did you know the days of the week are named after celestial bodies and Germanic gods? Saturday, Sunday and Monday after Saturn, the Sun, and the Moon, and Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, after Tiw, Woden, Thor, And Freya.
It was a lazy Sunday morning. The feel of sleepily waking up and walking out of the bedroom, down the stairs towards the scent of breakfast, sometimes a smell of waffles dripped in syrup and melted butter, or a strawberry jelly spread toasted croissant, a cup of fresh handpicked fruits, or better yet scrambled egg whites cooked with peppers, herbs with a side of vegetarian bacon. Today was back to simple and healthy as usual.
The newspaper was tossed across the dining room table, there was a glass of orange juice by a collection of strawberries and blueberries in a white bowl. Two warm bowls of oats sprinkled with a flurry of brown sugar. A cup of coffee. Must be for the adults. She was too young for coffee, her father let her taste it before, but yuck, it was too bitter. A man sits with his legs crossed picks up the newspaper and takes a sip of his coffee. “Good morning dear, did you sleep well?”
She was awoken by the sounds of birds chirping. They sang to one another in a tree nearby, splashing in a white bird bath on the grass beneath the tree. The voice of her father echoed in memory, “male birds often attracted the female through vocals. And sometimes singing because they were just happy.” He kneeled down and held the white dove perched on his finger towards her.
It was laundry day.
The dripping of wet jeans and light colored clothing hanging on a line to dry in the sun. A white threaded basket sat underneath. There was a reassuring scent of clean clothes. Sunday was her favorite day, a day away from all other days, a day to rest, a day to go to church sometimes. The joy of waking up with the sunbeam against the skin, a silky-smooth feel against crumpled white stonewashed sheets, enveloping and relaxing, a pure sensation of comfort.
Is there a science to attraction in correlation to smell? The natural scent of body odor unmasked by deodorant, perfume, or other products. Women and men were once tested in this capacity, wearing a t-shirt for several days to produce scents that naturally occurred in the body, and then sniffing the scents of ones worn by various individuals.
Does diet affect the way we smell? Is it perhaps a blend of the products we find attractive mixed with the musk of the odors we secrete? Why does different stages of life draw us to different smells? The immunologically important genes, major histocompatibility complex (MHC), under natural as well as sexual selection. The affects of pregnancy and contraceptives to familiarity or the opposite to dissimilarity (C. Wedekind, S Füri, 1997). Why do we like the smells we smell? To hold on to memories of that which remind? What one person smells heavenly may be the counterpart for another. Is it beyond our control? What if it wasn’t, to be able to play in the circumstances of attraction. To experiment with different scents, mixing and matching places in a desire to be, or feelings to evoke. Design in compliment to fragrance.
He forgot his hooded sweater at her place that day, and as it laid on her chair hanging perfectly, a delicate blue floral embroider, it reminded her of him. An aroma hidden by a masculine front, that of the beach. -
Library
A mysterious library of books, sliding across endless array of shelves on a wooden ladder. The transition of time between a multitude of stories and the whispers of a turning page.
Shh…
She was studious, sophisticated, intelligent. In how she went about, how she spoke, her attire. Astute. Her smile giving off a kiss. Beauty comes in all shapes and sizes, but to hold it physically, emotionally, intelligently, and in character, is a rare yet desirable quality. Beauty beyond the appearance, the mind, the knowledge… to the heart of the spirit.
Because physical beauty was simply just that, narcissism in the appearance of eyes. To understand. To seek and discover, learning and growing. A gentle touch of kindness. Alone they are achievable, but to continously grow in them all, requires strong will.
Summer was getting ready for bed. She stood on the stool to look in the large mirror to brush her teeth. After flossing and rinsing with mouthwash, she closed the bathroom light and in her pajamas got in her bed to be tucked in.
“In a kingdom far far away…”, he said sitting down.
They were a distinct group of knights that served the land, each from a respective kingdoms. Holding an oath sworn in initiation. Few and far between. Never to bear children, never to wed. Yet with constant appointment, in the escort and safety, of the maidens of the land, and in the safety of the children. An eventual fall, through the perpetual company.
“What do the poems mean?”
“That’s the thing about poetry sweetie. It is meant to explain, what can’t be said. That’s why he wrote them, each one for each feeling. There’s many ways to describe love, and they are all different. Some are a beautiful feeling, filling and warming your heart, some are feelings that hurt, breaking your heart, and there are so much more… But you have to love, like there is no such thing as a broken heart.”
“That’s the name of a song you always play.”
He laughed.
And on that shelf sat a collection of fragrances. A library of scents reminiscent of familiar memories. It was thousands of dollars, but it was a gift of symbolism. -
Sentiments
“My father always told me- that if something was ever in the heart, be willing to let it part”, her voice softened. “Even though it’s been years since my mother passed, I know he still thinks about her.” She picked off the segments piece by piece. A scene of seeds dispersing among a gentle breeze.
He walked up and entered the conversation from beside her. As she spoke he listened to what she had to say, not thinking of something else to say, or distracted by something else going on. He was there, an undivided attention only on her.
“I never really looked into your eyes before. Pretty…”
That was almost my name, Hazel. My father liked nature and flower names and had a few picked out for me. My mother was open to ideas…”
“She said Summer was the perfect name, when she first held me…”
There was a silence as she averted her thoughts. She chuckled and as she wiped beneath the bottom of her eyes, he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I’m sure she knows… it is as beautiful as the daughter she had grown to become.”
It wasn’t normal for her to feel vulnerable. But for some strange reason, it was comfortable. As lips may touch, sounds interlacing, a downpour interrupted them. Sounds of her laughter echoing as they ran across the woods in the pouring rain, splashes against splashes of running footsteps. Muddy tracks of soil left in the escapade. Carefree in mess, drenched clothes, the grimy shoes, returning back under the roof of enclosure. -
Fibonacci
When bees store honey, the crystallizations creating a hexagonal shape of a honeycomb. Deliberation in the structure of habitat to an ideal design accepted for the efficiency of storage. But what simply a natural coincidence of nature’s beauty? Through the storage in volume of golden liquid in the natural shape that forms, a circle. And putting so many circles alongside one another, touching the sides of each other like neighbors, quite naturally becoming a hexagon.
Nature reaches a sense of perfection, in its own beautiful way. The way petals on flowers growing in their cycles of growth. The structure of seashells found lying in the sand. The movement, proportion, and shape of reproduction, natural disasters, and even galaxies. A golden ratio, a Fibonacci sequence, 1.618. 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34… Can you figure it out? Everything involves a matter of numbers.
“We all make mistakes sweetie. It is a part of being human, we forget things, we do something wrong, and things never go as expected. Strong leaders take responsibility for all mistakes. That’s the way they teach. That’s the only way things may get better. They forgive, and they see all failures are their own- pushing in a direction that makes the world a better place. To harbor a workplace that helps people grow. ‘Success is peace of mind which is a direct result of self-satisfaction in knowing you did your best to become the best you are capable of becoming – John Wooden.’”
Summer was in the driver’s seat that day, with the music playing she sang along at some point, she loved country music. Mostly because of what they sang about, how they made her feel, reminding her of a simpler time, a simpler life. Well that and her father played country music a bit more than other music. Usually during sunny days or sunsets.
“Your voice is lovely.”
“…Really? I don’t like it.”
“I’d disagree.”
She looked at him and then back to the roads. -
Skies
They laid on a blanket in the grass, watching clouds passing, speaking whatever came to mind.
“There are 4 types of clouds, sweetie. All of which derive from Latin words.”
“Cirro for hairlike curl, Strato like a layer of blanket. Cumulo, a heap of fluffy cotton ball. Alto for the middle. And nimbus, when they all come together and create rain.”
Her father pointed to the sky, “What does that one look like?”
“A fluffy white bunny!”
“And you can combine each of those words together to categorize all the different types of clouds you see in the sky.”
The sky darkened, a chill of a slight breeze, as drizzle gave hint of what was to come. “It looks like a storm is approaching”, her father said as they began heading home. She pulled the sleeves of her sweater against her hands.
I never enjoy anything, always waiting for whatever’s next. Sometimes l look back, sometimes I imagine what’s next, too busy trying to rush through everything, to get on with what is really supposed to be done with life. But there are these moments of clarity. The most brilliant clarity. Where for a second, the moment stops and the realization comes. Wait, this is it. This is where we are, and we better be there, because one day it’ll be gone. It’ll be too late. It’ll be a memory.
“How have you been?”
“Well, and yourself?”
She threw a light soft blanket on the cargo bed of a pickup truck. It was a scene of grass fields, birds flying across the sky, deers prancing by, twinkles of light in flicker from fireflies. If only life was such a fairytale. She looked up. In his jeans and flip flops, he set up a tripod and began recording. It was a beautiful setting sun. There was a woven basket, which she prepared, laying in waiting. She took out 2 glasses and sets them aside, lighting a candle. Barefoot and a bottle of wine.
“You know”
“As the sun gets lower in the sky, the light needs to pass through more of the atmosphere. And as we watch the transient nature of the sun setting, small particles scatter the blue light, leaving the red, orange, and yellow light to pass straight through, to be able to reach you. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
They loved each other’s company, the world and beauty of what they saw painted. There was a comfort in their conversation and the silence in between. It was a vibe. Ahem. A vibration. For life was the moments that took their breaths away. -
Chrysalism
I have a theory to life… A theory that is one of a vast endless array, to which we have our choosing. Would that be of interest, for however long it may last? Where life begins and ends, encircling the finding and losing of one another. May you desire in the taking of hand, and the love of tales embarked. For if life was just one big tease. Wouldn’t that be fun?
Summer woke up to the sound of rain gently pattering against the screen of her window. Her hair was slightly messy from sleeping, and she was still in her pajamas walking downstairs from her room.
“Daad,” she said in a melodic voice, her father was nowhere in sight. She walked to the front door heading for the yard, wondering and looking. There he was. Soft music playing gently fitting the environment. He turned around, “take a look sweetie.” As she walked closer to him, rubbing her eyes, she looked in his direction. There was a rainbow emerging in horizon, the aftermath of the storm. Refracted by transparency of the drizzling tear shaped rain. “Stunning, isn’t it?”
“Mhmm”
They stood staring and listening, to the song of the rain and calming instruments. The composure evoked a stillness, strings of violin deferential to the drips, choirs that were parallel in the harmony of hums sung to the heavens. Trusting and holding as life came to being, drawing closer to a conclusion of someone leaving, fleeting away. Sometimes the most inspiring moments are the sad ones, for a sense of loss of something once loved, becoming fragments of a memory.
“Where does a rainbow come from?” she said tiptoeing to peak above the fence.
…
He was standing out on the porch by the flowers, hanging flowers that hung across the ledges. She walked out of the bathroom and up behind him, a towel in her hand drying her long hair. “I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” she said gracing the left side of his body, touching with her fingers, moving slowly down the design.
“I…”
“Don’t say anything.”
Though both gender generally maintain a similar internal temperature of 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit/ 37 degrees Celsius (quick shortcut F-30/2, C*2+30), men have a higher metabolic rate (source). Typically due to their higher levels of muscle mass which requires more calories to support and thus generating more heat. When that heat evaporates it warms the skin, clothes, and surrounding air. There was a study that studied the affects of sleeping naked or close to naked as opposed to sleeping with clothes. Is it really better for our bodies to sleep in the nude? For lesser degrees of constriction and temperature regulation.
They were laying enclosed by the rain, a cabin, away from the busy city, away from the people, chrysalism in oasis. She was in his arms, legs curled atop, body closer for warmth. Reciprocation. A duvet partially covering and slightly revealing. The air was chilly just shy of being cold, comfortable enough to walk in undergarments but cold enough to seek warmth. She adorned his oversized sweater, in socks and lingerie.
“What?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“Come on, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“You’re going to judge me.”
“Okay maybe,” she nudged him and laughed.
“but atleast you wouldn’t be afraid to show me that part of you.”
“You won’t tell anyone?”
“I won’t.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Nothing you’re not comfortable with.”
“How is your arm?” he said gently holding it. “I’ll be the first to sign your cast.” He reached for a brush pen lying on the nightstand. Scribbling… ‘What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.’
…
“…What about a shower scene. Cinematic, intimate, and sensual. Birds chirping. Water splashing. A tease of flirtation, not giving what is desired. It’s mostly for me, but if you’re daring we can go however and as far as you would like. Adjusting the perspective to show just enough without revealing anything.”
He was her canvas. Bringing to life any vision she saw in portrayal. Sometimes revealing bare skin. Flowers that bloomed in hold, dresses held against skin, hands hiding in suggestion. She was a model in the only eyes that mattered, his.
“Beautiful”, he took a picture. A composite of colors, shapes, and lights in a balance. -
Storm
They sat on the porch of hanging flowers talking and gazing into the distance. Lightning flashing across the sky. Thunder that struck upon the landscape horizon. High tide rushing against the sand and shore. A deafening roar, as life scurries in all directions from fear. Struck. Descending and lifeless. Against the earth, without a hold or receipt. A bridge to Terabithia. Tears in the clouds of the sky.
“There goes another one”, he said pointing as a flash of lightning struck down upon the lake. The night sky was filled with stormy clouds, hiding the spectacles of the sky.
“This is kind of fun.”
“You’ve never just sat to watch the thunder across a lake?”
“No, but I can see why you like it…”
…
“I’m scared,” she said raising her covers through the roaring thunder. “That’s okay sweetheart. Thunder and lightning comes and goes. Here, let’s make it a game,” he said sitting beside her on the bed.
“When we see another flash of lightning, let’s count until we hear thunder. For every 5 seconds, the storm is about 1 mile or 1.61 kilometers away.”
“How come we see lightning before we hear the thunder?”
“Because light travels faster than sound. The sound has to catch up to the light.” As a flash of lightning brightened the room, he pointed and they both started counting together. “1…2…3…”
As the storm calmed, her father left the room and came back holding something in his hands.
“His name is Grizzly. Like a grizzly bear”, he said handing her a brown teddy bear. “Now he might look cute and cuddly, but if you’re ever scared, he’ll protect you from the monsters.” He gave her a wink.
He turned on the enchanting night light diffuser by her bedside, a forest of lavender mist, shimmers protruding through the branches of the glass encased cylinder.
“The forest is where he lives to fight off the creatures.” Through the dark depths of the wintergreen forests, in the midst of the minty snow, and upon the natural earth.
Bears were the emblem of their kingdom. Wardens of the land. Symbols of courage, strength, and tenacity. Brutes, yet well-mannered. Weapons in coalition with armor, forged from the depths of the Earth. Unbreakable shields imbued, and capes blessed to restore within. A knight fears nothing when he rides alone. Slaying vicious monsters and creatures that may roam the enchanted woods. Even upon wounds, without fear of death. Brave as the bear that prides his crest.
Guardians and protectors. Gentle, and docile.
Yet when provoked, a roar that thundered in the ferocity of beast.
Kingdoms with a symbol of beasts. Protecting villages from the monsters in the woods, and the angels of the night. In a swore to be a guardian. Yet he had a distinct persona, often disregarding the heavy armor and the large shields. A tattered cape and trimmed apparel, scars that ran across body. A rose amongst bears.
“Goodnight Sweetie,” he said kissing her on the forehead.
“Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
“And don’t forget the”, yawn, “night light.” -
Constellation
The stars in the skies was a wonder to behold, shooting an array of lights across the night sky. The moon, but just, a company of many. Twinkles of light, that inched further and further away, a wrinkle in time. Yes, that was a Disney reference, never saw that film though. They sat on their rooftop out the window that night, a warm summer night. Her father pointed…
“You know, the stars we see in the sky are all part of our Milky Way galaxy, but not all of them might still be alive.”
“Even if we still see them?”
“Even if we still see them. It takes time for light to travel- 186,000 miles or 300,000 kilometers per second to be exact. Even the light from our Sun takes time to get to us. Most of the stars are hundreds of thousands of light years away.”
“That must be really really far away.”
“It is, and like any star it needs a source of energy, when that runs out, depending on their size, it can cause a supernova or a planetary nebula. Which is beautiful upon itself. The light we see, may be the remnants of a light, already gone, that is still trying to reach us.”
Have you ever watched a star die? It is like looking in the eyes of someone dying. In realization knowing or not knowing what is about to happen. Particles of the universe rupturing, bursting into the vastness of space. Leaving clusters of fragments adrift, in a blushing release of light. A fortitude through the transition. The soul of a love just met, and a journey reborn.
Her father looked at her, “quite a wonder, huh?”
Summer nodded, she never understood all of what he told her, but she liked listening to her father talk.
What is the reason adages of astrology synchronize with the thoughts we have of ourselves? Even if not entirely, but moderately or partially. Picture for a moment, a beach and how the elements interact with one another. A breeze of wind blowing the particles of earth and sand into a heat of fire burning by the rolling tides of water. Free flowing air that moves ever so fleetingly coming and going. Grounded earth that remains firm in stability and material. Fiery flames that burns passionately to brighten and warm the night. The depths of water flowing and converging wherever it goes. How do they interact with one another? How do they complement one another and how do they destroy each other? Finding a balance for peace if they may lie together.
What is a leap year? An organization in leftover time to try and catch up with the revolution of the Earth around the Sun. Important so that our constructed calendar year matches the solar year- revolving around the center of our solar system. It takes Earth approximately 365 days, 5 hours, 46 minutes, and 48 seconds to rotate around the Sun (SpacePlace, Nasa). So the measurement of time that have been developed misses precision. The approximate 6 hours lost per year is added together during the leap year, to make up for the lost time. But what about the 13 minutes and 12 seconds? Across a linear timeline, does the forgotten time misrepresent the clocks, calendars, and horoscopes of which we see as true? Is it just structures to better control, constructs to organize, and ideas that bring out, what we wish to see? A fault and rip in that reality, but maybe it is choosing to take a faith in what can be true despite.
To explain the meaning behind the gift we receive simply on an act of choosing- a wonder and mystery to behold. For how and what we choose to do with it. Because if what we wish to see as true becomes true, then should it be made as something to love?
‘For beauty lies in the eye of the beholder.’ -
[(1+ √5)/2]
“I don’t think.”
She stopped him, “don’t think”.
The sun was shining through his window. He woke up. Half awake, he turned over and the other side of the bed was empty. She was gone, left without notice. He wondered if she was actually there. Was it a dream? If it was, why did he have to wake up. A rhetorical question. He groaned, turning back over across the bed.
He brushed off the thought beginning his day, it was still early. He walked into the bathroom, opening the door, and there written on the mirror, was a message. The bathroom was large. A vessel sink bowl with a half open flowing facuet, spacious multi white drawers, surrounding of faux flowers and incense. Pou- pourri. To make guests comfortable in going.
There was a translucent glass panel sliding open to a shower where water fell from the ceiling, like rain. He flicked on the switch to heat the tiled floors beneath as he entered. Always looking for ways to make life a little more comfortable. He turned to the rectangular mirror.
Phi, the golden ratio, better known for representing divine inspired sense of order and simplicity. A mathematical distillation to nature’s beauty.
Oh, the message. It was written in her lipstick with a heart at the end. They left little things for each other here and there. The little things always counted. -
Sunset
The gentle breeze of the shores were relaxing and enveloping. It was a quiet and calm evening walk, as curious sniffing paws created a playful energy. There was someone gently singing a distance away. Her tone was in perfect harmony with the early eve of setting sun. A moment to be awakened momentarily, wonders to be in the presence of. It wasn’t an often occurrence, it was the grace of an angel, lovely tones performing to the leaving sun; compliments in the parting scene. Flowing winds barely audible from the chatter of outdoor dining in the streets above, street lights illuminating the only path ahead was all that was left in remain.
“Pardon me miss…” She looked over, a lonely warm playful of emerge.
“May we join you?”
She reached under and rubbed the fluffy white coat of hair, as her hands were licked in excitement of the reunion. He laughed, “I’m afraid we’re a packaged deal.”
“I can make an exception… for your beautiful dog.”
Sunset, the perfect name for who she may be, to describe the harmony of a loving leave. Here while it’s here, and goes while it goes. The hope of another day…
“I love the line, tomorrow isn’t forever.” -
Sediments
Calm tides were moving that evening, steady tones that washed towards and away. Particles of sand leaving imprints of footprints in the steps taken. Laughter and chatter of people heard about in the background. The sun was just about setting, intense tones of saffron, crimson, and burgundy in display. As sounds of sediments skid across the surface of water, movements of continuance.
“You have to find a flat rock. Not too big, not too small. Not too heavy, nor too light, just right.” A coincidental rhyme, he thought.
“Kind of like this one,” he bent down to show her.
“Let’s look for some.”
Summer grabbed a few rocks and came back. “Is this good?” Her father smiled. “Those are perfect sweetie.”
He held the rock between her fingers and demonstrated. “Hold it between your index or middle finger, and your thumb. And when you throw,” he paused. “Flat and firm, letting it twirl.” He walked toward the tides. “Look into the distance,” he said pointing. “Aiming for where you want it to go”, and in a single motion, the world paused, an allure as the stone touched across a trail of ripples. He turned towards them, “kissing it across, the edges of sea.”
There are many factors that affect the way stone skips across water. Each subsequent bounce slows the acceleration until it penetrates the water’s surface. A matter of the height from which it is thrown, the angle that it was released, the altitude and the impact, and the condition of the water’s surface all of which influence how many skips occur and how quickly it may splash. Can you beat my record? 11+ skips. I lose count after that.
…
Her mother smiled, “it’s a tale of being lost and found.”
Summer began practicing her stone skipping, in between her parents talking, sometimes showing something cool she found and sometimes asking for help. As the sun began to set and it was getting late, her father called for Summer, so they can head back into their lakeside home. -
Seaglass
There’s an old myth about where sea glass originated. The story began when a sailor was lost at sea amidst a storm, large waves, rain, and thunder, erupted and endangered his ship. Bows beginning to flood with gushing water and heavy rain. It was an S.O.S, save our ship. A mermaid who loved this sailor from afar, saw this and tamed it to save his life. She was later banished to the depths of the ocean for what she did by the god of sea, Neptune. The lore goes that whenever a sailor is lost at sea, a mermaid would cry and her tears would wash onto the shores as sea glass. A memento of an unrequited love.
The evening continued in a walking stroll, shores of doves across the sand and breeze. Sometimes he was in front, sometimes her, taking turns in taking the lead. They were looking for hidden gems; shells, sea glass, or whatever neat stuff that was lying on the beach.
“What do you end up doing with all the sea glass you find?” he asked.
“I have a jar collection near my windowsill. I keep the ones I really like in there with some sand and seashells. The rest I use for crafts which I sell online.”
“You have a shop?”
“It’s called Love, Summer.”
The evening was coming to a close. There was a moment of hesitation. John had lost the piece she had given him, his heart sank a little, which was an unusual feeling for him. A feeling of sentimentality. In his thoughts, he went back, retracing, could he locate where it was lost? He couldn’t remember where it might’ve fell. Summer looked at him, in his dismay.
“I lost the shard you gave me. I’m so sorry. I must’ve lost it at some point.”
“Well now you know how to find one,” she said brushing away his worries. -
Beach
The scent of salty air was in the atmosphere, sprays of sunscreen against the glow of sun kissed skin, and memories of endless summer days. White swans gawking, floating gingerly across the edges of water. Leaves by falling leaves, refracting a transparency of symmetry. But this was the other side of the glistening lake, the sandy side. In place of grass and trees staring at a reflection of clouds, broken shards of glass hiding amongst a landscape of sand and shells Waves that crashed the pieces onto the shores, waiting to be found.
“You’re never going to find sea glass looking there,” Summer said approaching him. He turned around, watching as she began to walk towards him. She smiled. Though she was always pretty, her smile brought an aura of warmth in her approach. Her smile his favorite part in seeing her. It wasn’t expected but it was always welcomed, and it was generally a part of her personality. He smiled back.
“You’ll usually want to look near the tides, where there are a cluster of rocks. It’s where they gather after washing ashore,” she continued.
Summer walked over taking his hand and begins leading him toward the tides, shallow terse waves crashing upon their feet. Waves by waves rescind away from the sands of the shore, scattering in the wet and rocky patches in the search. She reached down picking up a shattered shard of glass, a blue tint, it’s hue a resemblance to the sky.
“Over here,” she said.
“The blue ones are really hard to find,” she said holding it in the air. “Sea glass takes over 20 years to be created with the right conditions, some even over 100 years. Green, brown, and white are usually the most common, but any other color like blue or pink are rare.”
She rubbed the surface and held it to the sky.
“If you look through and they’re cloudy, then they’re sea glass. If they’re transparent- the minerals of the ocean, and sunlight haven’t chemically altered them enough. So I like to throw it back in.”
“Here,” she said handing it to him. “This one is for you.”
What a find. It was of a serene color. A broken piece that was etched almost to the shape of a heart. -
Waves
“Hey”
“Hey yourself”
He kisses her in greeting. Reaching down to her hand, kissing it. Pushing her away, pulling her towards. Dipping her down and spinning her around, in a twirl. The most perfect moments in life, don’t need to be said, don’t need words, but merely in the moment passing. For the beauty lies in what is forgotten, left behind, presence in the present. Letting go of what has come before, and releasing of what may come ahead, leading, to a possibility of being lost forever…
Everything is only as sentimental as it is made to be, as it is meant . He turned around to look back, but there was nothing left to see.
“The opportunities presented themselves, but I turned them down. When I sought for it myself, I learned grace through failures. But one way or another nothing happened. All for different reasons, we may have been at different points in our lives, the timing wasn’t fitting, or sometimes it just didn’t feel right. But they all made me who I am now, and for now they’ve led me to you.”
As they sat in the background, and the atmosphere, music playing softly in the background, it was nice. He lent her his phone, there was no password, always unlocked, it was an open book. A cohesive timeline they would share, memories and feelings called home, by the familiarity/ feelings, that created an endless story. Different sounds for different feelings, different atmospheres, to different moods. The latest at the forefront, minor touches between. They may stay, they may go, and they may return. Memories shared and created. For music is a memory back in time, from the time we first met, to the people, the places that shared it, and to the new memories that will follow later.
“When I returned, things were different, life was different. It was what I wanted, waiting for so long. I’m yours for now, if you’ll have me.” -
Seashells
There is a reverie that the sounds of the ocean, is contained in the depths of a seashell. A beautiful lore of an enchanting fantasy, but the resonance is actually in fact, the attenuation of the surrounding environment. Similarity of frequencies between the movements of the ocean and those of airflow. The waves of the tides and the flow of particles in the atmosphere. Shattering a once mysterious illusion of fairy tale, by a knowledge of rationale. Though perhaps, magical somewhere else, if we only choose to believe.
He pointed to a white colored conch tucked gently beneath the grains of sand and pebbles. Summer took a look and picked it up.
“What do you hear?” he said as she listened in.
A kingdom far far away. Do you hear it? Listen. Close your eyes and awaken. The world will change around you, greyscale into a landscape of color… Finding the bridge to cross.
The land enchanted, surrounding and taking them across the universe, a bridge through temporal space, a rip in time across dimensions. Beings that harnessed capabilities beyond capacities. And so the secrets were hidden away, stored in the depths of individuals.
She stared at him and giggled.
“Shall we?”, she said holding onto his elbow.
And that was about it, the turning towards each other in the pretend of the imagination, the silliness of humor, and the warmth in affection. It was playful, and it was fun, taking them both- away from this world. Growing as kids, teenagers, adults, and elders. As royalties, heroes/ villains, or whatever was fitting to the scene. But it was never too cliché, just enough. A tease. They complimented each other well, more and more over time, as they learned more about one another, and how to play into each other’s dreams and desires.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything”
“Promise to tell me the truth?”
“No”
No, she laughed, it was still the truth. -
Towel
The outdoor showers were running, doors swinging open and shut, splashes of puddles on the bare concrete. A refreshing coolness contrasting the blaring hot sun, evaporating the water marks left behind. Barefoot feet drawing footprints across the pavement. An affluent, luxurious, and relaxing escape.
“If you wrap the towel around your body, one edge touching your thigh, and roll the top down before tucking”, he said touching her near, an incidental moment of touch. “It won’t fall.”
He took a step back.
“I wish I knew this earlier.”
“Though… unless, you meant it to fall,” he said as a capricious wink.
He brought her closer, his hands on her waist. I forgot to mention mischievous, if only ever just a suggestion, a caress to the imagination. He glanced at her, observing a sensual touch about the way she wore what she wore.
“Well, that depends,” she said. “If we don’t get caught.”
He nudged her shoulder and gave a subtle smirk, “Oh… I’m sure we can get away with it”. -
Sand
Specks of sand intertwine with organic minerals washing onto the shore. Beautifully soft, grain by hourglass grain onto the earth and land. White birds in flight across the magnificent landscape we call the sky. A young girl chasing and escaping the touches of the tides approaching and receding. Summer ran over to her parents, and sat on her mother’s lap.
Holding Summer in her arms, she picked up a stick and began to draw in the sand.
She drew the letters of L, with O, then V, and E in capital stance in the sand.
“Love,” her father said examining.
“Oh, there’s more to it.”
She dragged the stick across the sand. Connecting the tip of the L to the left tip of the V. Drawing an under curve U from the left bottom of the L to the right base of the E. Finally connecting the right tip of the V to the right tip of the E.
“It’s a whale.”
“Pretty neat huh?” her mother asked. “The love whale.” -
Tides
She was playing with her hair, twirling strands with her fingertips. As he walked up to greet her, she looked over, and smile. To which, he couldn’t help, but just smile back.
They sat next to each other that evening, it was later than usual. The sun was just setting, the tides calm, gently landing in serenity besides their feet. It was an intimate setting, that had just as much in contrast, some call it the butterfly of effect. An experience in a single moment of time that may never recur in the exact premise.
“…Maybe that’s the best part, not knowing.”
“But I neeed to knoow”
He laughed, “where’s the fun in that?”
He took off his jacket and covered her against the chilly breeze, politeness in gesture of reassurance.
“How can you not know?” Summer said holding it closer for warmth.
“It gives me something to look forward to…”
“Even if it wasn’t true, there was atleast a possibility of it being true. It’s quite a sight, when all the possibilities lie before you… a wonder of all the possibilities and paths that could unveil.”
He was gone. Even still echoing memories of him played in her thoughts. When she was at a particular scene, when she had a particular feeling, when there was a particular scent, bridges to something reminiscent… she was walking, stopping, standing, interrupted by a memory. A feeling of, often described as an untranslatable Portuguese word, thought to have its roots in the Latin word “solitās,” meaning solitude or loneliness, saudade. -
Horizon
“I don’t think…”
“Don’t think”
Sometimes he was there. Sometimes he wasn’t.
She would simply draw a line in the sand.
“I don’t like that,” she would say, and he can choose whether or not to step across. Her hopes was that he would not. He may tease and play. But he knew her limits, and she knew his. And if he went too far, she would tell him, and he would do the same. It was what made them strong. It was what she loved. And when he wasn’t there, the lines in the sand would wash away. Hoping he would return and draw with the stick once more.
“Let’s see where it goes…”
1 year. 1 year in the time left remaining.
As she watched in the radiance of the sun over the horizon, she couldn’t help, but think of him.
The lake was quieter than usual that evening. It was sometimes nice to see it like this. Peaceful. Away from the noise. The sounds of nature standing alone in the silence. She noticed something peculiar stuck between the metal wires of the wood fence. Pulling apart, as a monarch fluttered trapped wings. Flying freely away. It was magical spectacle. As she continued about in the aftermath.
…
“What’s that?” she asked her father.
“They’re caterpillars,” he placed the critters into the net trapped enclosure, hanging by the flowers. “They hatched a few days ago and after feeding they will soon enter the pupal stage.”
“Pupal?”
“A chrysalis. When they cocoon and begin transforming into a beautiful butterfly. Depending on the species, the location, and the habitat, some may live for only a day while others may thrive for months. Camouflaging from predators in the patterns/ colors that were passed down through generations of evolution.” -
Bottle
“How do I know if I’ll see you again?”
“You won’t”
A playing wink. What if contact information was never shared? No point of connection. What a way to live. Never knowing if the spark will rekindle. Maybe that’s the excitement to it. The not knowing. If the figure is there the next time around.
It was a beautiful handwritten letter. Layer by layers of textured paper, that was rolled, tied with string, and tossed to the sea. A glass bottle never intended to be received…
A moment in time lost in capsule.
It drifted further and further out, distancing farther away. What was written in the contents? Who was the intended recipient? What was the story being told?… Simply a memory. Lost and gone. Strangers once more.
She brushed over her shoulder with a smile, it wasn’t a big deal. It generally wasn’t with her. She was able to make him feel at ease whenever he already felt bad. When things were a big deal it was for good reason, she would get upset but kept her kind heart. He found it cute. Sometimes he liked seeing her a little angry just because of that, but he tried to make things better. Because even though he wanted her to feel and express all kinds of emotions, he wanted her to be safe and comfortable with him, and with herself.
Surf’s up. An indication that waves are high and approaching.
The adrenaline of the danger and the beauty of the crash. Reflections touching against fingertips. To ride with the waves… -
Prologue
There’s something beautiful about waiting for someone, walking into the experience. A trust of what you dreamed it to be, a strive for everything you wanted it to be. It’s a beautiful sight. Sometimes you get to a part of your life, and you just never want to leave… I’ll know when that is if you may be there with me.
Sometimes I wonder if we’ve met, or if we have yet to meet, and the wait is the most difficult part. But I’ve been waiting for you my whole life, and in a garden full of flowers that I planted, I wonder if and when the buds may finally begin to go into a full bloom, so that I may arrange something beautiful for you. However long that may last…
A part of me wonders if we may meet in this life, and I’ve accepted, if we may not. But until then, my love, safe passage on your travels. May it be beautiful, meaningful, and filled with a life of happiness. In the return of the day we meet on the shores once more…
“You know”
“There’s a saying… Red sky in morning, shepherd’s take warning; red sky at night, shepherd’s delight.”
“Who are you?” she asked in a playful tease.
“Florist by day, Shepherd by evening.”
“Well in that case,” Summer said stopping, putting her arms around his shoulders.
“Take me on a journey”
John looked at Summer, his hands upon her hips, and smiled. He dipped her down, as she gave a laugh, a soft giggle.
“I want you to know…”
“I’m not looking for commitments, but let’s see where this may go.” -
Foreword
Though it may not be standard, a suggestion is to read the pages individually. A momentary departure of distance before venturing; letting words and scenes echo in the portrayed experience. The premise encompasses possibilities about life/ death and the possible journey we may embark on. Natures and locations that we may find ourselves in.
From the scripture of the ideas, the separated segments, and the individual feelings distinctive to the heart. The purpose of the work is to devote to each scene individually, as a personal space on their own. The story is constantly changing, as is the lives we live and the stories written. The door is open, but before you enter, please leave your worries at the entrance. A serene aroma will be floating gently as you enter, and a flower is left for when you may wish to leave. -
Summary
Summer is a country girl that never committed to anything. She lived for the moment and was always up for an adventure. John is a city boy who has a nature for being romantic. But one way or another, he never fell in love. When John arrived at a town by the sea, the two stumbled upon each other late one evening. Ever since then, they always met at the same time, at the same place. By the beach as the sun sets. That is, until one day he stopped showing. Summer was never one to miss anyone after her father passed away, so that shouldn’t bother her. Then why did it? And why did John slip away?
As Summer stands leaning by the fence alone, her hair brushing against the wind, a man narrates in the background. Like the sun setting in the evening, the elegance of time, maybe the beauty of life, is always in the search of something we love… That even when we find it we have to let go. Because only then do we realize what is gone. A tale of life, love, and letting go; in the changes of season across a year, the rising and setting of the sun, and the feelings of first love/ heartbreaks. The book entails the beauty in the journey of the waiting or playing, until marriage. Though only complete with its companion, the novel has a beauty to its own, a loving part once more.
-
Dedication
In memory