Morning Star's Short Stories
1. Summer's Rain 2. The Gift 3. The Genie 4. The Legend of Earth
Summer rain danced upon her face, as she made her way towards the crescent grassy slope. She tried to find shelter under the leafy tree, whose branches partially concealed the view of the expansive ocean—that reached out beyond the golden gate bridge.
Her feet squelched in her flat gray pumps, which she thought would never recover from the recent downpour. But there was life here, on top of this small incline. The freshness of the rain stirred the aroma of grass and trees, with just a hint of lilacs, that grew far below this crescent—upon whose peak she now stood.
"Yes, life could be renewed"—seemed to be nature's message.
"Even though sacrifices would be made," she thought, as she again glanced at her soggy shoes. "Life would go on, for that simply is the nature of things," she reflects, as her eyes are captured by the tide that lays before her, ever ebbing and fluid within its own momentum, "yes, life would go on."
She then began to ponder the details of the new house she had just bought, filled with boxes and the disorder of her recent move—from the sun-baked landscape of southern California. She, however, felt reassured that soon the bare white walls, of her new home, would be filled with her drawings and art work, and some of her most selected pieces of photography would find a special place. She would leave one of the walls blank, pregnantly waiting for the next collection of images that she would discover, and create, on some adventure down the road.
She liked moving to new places, starting over. She had always been accustomed to change, but this time was different. This time she was free to discover the world anew, free of the fears of financial constraints, that the sale of her art work and photography has afforded her. Yes, her measured success has provided her with a sense of security.
Through such reassuring reflections, she was able to return her attention to her surround—drinking in this newfound landscape and picturesque view.
Her soft silken shawl of orange and pink rose blossoms, strewn around her shoulders, danced in the wind, and was almost dry after the summer's rain. Its edges seems to take flight, like wings carrying her to new destinations, as she now felt renewed with a sense of possibility in her life and her self.
Her dreams may have been seeded in her yesterdays, but in the present they seem to be taking flight—like rainbows cast into the heavens by the day's emerging light, that chases away the dewdrops left from the recent cascade.
She casts off her old shoes—worn out from the many distances she has traveled. She feels graceful now and unhindered, as her bare feet touch the soft earth and she ventures further into the landscape and merges with the vista, that promise compelled her to climb to this crescent of her dreams.
She had moved to this city to follow her dreams, dreams that were born from the shadows of her youth—where she had felt trapped and hopeless. Such feelings were the impetus to leave that world behind, an impetus that was so strong and compelling. To leave behind a world that could never understand her or accept her. That past had yoked her to an existence that could never allow her true calling to be realized.
But then a dream was born, an escape route perhaps. However that dream bore wings, more than she could ever of imagined, at the time. Her desire for freedom gave her flight, as did the vision of her desired destination—a place where she might find love and acceptance.
Perhaps it was her destiny that planted the seeds of her ideas; to believe in something greater than her young mind could truly of conceived, or believed possible. Yet she did believe, her heart drank in the possibility of something else that could lead her out of the grayness of that former life.
As her story unfolded, it seemed like the universe aligned to provide her with what she needed. Events transpired and coincidences occurred, although not always in the way she hoped or imagined. Life certainly wasn't perfect and neither was she, yet certain sign posts were provided, to urge her on her way, from one city to the next. Such sign posts took the form of other travelers, that she met, who became the bridges that she needed to cross land and sea, to bring her to this place—on the crest of this hilltop, barefoot, considering new dreams that seems to float in the air—that stirred around her. And all of this occurred because once she dared to believe that her life could be different.
Even now, as she dares to leave the old baggage of her life behind her, as she has done so many times before, she feels that this time is different. Her heart is unfolding like a flower in the springtime, through her willingness to have faith, and through her knowingness that she has started over many times before. She realizes that she does believe in her own strength and ability to create life anew, to begin a new adventure, and that somehow what is needed will be provided, and yet again fate or destiny will show her signs, will show her the way. She has become the dreamer again, untainted by the past, feeling the fabric of her own life interwoven with places and people she is destined to meet. But most of all, she knows that it is her courage to try something new, that opens the cup of her heart and allows it to be filled by the sweet mystery that life and the universe has to offer.
In a landscape of snowy white, the recent flurries leave a virginal path before her. Sophie reminisced about the same landscape in summer, with wild flower dancing in the field and the heather that painted the distant hills with hints of purple.
But this day everything was brand new, as she marked the white blanket on the ground before her, and felt the crispness of the snow beneath her blue shoes. This place was filled with quiet, pregnant, awaiting life to be born. The soft gentle light reflected through the clouds, and touched this frozen world, highlighting its beauty. Even the icicles hanging from the tree's spindly branches, seemed to glisten in the light, emanating a blue orb as the light touched the ice fingers, that gently began to melt.
It was cold here, but refreshing, and she felt her heart beating strongly, to breathe warmth into her extremities. She crossed a frozen river bed, by way of a small bridge and noticed the circular motion of marks left upon the glass surface; made by creatures who had forgotten to take their winter's rest, and had instead found themselves skating upon the surface, trying to find their respite in the bracken on the river's shore.
She found herself alone, and relished the quietude of this wintered land. Stepping to the beat of her own drum, glad of the silence, the time to reflect, this time to be renewed, and the gift this solitude afforded her.
She glanced back over her shoulder, to see the trail of her footprints and how she had left her mark on the world, through her moment-to-moment experience.
With a little more exertion, she climbs the nearest hill. The light has changed now, as the sun begins to fall from the sky, approaching the horizon of distant hills. The gold turns to hues of orange and red, a scene that captures her breath as she stands now at the crown of the hilltop, surveying the majesty before her. Inspired by this powerful scene of creation's beauty and power, she realizes that it's time for her to stop struggling with her existence, it is time to embrace the destiny she was born to fulfill; to recognize the bounty in every place, even as this is reflected to her in this landscape of purity, warmed by the sun's blessing—that seems to be inviting her to awaken and grow, and to embrace what is already given, and that which is already shared.
She touches the softness of the snow flakes, that begin to fall on her nose and face, and they feel refreshing, even invigorating. And she begins to dance, to dance for her life, to allow the power to well-up inside of her, to make her mark—of ever increasing circles, on the ground. She allows herself to receive the light that touches her face, that warms her heart, and allows her to drop all garbs of restriction, thus abandoning herself to the life within her, born through her expression, born through her love. She surrenders to a prayer—that she might be as the wind, carrying the gifts from heaven to this earth; the gift of rain, of sunlight, and on this day—snowflakes, perfect in their form, unique unto themselves. Yes, she understands it now, her gift, the gift given this day, is for her to know that she can be free.
The sand sifted through her fingers, as she sat in this desert landscape. She had recently unrolled from her rug—where she had been suspended in time. She has been awakened by a dream of a deserted Isle, longing to be inhabited, desiring a home to be placed on its soft earth.
In the landscape of her dream, the land was rich, fertile, and bountiful, but as she had awakened and unrolled herself from her cocoon, she was met by this barren place of shifting sands and desolation, she felt alone.
Through the repetitive motion of sifting the sand through her fingers, she entered into a trancelike state, and her inner vision began to guide her. She envisioned an open shoreline and a great expanse of water.
Her vision was soon realized, as she found herself soon taking passage on a great vessel, with white sails, heading out to the open water, and she was glad to leave the desolation of the barren lands, far behind her.
She had used her mystical powers from one life time to the next, being of service, being of purpose, in the betterment of other's lives. This has accorded her Genie status, in this life. The only evidence of this, being a small sapphire stone, seemingly pieced, embedded as a small teardrop in the outer corner of her right eye. It has been embedded there from birth.
The light on the ocean surface seemed reflected in this small gemstone, and it emanated the power that was her own.
The prevailing idea, that she could grant others only three wishes, was a fallacy. This power of hers' was unlimited, and bestowed its gift of wish-fulfillment to others, and also to herself. What she wished for, instantly came true, and so she had learned to discipline her thoughts and feelings, so that she could use this power in the right way.
Her power had brought her from that barren landscape to this vast ocean, but now she grew tiresome of the journey and how long it was taking, so she focused her energy, and like a laser of light she directed her intention, and suddenly found herself walking on the soft ground, the grass laden earth, on the beautiful Isle of her dream's vision. With woodland before her, and a distant mountain to her right, reflected perfectly on a glasslike lake, she rested, and wished into existence a beautiful logged cabin-that was to be her new home.
As the years passed, other would, unconsciously, sense her existence in this century. The world of the inner realms, would whisper to these travelers to steer their craft towards this place, to anchor at the jetty, and follow the winding path towards her home, and upon entry they would unintentionally express their wish. On their return to their homeland, they would discover that what they wished for, had already been given, it was already received.
The Legend of Earth
When I was a little girl, my mother would tell me stories of our star-planet, as well as stories of another world that is called the Earth. This other world sounded very beautiful to me. They called it the rainbow planet, because there were many different kinds of people there, of differing wavelengths or types of consciousness. So like a rainbow—there were many different hues and variations that made up the whole of this species, that they called humankind—the earth-people.
I also liked the tales of the rainbow colors of the planet itself, with bright blue lakes with clear waters, that would run into the expansive oceans. I also heard they had flowers of differing colors, and that their trees had leaves that would change colors, the leaves would then fall to the ground, and the tree would renew itself. I used to imagine how wonderful that must be, to look outside of the same window and see the turning leaves on the tree. Every season the view would seem quite different, as the landscape changed in the autumn—which is the time the leaves changed. I would often try to imagine what that would be like, based on some of the images from our mind-image library, near to my school.
I wondered, if I visited that earth-world, what it would be like for me to tell them of our world, our star-planet world.
If I could, I would tell them how this world of ours, of mine, is drenched in a silvery white light, and this light is present all the time. At night, this light dims slightly so that we can see the seven stars rising over the horizon, and that set when it is time for us to awaken. I would share with the earth-people, that we have colors in our world also but they must not be as vibrant as those on planet Earth, because the colors in our world are tinged with this same silvery light, that exists everywhere in my world. It is the color of our hair, and we all have the same hair color. There is once race of our people that live in the hills, just beyond the forest of silver trees. These hill-dwellers, it is said, have tinges of red streaks in their hair, and this occurs because they spend so much time walking on the silver-red soil, that comprises these hillsides.
I like our world, in fact I just love it here. I swim in the silver-blue lake and laugh at the silvery fish—when they seem surprised by my sudden appearance underneath the waters.
I would like to visit this earth-planet someday. My father says that when I am older I may journey there, with him, on his ship of science observation, but we must observe only from a distance. My mother looks worried, when he speaks of this, she says that some on this planet are still warlike and volatile, and so would be worried if we ever landed to talk to the inhabitants. But like my father, I have an adventurous spirit, and I look forward to visiting this place, so that I may see if the legends and stories about the Earth are true.
Copyright © 2010 by Sally Jordan Austin (Morning Star)