Perhaps it is not lost, but merely delayed. Set aside until the sweetness of young love has had time to marinate and season. It sets its own time, its own pace. Things unsaid can still have their turn. Missed opportunities can be recreated. All those days that exist in your memory as something so dazzling that you can hardly look at it have had time to deepen their colors and become something new.  Love has the ability to rise with the power of a phoenix reborn of flames.  It returns with permanence, as if the phoenix itself is tattooed on your heart.

A pathway is created, winding and leading you through a journey that you could not have taken the first time. On this path, regret is an enemy and sorrow has no place.  Only hope and forgiveness can be nurtured.   Now you are wiser, you realize why you couldn’t quite see the path the first time around.  You weren’t ready yet.  Immature eyes are easily blinded and obstacles are created.

This time, set forth with purpose and dignity.  Forsake all else, only cling to truth and gratitude.  Follow the path.  You may not know the destination, but this time you are strong.  Slay those obstacles with all your might.  You’ve opened the box and are not alone.

Image: Henriette Rae, Pandora, 1894

First there’s fear.  It is a cold fear that paralyzes .  But if you plunge in with a rush, it is like diving deep into freezing water — numbing at first, but it only lasts a moment or so.  It’s liberating.  Just turn around and you’ll see all of the others who will not ever leap, even though they desperately feel as if they should.  Those are the people who are waiting for a push.  (It never comes.)

Then the birds arrive.  Now, birds are usually glorious creatures.  In other areas of your life, you can encounter small, sweet songbirds who only want to serenade you.  Or large, majestic birds who can fix their eyes upon you as if to say “Admire me from afar.  Respect me. Fear me.”  These are not the birds you encounter when you expose yourself.  Oh no.  For they sense you, you see.  The scent of your vulnerability carries through the air and it attracts them.  They feed upon it.  They will now feast on you.  They squawk and they squawk and they squawk.  They point out your flaws and provoke you:

“You are too pale”

“You think you can do that?  Why bother? You will never succeed.”

“Your ears are peculiar.  You can never pull off an updo.”

“Ha! That’s the stupidest idea I ever heard.  Don’t make me laugh”

The flock grows with each barb.  They multiply.  They’re around you even now, if you look closely.  You can recognize them easily, always waiting for their moment to point out your inconsistencies or challenge you.  You can deal with them, though.  It just takes enough experience to realize it.   Failure is their banquet and you are the main course.  Every time you respond to them, they soar higher.  It is the only way they can fly.  They must push you down in order to propel their own current.  Do not acknowledge them, they will eventually drown in their own screeching.  I wish I could tell you that they disappear.  But they are always there, waiting.  Tune them out successfully and you will reach the next phase:

The  fear fades.  Not completely, never completely.  But enough.  There are new birds flitting around. Do not let them worry you, they are on a similar journey and just want to see if you might inspire them.   Screeching and squawking are replaced with a melody that reflects your own.  It is your time to soar, to create, to feed your own joy.  Find what sustains you.  Grow your own wings.  Choose the course and follow it.

You do not have to travel alone, of course.  Trust your instincts and choose wisely which flock to surround yourself with.  By this time, you can recognize  the ones whose talons will hold you back and push you down.  Ignore them and fly.

This post includes Le Crépuscule by Bouguereau, La Nuit by Bouguereau, Le Jour by Bouguereau, and Night by Burne-Jones

Well, hello there 2011!  We’ve barely begun to get acquainted.  I don’t have a feel for you yet.  You still hold that thrilling newness and I can not peek inside of you.

But I know that right now, you are magical.   At this moment you are twelve months of possibility.  And I long to dwell in possibility.

I hope that we shall get along well, for I intend to find beauty within you.   I will take you moment by moment.  Although it would be ridiculous to hope that all of those moments will be joyful, I will try not to hold the negative moments against you.  Sometimes you can not avoid sending those moments my way, they are a part of life’s dance and I need a rhythm that changes.  But for the most part, I hope that you treat us all kindly and that your seasons will follow their natural flow without any major upheavals.

And for all of us who are lucky enough to still be here to experience you, my hope is that we remember that it is up to us to fill you with goodness and bliss– there are moments we should strive for, but we have to create the right atmosphere for them to happen.  We must pursue, read, learn, feel, create, love.  “Do or do not…there is no try”–Yoda

Thank you 2011, and welcome.  I hope we shall be friends.

I dwell in Possibility–
A fairer House than Prose–
More numerous of Windows–
Superior–for Doors–

Of Chambers as the Cedars–
Impregnable of Eye–
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky–

Of Visitors–the fairest–
For Occupation–This–
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise–

Emily Dickinson

I did not see her at first, standing against the wall.  I sensed her, or at least I think that I did.  I wasn’t conscious of her as a being or having a gender, I just knew I felt something.

My grandmother had always spoken about her belief that some places have a soul, so the idea wasn’t foreign to me.  Every time I was near this particular corner, striking with its red brick covered with green foliage, I recognized this feeling as similar to what my grandmother must have meant.  It felt alive–it was a palpable feeling–not simply as if someone was watching me, we’re all familiar with that feeling.  It felt as if the entire corner was living, aware of me, thinking.

I was fascinated.  I began to think about that spot night and day.  How did it work?  Had it always been alive?  Was it the bricks that had a soul?   They were sturdy timeworn bricks with character and probably had many generations of stories to tell.  Or, surely, it must be the overgrown foliage.  Plants are living, after all.  Perhaps this plant was more alive than most? Had it thoughts, feelings, emotions of some sort?   I soon rejected these theories.  After visiting day after day, I was convinced that somehow it was the combination of the two –that the two separate entities had somehow merged into one beautiful space and created something new:  this magnificent and lonely corner.  It became my spot, my refuge.  I had long craved solitude and here I had found it.

Slowly I began to see her.  It was a glimpse at first and so fleeting that for days I questioned what, if anything, I had seen.  It was transparent and shadowy.  Every day I would sit on that hard stone bench facing the corner hoping that I would glimpse it again.

After several days I began to develop a sense of when I was about to see the apparition.  By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes, so says one of the witches in Macbeth.  Only it wasn’t wicked. It was glorious. Glorious and, sadly, too brief.  As soon as it would appear, I would blink and it would vanish.  I grew obsessed with discovering what it was.  I practiced unfocusing my eyes and keeping my blurred gaze in the area of one brick in particular.  After a week, I could go several minutes without blinking.

Then I saw that the apparition was not an it, but a she.

I visited her daily.  She did not look at me and I could only see her for a few precious minutes.  I don’t know why, but I had the impression that she was humming, although I could not hear anything.   These brief glimpses were not enough.  Like an addict, my need was growing.  I was stalking a specter.

People began to question me.  It was easy to shrug them off, saying that I sat in this spot every day because I found it relaxing.  A few family members had said that they had seen me talking to myself while I sat staring into the corner.  This surprised me.  I have no memory of ever saying anything while I was there.  Still, this caused no problems for me or my reputation — I had always been regarded as a bit odd by most people.  To tell the truth, I had always felt awkward in social situations and visiting this corner became a daily retreat for me.

After several months, I no longer had to unfocus my gaze in order to see her.  She no longer disappeared when I blinked.  Eventually she acknowledged my presence, making brief eye contact and nodding hello as I sat down.  It was a simple greeting and I was grateful for it.  She, however, was not as curious about me as I was about her.  After our daily salutation  her gaze would always return to the wall and never falter.  She did not appear to be uncomfortable with me sitting there staring at her, although I momentarily wondered if it was proper for me to do this.  But, by this time, I could not stop.

I had so many questions.  Who was she?  Why did she stay in the corner?  Could she move to other areas?  Or did she choose to stay in the shadowy veil betwixt the wall and the foliage?  I knew that there was little chance of my answering these things.  There was no one I could ask.  And either there was a barrier that prohibited us from communicating or she had no desire to do so.

I decided that my questions were of no consequence.  I chose just to grateful that I alone could see her.  She was my beautiful haunting secret.  Gradually I began to realize that my life had undergone subtle changes.  I was no longer as insecure and did not dwell on worrisome thoughts or avoid dealing with people.  I had my secret phantom and I knew that she would never go anywhere.  Although she stayed in her corner, she was my constant companion.  I carried her quiet image with me and it was a source of comfort.

I do not doubt my sanity.  I know that she is not a figment of my imagination.  My obsession with her is not as compulsive as it once was; I can function and live my life without interruption.  But I still visit her every day.  She nods her quiet greeting to me and makes eye contact for that one electrifying moment.  I think that we have reached a point where we both know, without question, that when my time comes I will occupy the corner with her.  It is my inevitable truth.  Although I do wonder if there will be a day when someone else will sense our presence and devote their time to discovering us.  Will they have the patience?  The dedication?  Will they give up after the first glimpse of us disappears in a rapid blink?  Or will they too receive a nod and a glance of hello?  Hello, here we are–bothering no one, enjoying our sense of otherness in the space we occupy.  In a quiet sepia world of our own, requiring nothing but solitude.  If you find us, you must not expect anymore than that.

This post features a photograph by Julia Margaret Cameron

She floats aimlessly with no destination in mind. She doesn’t remember how or why she decided that this should be the way to live her life. Her elders would shake their heads, assuming that such a lack of ambition was typical of only the very young and naive. But she knows that it was more than that. It was fear. Fear of what, she’s not quite sure. Failure? Disappointment, perhaps? Or how about rejection?
Floating slowly, she willingly gives up the right to complain about her stops along the way. Wherever she may be, she arrived there free of expectations so that she can never be disappointed. All the while, there is the tiniest of nagging thoughts whispering in the back of her mind. She has ignored it successfully so far, but somehow it continues to grow. One day it will make itself felt with the gut-wrenching realization that she will eventually reach a point in which her boat will turn. It will turn around in such a way that she has no choice but to see where she has been, as well as where she could have gone.

She will face her apathetic existence. Her non-choices were, in themselves, choices.

Two bodies of water run parallel and she chose to just go with the easy tide, riding it as long as she could.

Until she reached

The End.

This post features The Lady of Shalott, painted by John William Waterhouse.

I can hear them coming. The familiar sound of hooves and wooden wheels that always signals that a month of dread has again come my way. The yearly visit. Laughing silly sisters with beautiful faces and little brains. They drip with jewels as they bestow their good graces on Father and I. The Father who raised us all and who I alone am expected to care for until he dies.

I like my life. I enjoy my solitude. It is only in the presence of my sisters that I feel the prickles of doubt about the path my life has taken. True, I do not have a rich husband, or any husband for that matter. I do not regret that, since I know full well that none of my sisters love their husbands. They love their money and the position it gives them.  I don’t believe that their husbands love them either. I have always pictured them as handsome men that were giggled and flirted into submission during courtship. When will men realize that silly ignorance that seems adorable in a nineteen year old girl will cease to be attractive when she is a thirty-five year old woman with the same simpering habits?
I am alone with my books and art. I have few friends, but they are loyal companions.

And I have myself. I am content with the knowledge that I know who I am and what I value in life. That is something that my sisters can never say.

This post features The Mother of Sisera Looked out a Window, painted by Albert Moore in 1861

I’ve always been aware of their presence.  But my relationship with you was so tender and young that I felt it best to ignore them, to pretend that they did not exist. I realize now what a mistake that was. Like a lot of young girls, I made your beliefs more important than my own. I was vulnerable and alone. I felt that solitude was my enemy. Now I know it is my dear, sweet friend.

So the thoughts and feelings that I buried when young, the elusive and mythical beasts that I ignored for the convenience for others, are welcome now. They are a part of me in a way that you never should be. Not because I’ve excluded you, but because you never understood me to begin with. You chose your place with the others and now you must discover your own place in the world.

It’s funny, really. To think that once upon a time I believed that I should ignore and bury what I could plainly see simply because you were incapable of seeing it too.
I can not tell you how I broke the spell.  Time, I guess. I grew up.   I gathered wisdom with age.  I learned to listen.   I shed my security blankets.

Now I understand. Your opinion did not matter to me, as it was based on your own past experiences. And your experiences do not apply to me. Some day you will find the one that they are applicable to.   I wanted you, and I thought that it would be admitting failure if I said that I did not agree with you.

But now you are my past. I can accept the parts of me that I was afraid of before. I can see the mythical. I can embrace the folklore of my being. I am my own story. I love my past and my future because it is mine. It is wholly my own.

I no longer need you to validate what I see.

Art in this post by Gustave Moreau (1826-1898) The Unicorns

A wise man once said, “When your thoughts are in the past, then you are in the past.” Perhaps he meant it to be helpful. Or perhaps it was a curse. Either way, I am here now with my present and my past merging into one endless loop that I cannot break away from. It is not that I lack the strength or desire. It is will power. It is the broken record of my mind. Dwelling on the past has simply become a habit.

I will break the mirror. No matter how strong the pull, I shall tear my gaze away from these shadowy figures that haunt me. I will no longer give them life. They will wither away and die. With the past. Their long tentacled fingers of thought can reach me no more. Nevermore.

I will replace this habit with a new one.

We’ll see how long it lasts.

Art in this post is I’m Half-Sick of Shadows (The Lady of Shalott) by by Sidney Harold Meteyard

It’s all an illusion that they have created. The feelings that they profess to feel so deeply don’t even exist. She’s so caught up in excitement and apprehension that it has never occurred to her that she should wonder if it is he that she loves or merely the thrill of having this delicious secret from the rest of the world. Stolen moments that seem so precious will invariably become sordid in the light of a new day. She will grow to hate herself, to feel sick to realize what she has become. With each visit, she is aware that a sense of emptiness has become palpable in her life.
And what does he feel?

Nothing. This is just another episode of a game that he will continue to play.

Art featured in this post: Forest Tryst by Edmund Blair Leighton 1853-1922

She was not the first to try to deceive us. Appearances can be deceiving, but not to those who live a life removed from the world. I suppose she saw us as innocents, secluded from the dangerous world from whence she came. How she underestimated us. She swept into the world that we had created with the purpose of destroying it. She searched for one, not realizing that it would mean attacking us all.

We did not give her that chance.

Like I said, she was not the first. My fellow sister and I, we dig her grave because we have done it before. We each have our jobs here. We know our duty. We do not have to seek out those who betray us. We wait for them to reveal themselves.

As I dig, I look furtively over my shoulder. I can not help it. As I have mentioned, she was not the first.

I assume she will not be the last.

The Vale of Rest Painted by Sir John Everett Millais in 1858-59.