The following fanciful tale is based on a true story… a story that resulted in $1100 damage, a tow, and tears. No actual people were injured in the telling of this story.
Rock & Car
Once upon a time there was a rock. It was an old rock, long forgotten by those who tread near. Covered in moss and lichens, it had withstood the test of time. It spent its days content with its solitude, grounded in its security. It didn’t want for anything that mother nature couldn’t provide. It was an old soul, wise and watchful.
Once upon a time there was a car. It was a humble car, never racing or causing a fuss at stop signs and traffic lights. It whisked its owners from destination and back without asking for anything in return. It loved the feeling of its thick tires on the road, a blanket of dew on its windshield, and the heat of the afternoon sun on its hood. It was a cheerful soul, giving and playful.
Rock and Car were never meant to meet. So far apart, their worlds were separated by miles and purpose. But fate has a way of bringing the impossible into being. The strings of chance, merely a puppeteer’s magic, pulling circumstance and causality our way. And when opportunity finally ceded to fate’s siren song, Rock and Car were forever altered.
It was more than a glancing caress, more than a passing touch. Their impact shattered the quietude of dusk, the breathtaking collision sending shock waves through them both. Car’s thick tires lifted from the ground, sending tremors through its body, the sensation startling and unfamiliar. Rock’s visage, once impassive and aloof, transformed into deep grooves of connection and warmth. The two souls merged so completely only chains and pulleys could drag them apart.
But part they did. And when the time came to say goodbye, there was only a reverent silence, their gaze never wavering until the trees swallowed their sight.
Was it love or merely a transient fling? One can’t possibly say. But for a brief moment, Rock and Car had shared an impossible union, and in that flash of brilliance, life would never be the same.
Here is today’s Conversation with the Goddess:
Dear Goddess, how do I spice up my sex life?
I am the Goddess of passion and desire. Let go of your fear. Be bold. Give your fantasies room to breathe and grow. Experiment. Your partner’s reaction will surprise you. There’s something you’ve been wanting to try for a while now. Go for it. You’ll both enjoy it. Don’t be afraid to play.
Goddess keep you,
Raindrops glisten and plop, falling off glossy leaves. My boots shuffle, the dirt loose under foot. The shovel rests against a slender sapling in silent vigil. A smooth grey rock, streaked with veins of pink and white, placed with care—a reminder. The peony weeps velvet blossoms. The air is still, heavy with damp. The clouds mourn, mixing with my tears. Plop, plop. I clasp the worn collar in my hands, the leash limp hangs by the back door. Good-bye.
This is a free flow exercise I did recently during a writing retreat. The facilitator led us through a relaxation exercise followed by visualization. The concept was to keep writing, keep the pen moving until time was up. This is the piece that resulted:
“Come sit on the bed, love,” she says.
I move closer, my bare feet on the carpet not making a sound. My pyjamas, a soft cotton, keeping the summer night’s cool air from making me shiver. The window open to the sound of crickets, a train whistles in the dark distance, the full moon brilliant in the ink sky. I sit on the bed.
She lifts my hair in her hands and begins to brush, the white bristles smoothing out my long blonde hair. She finds a tangle; her strokes slow, her attention gentle and light until the knot gives way, the strokes rhythmic once more.
I missed my grandma. She was closer to me than my mother, their home more comforting than my own. I would count the days until the weekend, until I could once again climb my trees, play in my garage, eat warm apple pie and get tucked into bed, the pink lava lamp globing and sinking, breaking and floating, its motion a lullaby, my grandmother’s words, ‘I love you,’ embracing me each night as I drifted off to sleep.
Bumblebees and butterflies embroidered in even rows.
Soft yellow cotton soothes restless dreams.
Faded and frayed edges worn thin from little hands seeking reassurance.
He clutches it tight.
Slippered pyjamas pad softly down the hall.
Sleep well, my son.
Wishing you and yours
health, happiness, and abundance in the
Little patter of tiny feet.
I hear them in my mind.
A small inquiring face,
Appears gently by my side.
I can give no answers,
I only smile.
The pitter-pat returns,
To a bed growing cool.
He is restless tonight,
But I am here.
He waits patiently,
Puttering about his room,
Unable to commit to dreaming.
He knows I will come.
I listen out for dangers,
A mother’s ear posed and receptive,
But there is no worry,
Just a dance of familiarity,
Weaving in and out of time.
I rise and tuck him in.
A whisper of love and pride.
Sweet dreams now.
Our dance rests,