|
|
|
Curbs The dog had gotten out again and was running wildly through the neighborhood. Because Brittany ran faster than I ever could, I jumped on my mountain bike to catch her. The street lights had been on a while and even though the sky was fairly light it was getting dark around the houses and cars. Still, I spotted Brittany down by the end of the street. Calling her name I took off as fast as a I could. Just as I got near her, she veered across the road angling off in another direction. But before I could react, the bike abruptly disappeared and I ended up skidding along the ground on my elbows. In retrospect, my mind was so intent on catching the errant dog, I had missed seeing the sidewalk. When the front tire hit it, the wheel deflected so far to the left the bike laid down right out from under me. As I sat there on the ground nursing my bruised elbows, I wondered how I missed seeing that curb that tripped me up. As I sit here nursing my bruised soul, I wonder how I missed seeing another curb that tripped me up. Feb 95
Simply Daisies Think of the flowers commonly found in the field. Standing above the clover's dense blue flowers and the still taller yellow dandelion are the daisies. Daisies with white petals and yellow centers or yellow petals with dark brown centers. These flowers are so hardy that they are a common sight along both busy roads and pasture lanes. So common, in fact, they are found singly by tree trunks in the woods, small patches in a gully or field, and even in blankets across an entire meadow. Stand daisies beside roses, the choice gift to express emotions. A full bodied tea rose in bloom possesses richly and deeply colored petals. Its scent can be a sweet fragrance ideally suited for aroma therapy. A bunch of roses artfully arranged is dramatic and demands the eye's attention. Their vividness, regardless of color is exclaimed to be beautiful. Stunningly beautiful which belies the fact that they can be thorny, prone to being temperamental to grow and then only in a in a scraggy manner. By comparison a daisy is an understatement. The white daisy's petal's are almost translucent, fragile looking. It doesn't overwhelm the sense of sight or even attract the nose. A daisy is pretty, quaint. Pleasing to look at in a gentle sort of way. So unassuming, they seldom receive a second glance or a second thought. In spite of that, a daisy keeps its charming prettiness whether all alone or as a mass carpet spanning the field. Still, daisies are popular in formal arrangements for accents of color and mixes of texture. A bouquet of just daisies is popular because it is inexpensive. But rarely is a single daisy found in a bud vase. If it was, would it be simply a daisy or a daisy of simplicity?
Red Satin Ruffles Leaning against the high-backed wicker love seat was a pretty pink parasol edged with red satin ruffles. All around the love seat were vines from a Boston Ivy that through the years had grown wild and unruly. The ivy's dense green leaves curtained off the white chair from the rest of the garden creating a rather cozy hide-away. Just the kind of spot that is especially suited for young lovers who want a little privacy while they shared intimacies. Today, however, only an elderly man with his easel and paints was there to capture the idyllic scene in oils. With intense concentration the artist had painted in such minute details as the veins of the leaves and the intricate pattern of the love seat's wicker. All was about finished except for one side of the chair. Pensively, the old man rested back in his lawn chair and closed his eyes. A few minutes later he stood back up and started painting a near-photograph likeness of a woman sitting in the chair. He imagined her in an ankle-length formal gown the same color and material as the ruffle on the parasol. She had long brown hair pulled over so it was like a cape draping over her left shoulder and breast. Above her right shoulder was the open parasol loosely held by both hands. Elegant hands with long delicate fingers. Painting the rest of her dress went quick and he finished the picture with just a glimpse of an ankle peeking out from under the dress hinting that her legs were crossed in a most lady-like manner. Her face still didn't please him though. He couldn't seem to capture just the right twinkle to her eyes. Exhausted, he set back again in the lawn chair and closed his eyes. This time his head nodded forward. At the same time the old man's head slumped, the lady in the chair arose and stepped down. Gently taking the palette and the brushes, she folded his hands. Not only were her fingers beautiful, they were quick, able and highly accomplished. With lightening speed born of prodigious talent, she painted the artist into his own work. But instead of the bib overalls and flannel shirt, he was now wearing his Army uniform. She, too, took painstaking measures to detail his crisp and impressive formal service dress. Once she was done, she laid her tools on the chair where the old man had been sitting. She then returned to her prim and proper pose on the love seat and reached for her husband's hand. Tears of profound happiness provided just the right twinkle to their eyes. - May 95
Stick People Ever since I met them when I was eight years old, the stick people have been my faithful friends. Over the years I have gotten to know them by name and where they live. The Stick People have a large number of families and are inter-related in what can be a confusing tangle of relationships. Some are close kin, others more distant but are definitely Stick People. Although their families seem to move in circles, they can still be somewhat predictable. When I visit with them, I stay longer with the ones that are short and fat then I do with the tall lean ones, who are quick and very lively. Watching them dance is always a treat as it's usually a well-choreographed event. The way they work harmoniously together is such that even the dissonances between them can be used to achieve startling effects. This is despite the fact that a devil lurks among them. Their dances can consist of simple steps or wide leaps ornamented with graceful turns. Whether they move single file, or in counterpoint with many lines, all is done in concert. After all, about a third of them are quite sharp, some doubly so. A first group can ask a question and another group will move in to answer it. The line dances are always fun to watch as they mix parallel, oblique and contrary motions. Despite all their action, rest periods come naturally to them, which is a lesson I personally still need to learn. When I lay down at night, the Stick People dance and sing n my dreams. They sing songs of love to comfort me, dirges that make me cry and sprightly songs that invigorate my spirit. You name the emotion; they will find a way to elicit it. Their welcome presence is always with me as they sing me to sleep every night, rouse me in the morning, and remain my companions all day long. How could I ever forsake such friends? Especially when the Almighty Creator made use of them to capture my heart and keep me close to Him? Through these Stick People, I can express my feelings of thanksgiving, praise, sadness, loneliness or joy to God. To others, the Stick People are merely musical notes scribbled on manuscript paper. To me, they are a very real link to my loving Father. - Dec 95 A Little Boy's Kiss Unpublished Work © 1995 Stephen Le Bel "Marie Dubois. . . . Marie Dubois," Ben muttered to himself. The speaker's face was all too familiar, but the name just didn't match up. At some point in his life he knew this lady, but from where? College, school, McDonald's? McDonald's probably. After slaving there for five years while going to school, Ben thought he'd served just about everyone that lived within a three state radius. He used to bump into familiar customers in unfamiliar settings all the time, but even that was nearly 20 years ago. He hardly knew anyone in town anymore. He was gone so long - too long. Marie was clarifying a minutely detailed presentation that showed the causes and future effects of a proposed rent increase at the "Barn." The "Barn" was an old warehouse recently renovated by the Arts Council in order to provide low cost studios and efficiencies for promising young artists. Ben was coerced into coming that night because his friend Jim insisted on it. Jim knew he appreciated the variety of works that were currently on display in the local shops. "Is she from around here? Her name isn't familiar," Ben whispered to his friend while nodding in Marie's direction. "Oh yeah, she's from town. Her last name used to be Lamour," Jim explained. "She moved back home a while ago after divorcing some shady art dealer from Canada somewhere." "Lamour," Ben pondered. Still not right. Ben knew the Lamours, went to school with several of them. Marie looked like one of his classmates, but he still couldn't place her. "Helen, her name is Helen, or it used to be," Ben suddenly remembered. With a corner of his mouth starting to smirk, his demeanor brightened up considerably after a flash of remembrance of his favorite baby sitter. When "Marie" was in the sixth grade, she used to watch Ben, then a first-grader. After the meeting was over, smaller groups formed where small talk and local gossip quickly became the order of business. Marie was making herself a cup of coffee and choosing from among some oatmeal cookies when Ben came up from behind her. "Helen," Ben said in a soft but emphatic manner. She put the cookies down and started to look back. "Helen," Ben repeated a little louder. "I heard you the first time," she said. "I was wondering if you remembered me." "Remember you, I used to secretly adore you," Ben replied. "No big secret." Helen leaned back on the coffee table to have a sip. There was no point in trying to hide a smile. "I haven't been called 'Helen' since junior hi, when I changed to my middle name." Ben looked thoughtfully at her for a moment and volunteered, "Seems to me there was something I always wanted to give you." Utterly perplexed, Helen took another sip and set her coffee down. Tilting her head a bit to the right with both hands on the table, she leaned forward and asked, "What's that?" Blushing a bit, Ben sheepishly glanced down and around and then popped a peck on her cheek. Drawing In As I went to sleep one night, I was thinking about a close friend saying she needed someone to share her hearth with. Hearth is an interesting word by the way, it contains the letters needed for heart and earth (and about 25 or so other words.) This isn't as far a digression as one might think. What is a hearth, but a forge, a fireplace which is very much of the earth, a place that brings security to one's heart. This is the time of year that as it gets cooler, people naturally draw inwards. Meditating, forging plans if you will, in front of a fireplace during cold winter months is an unspoken tradition from time immemorial. Obvious to even the most casual of observers, the trees draw in, the flowers die, and animals store up food against the lean days ahead. Though outwardly these actions reflect a cycle of rest, of death, inwardly the earth becomes seeded with the flowers, trees and baby animals all to be born after a hidden winter pregnancy. My mother plants bulbs for spring flowers, other flowers die leaving fat seeds to replace them, the acorns the squirrels gather and subsequently forget sprout where they were stashed, and many animals have a fall rutting season. A period of sleep follows, but also a period of inner growth. And there is my real point, the inner growth that comes from meditating, with or without a fire, a cat to warm your lap, hot chocolate to warm your hands or a quilted robe for your shoulders. The cooler weather brings with it a natural time to contemplate past experiences against future events. It's a time of consolidation after the culmination of the harvest. Planning is simply seeding for future growth. Drawing in is an absolute necessity. Welcome it. Embrace it. Lay aside the worldly cares, responsibilities and distractions that interfere with the cultivation of your inner soul. Change comes from within and the thoughts we plant today will bear fruit in actions tomorrow. October 9, 1998 |
 |
