two sisters, part one

I've been reading many fairy tales recently, and find them very inspirational. I like the simplicity of the characters, the brevity of the prose and the way everything tastes like a mandarin orange. Note: the word "bossy" here is not meant to sound negative.  Bossy was an adjective that was frequently used to describe my personality when I was a small child. Some of us need to feel in control.

Two sisters, part one                                                                                                                                                                       There were once two sisters who shared the same hair and eyes.  In fact, they were almost identical, and traded sweaters depending on their mood.  They lived in a cabin deep in the middle of the forest, and though the one would have preferred the beach, she enjoyed the constant smell of fir and that whenever it snowed it looked like Christmas Day.  This sister ate salty snacks, like popcorn with fresh herbs and oils and smoked meat that she would occasionally purchase from the butcher in the town nearby.  The other sister preferred fruit, coffee, and chocolate as dark as the earth.

One of the sisters, the one who liked the saltiness of the sand and her snacks, was quieter than her twin.  She dressed herself in ink and scarves, and stayed inside playing spools of thread while her sister assembled stones to build a pathway from the gate to the front door.

They rode bikes together when it was warm outside and this is when they got along the best.

When it stormed, they were both afraid, and the held hands under the afghan blanket their mother had left them before she went to study rocks in Burma.

The bossy sister, the one who loved the trees and the crinkles in shortbread, told the other sister what to do whenever they faced frustration. They often argued, with sparks of blue and green bursting between the two like fireworks.  The beach-loving sister would go to bed angrily, quietly, until the next morning when she awoke to her sibling making olive oil and orange pancakes, and she immediately forgave her.  Through her bites, she still felt woefully misunderstood. 

...to be continued!!

Occasionally a quote will make me feel inspired, and also emotional

I have a difficult time with patience. Maybe it's a trait of being part of Gen Y or maybe it's because I played too much Oregon Trail growing up and am used to things happening instantly. Regardless of the reason, I find myself tapping my fingers at traffic lights and glaring at tea kettles when they should be boiling.  I am not a patient person. When I was working at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire, I was randomly assigned a roommate named Kate. This turned out to be an amazing combination. I am 99% positive Kate is my female soulmate. Our room was decorated with scarves, tapesries, and self-illustrated drawings of mermaids. We bought a rug together and watched Gilmore Girls while applying makeup. We ate Chinese food and drank gas station ice coffee.  And occasionally, on calm nights, Kate would read excerpts from  Women Who Run With the Wolves aloud in the moments before we fell asleep.

Come the end of October, our contract ended and the mermaid room was packed up. Partially because of our evening reads, and partially because I was curious, I purchased my own copy.

(I strongly recommend it every woman and man out there. It's a gorgeous read. The prose embraces you, guides you across the room and allows you to sleepwalk into a safe while simultaneously scary territory. When I read it, I feel special and sacred. I want to kiss oranges and wrap myself in an afghan blanket.)

The third chapter is entitled "Nosing Out the Facts: the Retrieval of Intuition as Initiation." It begins with a fairy tale, or urban legend. The Doll in Her Pocket: Vasalisa the Wise. In short, Vasalisa is a Cinderella-esque character, sent off into the woods by her wicked step-family.  They ask her to ask for fire from the witch Baba Yaga, secretly hoping that the old woman will eat Vasalisa and they will be rid of her forever. When Vasalisa arrives, Baba Yaga instructs the girl to perform several seemingly impossible tasks before giving her the fire.  At one point, Vasalisa wants to ask Baba Yaga a few questions. The old woman consents, but advises Vasalisa to be careful, for "too much knowledge can make a person too old too soon."

There's so much more to this story than just this little nugget of information, but I find it beautiful nonetheless. In her analysis of the story, Clarissa Pinkola Estés connects this to the idea of time. There is a time when we let things live, there is a time we let things grow, and there is a time when we must let things die.

"There is a certain amount we all should know at each age and at each stage of our lives." Clarissa Pinkola Estes. 

It is hard for one not to get addicted to knowledge. Experience is intoxicating. Learning is an emotional process. And sometimes I feel like I have to know what certain people will be and what will happen next.

"I realized I had just entered an interesting chapter in my life. I had outgrown the boys of my past and not quite grown into the men of my future." Carrie Bradshaw

Accepting these phases is difficult. The whole, "let live" and "let die." I tend to want things to grow quickly and live forever. Or for as long as I want them to.

“No, no! The adventures first, explanations take such a dreadful time.” Lewis Carroll

I suppose like good produce, everything has a season. Good night, friends! Happy Christmastime.

I talk a lot, and then I get something to eat.

Like many twenty-something females who are a bit jaded/a bit optimistic, I have a lot of feelings.  These feelings are not necessarily good or bad. Sometimes they are simply innocent attachments to a specific people or moments.  And while I do a large amount of healing-and-dealing with a four pack of Cadbury Cream Eggs,  I also find it helpful to write.   This is an old rambling, but something I'd like to share nonetheless. My cabin is gold. Person across person, we sit like Wes Anderson characters framed in center focus, the artificial light falling on your shoulders in a yellow glow.  You remind me of a boy I read about in books. Straight out of the 50s, a letterman jacket that you may have gotten from your grandfather.  Your name would have been something like Roger, or maybe Brad.  I lay on my stomach, letting my ankles kick behind me, my legs covered in black tights with a hole from a cigarette burn.  My eyes are on your shoulders, for they are broad and I like them.  Our artistic minds are finally able to run wild, as you tell me how you lost your father and I tell you how I used to play with felt. The digital clock that runs slow ticks to 4am and I pretend not to notice and maybe you do too or maybe we were just blind.

The sun rises and the trees come out to play, white and brown on a blanket of earth. Cigarette smoke rolls from your lips as we sip coffee and don’t say much, other than that we didn’t expect morning to come so soon.