I've begun to think I'm of the small-minded, brutish sort. I can't fathom why, of all the thrilling and glorious things that prance the halls of my mind, I do not pen any but the dullest of them!
My diaries are full of plodding self-absorption, fragmented details, with the occasional heartfelt prayer. I fear this is a marvelous, magical world, full of delights that I pass up for trifles.
The modern life I live is only shades and shadows to the ferocious beauty on the other side of my-own-little-world. There is heaven on earth if I would only let it in.
What is social drivel compared to the song of a little bird's soul,
or the feeling of holding a baby close? I wept when I saw in a video clip a brand-new baby whimpering at his bewildering world. It snagged a dimension in me deep, uncharted. Sometimes standing unfortunately close to a sturdy fellow does the same. A twinge, a glimpse of soaring joy and answered longing, swiftly stifled by reason of mind. Why does happiness hurt so?
I adore the smell of old books, thunderstorms and hot laundry. Satin makes me swoon and crinkly paper just delightifies me. Old things, shabby things, lonely things: fabulous.
The word "forest" sets my imagination alight: dim, streaked with filtered golden rays, a carpet of faded glories under foot, mystery and lonesomeness, flavorful air and dampened echoes.
Strong wind on seaside cliffs, sprawling gardens, mountain trails and starry nights, who would've thought feeling small feels so alive? Heaven all around, beauty meets pain, forgotten meets discovered, it's a marvelous, magical world, and here's to letting it in.