Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

 It never occurred to me when I got out on the ice that I would be taken completely off course. I would turn into a tiny ship, propelled by the wind. It happened quick and delighted me. Later on, it frightened me and I yelled at Steve, waving his camera in the air, heading rapidly for the snowy shore.
The wind does that people. As soon as I got out on the ice, it scurried me along. I didn’t skate, I just stood there and it surged me forward, pushing my legs and back and arms. I smoothly went forward and only turned when I wanted to. This kept up and could be difficult when you were turning or going against it. Only when I turned to the left, facing north that the south wind urged me forward. As if I was a horse and it was betting on me to do things right. Steve and I skated round and round, yelling at each other in speech, taking breaks for water and catching our breath. I hated turning left because sometimes I was shot forward and sometimes it was only a gentle breath and it didn‘t tell me before hand.
We skated over deep fissures of the ice and one, which met in a three way spider, took me out, grabbing at my toe pick. I lunged forward and fell on my right knee. It’s swollen now, resting under a pack of ice, ironically enough. I slid along, the ice turning into water as it touched my pants’ legs. I stood up and surveyed the country. I was okay. A mother pointed me out to her four year old son, “See, she fell and she’s okay. She didn’t cry.” Surely I was victor. I didn’t feel like crying but maybe it would have been nice to squeeze out a few drops and have a helpful hand pull me up. Whichever. I got up and skated slower, steering clear of the three pronged fissure and the playful south wind.
Turning left is always inevitable as Derek Zoolander taught us and I turned left gleefully as I took pictures of Steve goofing off on the slick ice. His camera was odd and I had a hard time knowing if the pictures were taking or not. He zoomed past me and I followed him like a sports photographer, busily clicking away, wondering if the camera was doing anything. I turned fatally to the north in my gleeful clicking and the wind surged forward. It grabbed me quick and I was soon out of control. To fall would have been grace but I couldn’t because I held his camera in my hand. I yelled to Steve, shrieking with laughter but alarmed. How fast could it take me? Playful forces of nature tend to go overboard as a general rule. I was going faster and faster. I shrieked. “Aim for the snow!” he shouted. Smart kid. I plowed right into it and fell down easily, holding the camera aloft.
I can’t deny that my interest in skating waned as the wind grew fiercer. The ice shimmered into wetness and it was growing only a little too tiring to skate. I was up for the call and crunched off along the bank as Steve did a few more loops, challenging the wind. I sat on the dock and untied my skates. I was done for the day and the red flag, that warned the skaters off the ice, was being raised up on the flagpole. Definitely time to go home.

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A Tale of Two Worlds

I walk past a window on my way to get a glass of water and note the snow falling outside.  As I fill my glass at the sink, my thoughts have already turned back to my work on the computer. I’m wrestling with the household budget, when I’ll fit some reading in, how to get on with my writing work, when I’ll exercise, when I’ll catch up with email correspondence and the list goes on and on.

Anytime I stop my work and look up, past the chatter in my mind, the snow catches me off guard as if it’s the first time I’m seeing it. I debate whether I can put off the grocery store to avoid driving in the snow.

This is the world of the everyday. It’s full of a thousand petty cares, some essential to living, others not as much but all in a lump group, tugging us along.

But there are times my mind needs something more refreshing, and it’s time to take a break. And that’s where music comes in—as powerful as Circe creating a circle of magic with her staff. I pick out music without words (or words I don’t understand). Today is Rimsky-Korsakov, tomorrow might be the film Phantom Thread’s soundtrack, or a piece of jazz played by Lucky Thompson.

As Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Snow Maiden starts, the circle opens. I come out of the everyday world and enter somewhere extraordinary, where beauty converges with life and cares and worries exit for a time. And all it takes is a little music, a little snow, and entering the moment that is now.

I watch the snow falling, noting the wind direction as the snow blows southeast and then drops and then exhales again southwards. I note the density of the snow, how it’s light and sparkling and then downy, heavy, and wet.  My thoughts finally still and I turn off the music. A heavy relief passes over my body and mind and I am still, watching the beauty of the world.

The Fog Rises Up and We Come Down to Meet It

This winter has frozen and thawed. And then frozen and thawed once again. With the most recent exhale of cold, fog rises up from the melting ground and wraps my town in a trance.

It softens the ragged tops of trees and transforms the dead yellowed grass into a carpet spreading out into unseen lands.  With foggy foreshortened vision, the world becomes finite and in the smallness, my wonder grows.  Trees become gloomy gods, bushes hunch over like mysterious beings with secrets hidden in twiggy souls. The sky blurs out and the land rises up to meet it and everything is reformed or brought down to its most basic form. It is easy to become lost and confused.

I walk the perimeter of my neighborhood park. We become redone together.  The playground becomes enchanted, strangely unknowable as the slides and swings soften and distort.

The ballpark’s high chain link fence however, becomes more sure.  The metal darkens and braces and holds against the diffused white light.  I stare at it through my camera lens, delighted by its ferocity while everything else around it wavers and melts.

A train passes over the hill and I can see nothing, it has been whitened out, but I can hear the busy clack of the iron wheels running on steel rails.

Geese fly overhead for a minute and then vanish.

I press on and the mist parts as I walk and so we walk together, softened, softening with the night closing in behind our steps.  The night takes everything behind us, rebuilds it like it wishes and then I step into my home and close the door.

Rain falls a few hours later and the fog mounts up, gently pressing at the windows but by morning, it is all gone and only little bits of ice remain on the walkway.