Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

Persephone and the Pear

 

abundance

 

The apples scattered from Persephone’s hands and rolled like burning rubies, tell-tale signs, through the greening grasses. This is what Demeter found and launched her into the frantic hunt for her lost daughter- or so I’d like to imagine.

I found the signs in the grass. In a tiny parcel of wild land, bound by a dentist’s parking lot on one side and a jeep car sales’ lot on the other, I found the signs of Persephone’s passing, sweet tiny apples tucked in the grass. Flies and hornets feasted, the hornets’ stingers vibrating in ecstasy over the sweetness. I picked a few apples that weren’t burst or bruised and tucked them into my pockets, taking the time to gaze up in the boughs. There weren’t any apples there; already the season is passing by, already we are beginning to count the days till spring.

I found pears too and delighted over their luscious shapes, hot women ready to be bitten into, chewed and swallowed. The trees are so out of place in this tarmac oasis but it was clear they were planted out of love long ago; after all you “plant pears for your heirs.”

The autumn solstice marks our descent into the winter- or the descent into hell if you’re a girl caught up by the god of the dead. The descent is slow and curving, marked by tremendous abundance where food litters the ground and trees shed their colors in a glorious shower. Everywhere, the wealth swirls by and catches our eyes and ears and hearts. It’s a tremendous pageant before winter’s austere coloring and as I click a few pictures of apples, I can’t help wonder at the beautiful story of a mother’s fierce love for her child. She tosses her love to us even now and we eat it up, apple by apple and pear by pear.

apple

 

Comments (2):

  1. Cindi Eaton

    September 24, 2013 at 11:48 pm

    I thought those names might have something to do with Greek mythology so I googled it 🙂 I don’t think I’ve read that one. But I find it fascinating how you come across these things that spur the imagination, a thought here and then another, and another adds on to it. From you noticing a simple apple where maybe no one else noticed. I enjoyed reading it, how you write. And wonder how it all came to you or maybe that’s too much to ask authors. But I sometimes wonder if there are others who’s train of thought happens like mine. So many times I will see something and know there is a story, or different stories, that are waiting to be told. The hard part is actually knowing how to share it I think. Thanks for sharing your creation with us, Catherine.

  2. Catherine

    September 29, 2013 at 12:34 pm

    Thanks, Cindi. Sounds like it stirred up a lot of thoughts for you.

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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.