I watched as the needle moved closer to my exposed eye. The instrument, held steady by the confident hand of the physician, was about to penetrate membrane and deliver medicine to severely inflamed tissue.
Author: dyanasmolen (Page 1 of 2)
Walking the leaf-covered path behind our turn-of-the-century house, I seek peace and solace. The hike is a meditation of sorts, the winding trail a teacher of the highest order, if I can stay present.
Traveling the narrow path, 1,000-foot drop to the left, flower and grass covered rock to the right, I am walking single file in a line of women artists, sister seekers, fellow travelers who have come together for the extraordinary. Glancing furtively at ancient terraces far below, I walk steadily, intentionally placing each foot. Heart racing, palms sweaty, one thing is certain: In this moment, I am fully alive.
My baby entered the world with a shock of black hair and a gorgeous, full-throated cry.
Just moments before, I lay in the delivery room exhausted after more than 12 hours of labor. The obstetrician had implored me to give one final push. Shortly thereafter, I heard him exclaim, “It’s a boy!”
Have you ever stumbled across a memory that hurls you headlong into the past?
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I found it in a manila folder while sorting through old papers.
Three-quarters of a page of lined notebook paper, one end torn and ragged, scrawled words once dark now fading.
If we’re going to be friends, I have a request: Show me your soul, not your shoes.
I’m not interested in who makes your clothes or how much you paid for your car. And I don’t care where you shop, whether designer boutique or discount store.
In the photo, a group of people, women and men – some youngish – stand in shallow water with the ocean splashing their shins. The background is stunning: white sand beach, blue water meets white-frosted blue sky.
The picture contains smiling faces, extended arms, hands clasped upon adjacent shoulders suggesting the familiar. They are prepared for the day on a tropical beach. All, that is, but one.
Her husband passed away.
I read the words sent via text.
Then I read them again.
Less than three weeks prior, we had been seated across from one another at a wedding reception. We were laughing, joking, filling awkward silences with unimportant commentary. He had looked good; healthy, happy.
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