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“There's something about the thousands of glittering lights, the veil of nighttime that almost makes this place beautiful, especially in the reflection of the water. It makes everything askew, disoriented. There's more truth in a ripple of water than in a clear day.”
― Society's Foundlings
― Society's Foundlings
“There's a difference between belonging and love . . . It's the difference between being someone's treasure and being treasured by someone.”
― A Dragon's Treasure
― A Dragon's Treasure
“... she wore a masterpiece smile with smudges of paint and graphite across her cheek, and her eyes were a Jackson Pollock painting.”
― Solving for X
― Solving for X
“I turn and run, watching my feet trample a massacre of weeds. I mourn them. The only thing that grows is dandelions in the cracks of the sidewalk and we always end up killing them.”
― Society's Foundlings
― Society's Foundlings
“Eve is a different sort of girl. She tries to make herself fit. She works tirelessly, exhaustingly at it. There certainly is a safety to the prescribed, neat little boxes. But the snake touches an ache that finds healing in every hiss. And when Eve sits at the roots of the tree, they wrapped around her like a mother's hug, welcoming her home, too.
She breathes in the mossy bark, the flowers that grow around it, finds comfort in the way the wind whistles through its dancing leaves. In reply she murmurs, not a prayer, but a portrait of the seeds she hides in the depths of her soul. And the tree at the heart of the walled garden called Paradise listens.
Sometimes, she thinks, I am not the name he's given me and therefore maybe neither is the grass or that animal in the distance or even the sky.
Words become their own walls of sort, especially when everything is made to fit his definition.
Eve swears she can feel a rumble from deep within the bark, a bumble bee's hum. If you wish to own something, you give it a name, comes the answer. If you wish to know something, you listen to what it tells you.
Yes, the snake hisses.
- excerpt from “Her True Name: A Story from the Grandmother Tree” – featured in Asherah: Roots of the Mother Tree.”
―
She breathes in the mossy bark, the flowers that grow around it, finds comfort in the way the wind whistles through its dancing leaves. In reply she murmurs, not a prayer, but a portrait of the seeds she hides in the depths of her soul. And the tree at the heart of the walled garden called Paradise listens.
Sometimes, she thinks, I am not the name he's given me and therefore maybe neither is the grass or that animal in the distance or even the sky.
Words become their own walls of sort, especially when everything is made to fit his definition.
Eve swears she can feel a rumble from deep within the bark, a bumble bee's hum. If you wish to own something, you give it a name, comes the answer. If you wish to know something, you listen to what it tells you.
Yes, the snake hisses.
- excerpt from “Her True Name: A Story from the Grandmother Tree” – featured in Asherah: Roots of the Mother Tree.”
―
“There was always so much going on. Never any time to stop and smell the roses. Never any roses to stop and smell anyway.”
― Solving for X
― Solving for X
“When I was younger, my mom loved to garden. But the flowers would never grow. She just kept trying.'
'I don't understand.'
'Because you can't.'
'What does this have to do with anything?'
I don't fiddle with my fingers and there's no apology on the tip of my tongue when I say, 'I am my mother's son.”
―
'I don't understand.'
'Because you can't.'
'What does this have to do with anything?'
I don't fiddle with my fingers and there's no apology on the tip of my tongue when I say, 'I am my mother's son.”
―
“When I was younger, my mom loved to garden. But the flowers would never grow. She kept planting seeds even thought nothing would grow. She just kept trying.'
'I don't understand.'
'Because you can't.'
'What does this have to do with anything?'
I don't fiddle with my fingers and there's no apology on the tip of my tongue when I say, 'I am my mother's son.”
― Society's Foundlings
'I don't understand.'
'Because you can't.'
'What does this have to do with anything?'
I don't fiddle with my fingers and there's no apology on the tip of my tongue when I say, 'I am my mother's son.”
― Society's Foundlings
“You know of a girl and her apple,” The old woman's voice is steady, cutting through the noise. A patient presence that ensnares even the attention of the trees, their branches and thinning leaves stilling as the tongues below them do, too. “Or some version of it. You know of the snake, wise and guiding. The 'me too' and 'I know the way because I've walked the path' in its hiss and slither. But you do not know the tree itself.”
And her story begins.
You do not know the tree itself, but once you did. Once, all did. Every house had an altar and there the pillar sat. But, by the time the books were written, they found her impossible to erase, so they took her name and called her nothing but an object.
It is no accident that the fruit and the snake found home in a tree. Just as it is no accident that the tree becomes a stationary fixture. But, surely, it, too was just as breathing, just as alive.
As the old woman in red speaks, the children's very imaginations dance wildly around her blaze, some primal knowing stirring deep within.
They meant to bury her, but like most of the stories they tried to eliminate through the permanence of ink and binding of pages, they hadn't realized she became a seed. A dew drop on all of our own spiderwebs, if we care to listen.
The more you listen, the more you hear. You see. You feel. And the more you come to know…
-Excerpt from “Her True Name: A Story from the Grandmother Tree” – featured in Asherah: Roots of the Mother Tree.”
―
And her story begins.
You do not know the tree itself, but once you did. Once, all did. Every house had an altar and there the pillar sat. But, by the time the books were written, they found her impossible to erase, so they took her name and called her nothing but an object.
It is no accident that the fruit and the snake found home in a tree. Just as it is no accident that the tree becomes a stationary fixture. But, surely, it, too was just as breathing, just as alive.
As the old woman in red speaks, the children's very imaginations dance wildly around her blaze, some primal knowing stirring deep within.
They meant to bury her, but like most of the stories they tried to eliminate through the permanence of ink and binding of pages, they hadn't realized she became a seed. A dew drop on all of our own spiderwebs, if we care to listen.
The more you listen, the more you hear. You see. You feel. And the more you come to know…
-Excerpt from “Her True Name: A Story from the Grandmother Tree” – featured in Asherah: Roots of the Mother Tree.”
―
“Never underestimate the magic of a memory. A life full of great memories is a rich one.”
― Enchanting Yuletide
― Enchanting Yuletide
“Erik wondered if they saw the irony of such a tiny complex expecting to find the cure from the very lives they minimized in comparison to the whole. If such small, little lives mattered not, how could they believe anything they did would matter?”
― Solving for X
― Solving for X
