2019 Blessings

Black-Eyed Susan NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

May this year be as calm as you need it to be

As adventurous as your spirit requires

As hopeful as your heart can hold

As happy as pure joy

As healthy as is doable

As satisfying as your widest dreams

As filled with laughter as your belly can tolerate

As nourishing as warm hugs

As loving as your heart desires

(And then some

Because we can all use

Extra of love).

 

And … while we’re at it:

May this year bring an end to what no longer sustains you

May what drains you move on, or change

May hurts heal

May grief ease

May frustration untangle till truth’s in the clear.

May worry turn action

May stagnation find pace

May you be all you wanted to be

And a bit more still, just in case …

 

Blessings be to you,

Na’ama

 

 

Be Like Cabbage

cabbage AmitaiAsif

Photo: Amitai Asif

 

“Be like a flower,” she said,

Wrinkles creasing like sun

‘Round her eyes.

“Be like cabbage, too!”

And she laughed

At my confusion and

Touched a calloused hand

To my cheek

For the umpteenth loving time.

 

“Bloom alone does not fill stomachs,”

She explained

And the years without

Flickered sad behind her smile

But did not interfere.

“Cabbage blooms as pretty as any,

Yet unlike most who wilt

At summer’s end,

It will hold goodness at the ready

To nourish you through winter.”

 

“Be like a flower, then,” she smiled.

“And like a cabbage, too.

For it will sustain you:

Bland or spiced or hot or cold

Until the snow melts

And you have lived to a new spring

And can, one day, grow old.”

 

 

For Cee’s FOTD challenge

 

Treasure Hunters

SPF-10-14-18Joy-Pixley-3

Photo Credit: Joy Pixley

 

It had been a long trek on an oven of a day in what had to be a replica of hell. I was parched half-way to mummification and about as lively as the end result, but Mark seemed as bouncy as a pixie in morning dew.

He checked the map. “Twenty more feet!”

Either he didn’t notice the forest of thorns (and its likely residents) or didn’t care. He was in his element. I definitely was not.

I’d joined THOR (Treasure Hunters Of Renown) a month prior, on the rebound from a breakup. The local chapter was small but Mark’s enthusiasm was contagious and the prospects were exciting. We compared topography maps with old mining records and discussed unsolved mysteries of lost gold from the bandit days of the Wild West. Hunting treasure sounded alluring. It made me feel brave. From the AC.

“I’m not going in there!” I croaked with a drywall tongue as my mind filled with images of scorpions and my ears strained for rattlers. I was sure I’d heard the cackle of ghosts.

If I made it home alive, the only treasures I wanted were a cool drink, my couch, and my remote.

 

 

For Sunday Photo Fiction

 

On The Stair Way

Central park stairs NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

Take your time

As you climb.

Hold the rail.

Breathe in. Exhale.

On the stair way

Of life

Steps of joy

Steps of strife.

Both the rise

And descent

Are energies

Quite well spent,

As long as your heart

Can extend

To see a tad

‘Round the bend.

 

For the Which Way Challenge

 

Take A Snapshot Of Your Heart

Cuba12 InbarAsif

Photo: Inbar Asif

 

As one year draws to close

And another gets set to rise,

Take a snapshot of your heart

In its joy and woe alike.

 

As moments tick toward the new,

Remove blinds from your weary eyes,

And let Soul show you who

You’ve been when you were wise.

 

It will revisit steps you took

So you can plan the next,

And hold the images of good,

For New Year’s light to reflect.

 

 

For Six Word Saturday

 

A Kid’s Rock

Photo: © Randy Mazie

 

“She insists on coming,” he noted without raising his head and even though I hadn’t worded my question.

The quiet breathed and a soft breeze rustled the leaves and made shadows caress the stones.

“She stands by the gate and belts until I take her,” he added and continued to wipe his already spotless glasses. His fingers trembled, from palsy or emotion or both, I didn’t know.

“She misses her, you see,” he glanced at the goat. “Rejected by her nanny, this kid was. My Mary hand-raised her. She was this kid’s rock. Now all that’s left is this headstone.”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers