Thursday, April 4, 2013
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
I stack the too-big turquoise and silver ring that I haven't gotten around to getting sized under the spiraling silver spoon ring with the scarab beetle carved into the end of the handle. The turquoise my father spent far too much money on at a souvenir shop near the Grand Canyon and the spoon ring is the first gift my husband bought me when we began dating.
Next, I slip on the silver Michael Kors watch outfitted with the date, a timer, and another circle I haven't quite figured out how to use. It gives a satisfactory snap as I close the clasp and immediately slides towards my elbow. It has been sized, but I can't seem to get it small enough for my abnormally tiny wrists. This piece was a Christmas gift from my brother, and I can't help thinking that he gave me the gift of order. Dad's gift was of beauty, color, creativity and even space. And, Todd's gift, though incredibly beautiful, it more than anything promotes stability....keeps the beauty, color and creativity in place.
On my right hand, I place another spoon ring...this one copper also bought at the Grand Canyon, but paid for by me. I add a couple of copper bracelets to my right wrist. Gifts from my mother who doesn't wear jewelry but purchases it for me. The copper warms me and glows sunshine and strength which my Vitamin D deficient body and soul so desperately longs for.
The final talisman I wear also slides on to my right wrist....a grown up multi-colored friendship looking bracelet I found at Farmer's Market and purchase for myself and two good friends. I look down at it, praying that it holds together firmly with the double knot I've tied and that this friendship which has caught me unaware will be tighter for the three of us and not just two. I think of all these things as I dress for the day. These pieces, they are my sacred things...guarding against fear, intimidation, and despair, just ordinary objects till I told them what they were.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
My body absorbs the heat and calls for more. Between the sun and the desert winds, my soul is wicked dry of anxiety and fears.
To live in a place where the door is turquoise because I made it so...
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
He has torn us to pieces;
now he will heal us.
He has injured us;
now he will bandage our wounds.
2 In just a short time he will restore us,
Friday, January 28, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
The weak winter sunlight nudges against the blinds, firmly shut so as only to allow faded illuminations. Though slightly dim, the saffron walls infuse the tiny space with cozy warmth that penetrates the January chill that seems to seep through layers of wool, cotton, soft tissue, and bone all the way to the soul. Classic white molding with circular flourishes frame the room and lead the viewer back through time to a softer era. The décor itself is a hodge-podge of eccentricity enchanting and surprising the eye with unexpected delicacies. An oversized dark chocolate colored steamer trunk, complete with shiny metal hinges peaking through a layer of years and rust, stands in for a traditional coffee table.
The top of it holds dusty carved wooden bowls which each cradle a different treasure. In one stands the tiny iron Eiffel Tower, brought back from the City of Lights, now towering over a growing collection of tarnished coins. Another holds a matching ancient iron and copper incense burner topped with a conquistador style hat with a fleur de lis cut out on each side to allow the hazy perfumed smoke to exit. Balanced in the very center of the trunk on the Dominican landscape of a cigar box is the bowl which holds a most cherished possession, a miniature replica of the goddess, Nike. Carved from a single piece of alabaster, the feeling of the wind swirling the yards of her garment and rustling her wings as she prepares to take her victorious flight encompasses you.
Piled high on wooden tables, cream leather benches, even covering some of the mocha painted wooden floor are books of every shape, color, and topic. The black and white checkerboard version of The Real Mother Goose sits on top of The Book of Classic French Pastries while The Complete Works of Voltaire balances precariously on Ireland from the Air and Kate Spade’s kelly colored Style. Stacks of Vogue and Fast Company intermingled with Food Network and Wired spill out of a lopsided dark woven basket and into a haphazard pile beneath its table.
Deep wine and golden threaded pillows the size of couch seat cushions lounge intermittently among the feathery throws and down comforters that grace the arms of the couch. Overlooking this scene is a large painting that foamy green color copper turns when it tarnishes, splashed with fluid streaks of crayon box sienna brown. And on the thick wooden door ornamented with a large brass doorknob, complete with a skeleton key lock, hangs a peacock wreath strewn with shiny plum and cerulean balls accompanied by a sparkling rhinestone peeking out from behind the turquoise eye of one misbehaving feather. Dangling off to one side cheekily is a metallic trinket, daring its reader with a single word upon entering this marvelous room, dream.
Monday, September 20, 2010
I have to admit the smell of a book is one of my most favorite things in the universe. I still remember wondering through our giant public library as a child and finding that perfect book. Climbing up into the car with my newly checked out book in my hand, I couldn’t wait to get home to open it. Garage door would open, the seatbelt would snap off, and I’d be shooting through the door and onto the couch. I would pull open the cover and the smell of paper and adventure overwhelmed my senses. It is not just the smell that captured me, but also the feel of a new book, never been read, in my hands. The story that awaits me, promising never before imagined excitement, a new tale. The truth is, there is nothing new under the sun. Every story is just a re-telling of the same ancient content that has been handed down since early days of mankind. Yet, the setting and the adjectives, the unexpected twists and turns of a re-imagined hero’s tale, is enough to send a quiver of expectation down my waiting spine. It doesn’t seem to matter that I can predict who the killer is, when the heroine will end up with the right man, or what the thief actually stole when prying in the secret desk drawer. It simply doesn’t matter because, yes, it is true, ladies and gentlemen, I’m a bookaholic. Let me rephrase that. “Hello, I’m Melissa, and I’m addicted to books. It’s been twenty-three minutes since my last sniff/touch/read.”
Saturday, March 27, 2010
"That little smirk…" as he spoke his discomfort was palpable.
"Annoying, huh" she replied…the smirk deepening with the merriment she was experiencing from the distraught appearance of his beautiful face. Softly, so softly, the words she least expected were spoken, delicately, as if the sound of them could cause the façade of nonchalance to which he clung to fracture. "I love it."
Admitting is the first step.