Light
May 16, 2025
It has been truly difficult to write recently. Like a clogged drain, I had all the right inspirations pouring into me, but with the buildup of gunk I’d allowed in my life, the artful flow wouldn’t form. I’d permitted myself to wallow in self-doubt and embellish my offended personality – I’d become the person who I had been years before; strained by the disconnectedness I’d created between my God and my own being.
This morning, however, was thoroughly purposed. Abounding in intentionality and God-given grace, I have participated in a well-meaningful meditation on His Word – an act which I had long disregarded. And in turn, He has blessed me with a light in my life. Out of the darkness and into the light. All very symbolic of the passage of Scripture I read just this very morning.
And He loves me so. I wondered if the cause of the inaccuracy of this week’s radar was because God, in all of his might, spun up another storm purely for my benefit – that my thoughts about the rain may provoke my happiness and thank God for pouring out his blessings. I look at this now with this vision. All that my thoughts consisted of this past week were of selfish reasoning, which I come to reject and rebuke now.
It is tough, though, swimming around in sin and its enticing pull on one’s own heart. There are parts of me unready for the change in which I know is vital for regrowth, but at this stage in the game, much prayer is needed to break through my fortressed heart.
I now come with a deep sense of appreciation and love for my kindred spirit. That of all the people who could be feeling deep sadness has sprung forth into a new, well being. It is profound to witness the change in her. Her faith has grown deep, rooted in God, unshakable to the core. Her encouragement to me proves her genuinity that I may continue to find solace and knowledge in her presence. For that, I am intensely grateful. A true friend I have prayed for, and a true friend I have found.
Linen + Kettle
Why do I love rain? Because, for once, I don't have to pretend. I can be mellow, sad, sleepy -- all at the same time -- and it's totally normal. I blend in with the scenery. My tears are hidden by the droplets on my face. I love rain because it proves to me that I am still beautiful in a world of clouds.
Have you ever heard of the small story of Joe, the Storyteller and Tom, the Blue Jay? Most folks haven’t, for it’s a fairly new tale. But it all began on a peaceful day in late February. Joe, the Storyteller, was out for a stroll in the kind weather with his betrothed, Amy. They had walked upon a formal path for quite some time, when they felt the urge to travel a more inconvenient trail - due to the sense of adventure that filled both their blood. It was on this new route that they followed twists and turns, across rocks and stumps and various ditches filled with loose soil and mud. It wasn’t until late into their journey that they soon became aware of just how deep into the woods they had traveled. All around them stood trees and brush, and not one significant familiarity to aid them in their desire for the main pathway they had originally trod on. To their deepest dismay, they continued forward. They could hear distant laughter, similar to the children they passed on their way in. To follow that could lead us somewhere worth going, they thought. It was a time of walking. Amy’s feet began to drag, as her most common ailment loomed over her body; the reminder that she was not invincible of the swelling that would soon appear in her left ankle. Joe held her hand as they walked forward. Ahead of them, lay a tree on its side, cut in a fanciful way for the path to continue on. It was a truly fascinating piece of the woodland, that both Joe and Amy sat a spell on and enjoyed the peace and quiet for a time. Joe, the comical one, of whom Amy loved so dearly and true, crouched down by the earth and peered through the tunnel the hollowed out tree had created, and pretended to converse with a species of flight - Tom, the Blue Jay. He was such an entertainer! Joe could whip up an act within a second and so he did. “How are you, Mr. Tom?” he asked. Then he’d pause and lean in to listen. Right up again, he’d continue on, “My, that is very lovely to hear… It truly is a beautiful day in the woods today. Might you be here at this very spot to-morrow?” A second passed awaiting a reply. “Well it’s settled then! Did you hear that, Amy? We shall meet Mr. Tom the Blue Jay for afternoon tea and cookies at this very spot to-morrow.” A grin so big stretched across Amy’s face as she fell in love all the more with her beloved, Joe. He was marvelous to behold and when he arose in character, there was nothing in the world that could make him so attractive. He was pure in a childlike manner and always knew how to create a magical moment and a good story. “Very well then, Mr. Tom. Amy and I will see you to-morrow!” And together they walked off, hand in hand, away from the fallen tree toward home and the sound of children’s laughter. Have you known a soul like this? Who can take the dreariest of moments or situations long past its prime and turn them into scenes of simplicity with hints of magic? If you do not mind, let me tell you something that you might not know. While this story is all good and wonderful, it is an extremely difficult life for a storyteller– for a true storyteller. Joe did his best in all aspects of his life. He always gave it his hardest to support their future goals and plans and make the best of each situation, but for some reason, the world was never so accepting of him. So let that be a reminder to you; you can fall in love with stories all you want and even fall in love with the storytellers, too, just like Amy did, but please, do not forget to thank them generously for their contribution to the world and to your life. It’s hard enough for them to fit into this world when their heart belongs elsewhere in some fantasyland or enchanted kingdom - so try your best, if willing, to enchant this world with your own magic and create a safe haven for the storyteller in your own life.
I am starting to have a real fascination for birds; particularly songbirds. At one point, everyone knew of them and could name them one by one, but as time progressed, the songbirds fell into the background, like all things important in Nature. The sounds they make are so peculiar and still particular. That God chose that specific tone for that specific bird and made it its own proud song to sing. And each morning, they do what they do best– they put on a concert to grace humanities’ ears, so that they may mellow in the goodness of God and his handiwork. My, we have indeed fallen far. Just recently, an old yet new friend reappeared in my life. And while this is clearly the season of new beginnings, I am being taught compassion and patience for a soul lost in a sea of sorrow. I cannot imagine the pain she is in; all she knew was a lie. I know the birds would sing to her in the morning if she cared to listen. To lend an ear for the beauty of Creation to share in her pain and slowly, day after day, give her an altogether new song to sing. It takes quite a bit for someone in deep sorrow to shift perspective from the “end of an era” to the “start of a new beginning”. Finding closure in the situation is difficult, especially when spurred on by new and intensifying information. The songbirds would tell you to let it go. But we all know that is easier said than done. But do you think that, if we took the time to listen to Nature, would she give us the answers to life? How to navigate the ins and outs of pain and joy – How to accept and release what comes and goes – How to relish in whatever weather comes our way, to enjoy it as long as it is called “today”; Would Nature help us in our weakened state of mind? I wholeheartedly believe she would. For it does not take much to coax me out of my insignificant hiding place of my heart, so that I may dig my toes in the silky dirt of the garden and trim back the dead to make way for the new. What is created by God always encourages life. Getting back into Nature, being intentional to listen to the bird songs – may be the link between true peace and the lives we are living, but are you available to partake in the healing? That, my child, is an entirely different matter. But Nature has its way of breaking down any surface. Maybe you are a rock in need of carving, so be prepared for a lightning strike. Or maybe you are a landmass of compact clay; a storm will indeed blow in and erode you one section at a time. Maybe you are as cold as ice and the steady dripping of an everlasting cloud will break you down one drop at a time or even the sun will bake on you and melt down your walls… Whatever you may be, put great thought into how you’d like to be “fixed”. Because desperate times call for desperate measures. And for all you’ve been through, remember to be soft enough that your healing comes from that which speaks to you truly. Harsh things will come to those in rage, even if justified. Seek the Lord and His peace. Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.
Tired of feeling the constant heartbreak of everyday disappointments, I’ve come to the final agreement of the mind that I am going to have a beautiful life whether anyone wants in or not . And so you exclaim, “Well of course! That’s what you should originally be pursuing!” But do we realize how much of our actual life is weighed down by the demands of others? That their influence bears much weight? I am completely in love with my best friend. And although we have talked about marriage and it is most likely in the cards for us, I ought to be single until those vows are made. I believe this to be the part when Scripture says, “Guard your heart”. As I pondered this thought of happiness reflected through the course of life I wish to tread, my perspective on the day changed. Suddenly the traffic dissolved from my thoughts and the drizzling outside became less of a hazard and more of a steady ambience to behold. I drove on, admiring the sunshine off the droplets. The people I passed became souls in search of something worthwhile on a Monday morning. I thought about the grass and creation, moss and mushrooms, fairies and gardens and more and more wondrous things. And when I arrived at my destination, I only wanted to take up the automobile again and drive home – for it was in those long moments prior, that in me, something shifted. For years, I have morphed my definition of happiness around a person. That with them, I was happy – and I am. Except I am lacking. I am lacking myself. And without them, nothing seems to make sense. Yet, I can reclaim the self in which I had lost, and time becomes a most unbearable sort of awkward and pain, worry and self-discouragement. But as I constantly verbalized my new affirmation, I am going to have a beautiful life whether anyone wants in or not , it became clearer that on my own, if the future turned in that direction, I would be okay. And in that, I would learn to thrive. Now, I have no intention of breaking up with my beloved. But I do intend to separate my heart from his grasp. My love may belong to him, but my life is my own and until our commitment to each other rises before the Lord, I must do the righteous thing; the holy thing that sets me apart, that I may strive after godliness first and all else below that. I know I am not forever desirable, and I know that I struggle with body image and other shames, but I don’t want that to become how I define myself. Another Scripture in which I dedicate to verbal practice throughout the day comes from 1 Peter 3:3-4, which says this: “Your beauty should be the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in the sight of God.” And how I cultivate that “gentle and quiet spirit” is in the alone-time between God and I. Where I breathe in the hint of the running sap of spring, relax on the bank of a low-flowing creek, when I dream of fairies blessing my garden as I plant and harvest that which I tended to for the year. And it is in those practices that I become sanctified and I long for purity all the more. I want to be wanted and hopefully, one day, I truly will be. But I am going to have a beautiful life whether anyone wants in or not.
The Earth is awakening from a long winter’s rest. It’s faint in its rustle, yet I know the patterns that prove its consciousness. Though difficult to identify, there is a sweet scent in the air, which is magnified all the more when the sunshine bleeds through it – a sure sign of spring. The geese have found their mates. Two by two, they spread across the fields nearby, waddling around in search of food from the softening, earthen floor. This too, is yet another sign of spring. The rhododendron speaks highly of the day - even early in the morning - when the outside temperatures barely hint a note of warmth, they too, are open and excited for the day ahead. The songbirds, also, delight in the morning tones. Paired up, like the geese, they float from branch to branch of the holly, singing melodies true and fair in celebration of the near and coming seasonal change. Two flickers, two blue jays, two cardinals, two morning doves, and too many sparrows in all directions to mark out distinguished pairs, but likely enough to soon be identified. And let us not forget, too, that I am also a creature of the Earth. A dedicated folk in search of a garden to till and seeds to plant and crops to raise; to create a space of pure beauty and delight. My body dances with hope of an early spring. I can feel the creaking in my body slowly diminishing as every day passes and the sun shines brighter than before. The Earth speaks to me. The crocuses pop their tiny hairs above the ground, signaling their arrival. The daffodils, too, always an early riser, still, I feel the change in the seasons. Spring excites me. It resembles more than the physical idiom of “what was once dead now is made alive”, but instead provokes a spirit change. It is not only the earth that reflects this virtue, but I, also am inspired to change as well. To bud afresh, like the magnolia right outside my bedroom window. To melt away the results of an icy heart, those conditions are no longer valid and you must remove the effects drastically. As Nature changes as she always does, I too, must change. And it is in this season that the pull to change is ever so exciting. ~ ~ ~ As the springtime season approaches, I find it vital to share my thoughts with you. The blessedness of a garden is such a gift to all who attend to it, and therefore, I must coax your spirit to look at the shops in your area and support those which could be considered "small", "local", "organic" - and/or any other key word in which you find most appropriate to your own convictions. It can be quite easy to take a quick stop at a large chain box store for the mere convenience, sale opportunity and variety to shop from. But try, this year, to go the extra mile (quite literally) to support those businesses that truly rely on your support. And indeed, the community does grow! You'd be surprised to find the breadth of knowledge some of these small businesses possess; for most are comprised of passionate people who love what they do. How could you not be in favor of that? In addition to this plea, I also remind you that while we look ahead of all the plans we hope to accomplish this warmer season, whether it is gardening plans, promotions, vacations or anything else, remember to take a deep breath and soak in the "every day". And more importantly, "today". We only have today once. So make the absolute most of it! I thank you again for coming to my blog and reading what I have to offer you. I hope, in some form, I may have lightened your load and refreshed your spirit, persuading you with the simplest of encouragements. I pray you have a blessed day, and I shall talk to you soon once more! 🌱
I redecorated my bureau today. I decided, since the sun is now cascading down on the dresser, it’d be more fitting to set forth that which delights in sunshine, more so than a piano which I touch only on occasion. Music found me at a time when I had a lot to say and an over abundance of emotions to control. Once that era of my life settled, the lyrics stopped flowing so wildly. It could be a combination of being out of practice, but even when I use intentionality to create a ballad of sorts, I feel nothing. I play a few chords and hope to deliver a melody, but a song does not arise from the mix. Music has taken a back seat. And though that saddens me, I am not heartbroken over it. It was for a season, and could yet return, but as of now, my plants need sunshine. I really enjoy my room. My Father calls it The Gift Shoppe , my Mother calls it a museum. There is so much to look at. Knick-knacks everywhere. Art on the walls. Books galore. Jars upon jars of dried herbs. Antiques, full of character. From my perspective, it’s a bit chaotic, but it’s home to me. My personality flows from each item, liquidating its properties to melt with the others, painting a bigger picture of all that I am. I am the tap shoes I have; to tap dance in the kitchen when no one else is home. I am the books; too many to name, yet each individually important and purposeful. I am the rosemary; curly or common, my idiosyncrasies different, but my aroma - the same. I am the honey jars; tasteful and delicious, touched only by one. I am the florals; from pillow prints to life in pots to wreaths on the wall, I come in different frames of vision, yet I am beautiful to behold. I am the carpet; an old soul who’s felt the footprints of so many and for so long has remained silent. I am the room. I behold so much. Truly chaotic - yet charming all the same.
I am starting to feel my age. At only 24, I’ve thought little about the aging process, but each morning I awake to find my joints clogged up. My knees are swollen. My shoulders, cramped. My elbows are in deep need of a snap. My neck doesn’t roll so easily anymore. It’s like a rod from my shoulder blade to my ear and around to my eye is welded together. I wake up dry. My eyes are crusty. My head aches more. I long to sleep with the windows open. Perhaps I am only in desperate need of the warm air that spring brings. Maybe that will emerge in me– the child I still remember. I’ve thought about it for some time. I understand how men can age; their workload, so much more toilsome than women’s. And I can understand how women age; their emotional stresses are sometimes too heavy to bear. But somewhere along those lines, I’ve lost the perspective that, I too, can age. For all my life, I’ve been known as the one who looks so much younger than I am, and in some ways, I suppose I’ve been gifted that youthful persona in more ways than just looks, but still, this recent physical change has me somewhat alarmed. The realization that I, at almost 25, have not wed, could perhaps at no time in my life be able to bear children, have yet so far to go in the grand scheme of things, and have no concept or clue as to where and when my future home will arrive (or more so when and where I will arrive to it). All of this is a bit overwhelming to behold. But it’s a sunny day. Cold, but sunny. And it’s a day full of possibilities. Maybe a job for my beloved, maybe some extra cash at the scrapyard. Maybe a day to spend with my brother and my parents. A day to do some cleaning up and organizing. Maybe a day to eat some good food and have some good conversations. It can be a day of creativity and imagination, excitement and promise. A day for some to come home and for others, the end of a time - but a promise for a new beginning. And tomorrow may not be the culmination of all days, but it is still a day in the patchwork progress of the quilt of my life.
The river ripped past me as I watched its currents flow. No force of envy could prevent this storm from confronting the path its flood would tread. It was strikingly satisfactory to behold, for even in the muck and mire lay a steady grace to the chaos. The river was truly captivating. It’s in times like these, during the storm season, that I find life truly exciting. Like a whirlwind of happenings, what was once an inkling stream turns wild and rough by the downfall of droplets from a dark, bold sky. And nothing oh so excites me as the flash of lightning and the crack of thunder soon to follow. Pardon me to jump up on the sofa in pure fascination as the rain comes thrashing across the window pane with fierce rage. Its temperament, frightening, yet all together profound. Ceraunophile… that’s what I call myself. Sharon Ophelia for short. A pure lover of thunderstorms. And the effects are wildly immense. The river does not discriminate as to what it devours when fed.
Sometimes when the morning sun sneaks past the blinds to my bedroom window, I can almost hear its soft whispers to me; gently and prayerfully coaxing me to awaken. Its rays become like arms, the dust particles becoming visible, reaching out to me to caress my face. It wipes back my hair that’s been matted down by the covers. A blissful morning, greeting me with the most delightful, yet peculiar of all invitations. Welcome to the day, for today is the day, and there shall be no other day like it. I pause in that thought and ponder what events may take place, only to find myself in this dreamy state for far too long, that the footsteps on the carpet outside my bedroom door remind me of the demands of the day. The coming and going of each unmarked sigh, I slide down the mattress and plop to the floor unable to mount to my feet. To stand would only allow the day to become real and real is not always what your heart truly desires. Most ache for the companionship of true love and it is in that true love, that reality grows into a sort of delightful substance. But the best kind of “real” is often not real at all. But real enough to take notice and harness it by the wings and set off into the wilds of imagination and allow yourself just to be - in the state of an all-consuming passion of worlds beyond ours. I often think about the worlds beyond our own. Perhaps there is a creature much resembling an older woman, whose name is unearthed and whose hair is quite gray, yet she is energy pulsing through the atmospheres, in one’s breath and out the lungs of others. She glides across the waters of an ocean marked by white caps and froth, turning with the tide. She purifies the moon on the nastiest of nights, polishes him up just right to shine to the best of his ability. She dances in the mud of the forest floor and pools her efforts toward the moans of the lost ambience that once filled the trees. To some who do not know her fully, they title her Mother Earth. A blanket name to cover their avoidance of her true nature. Though it could very well suit her just fine, she is more. More than the Earth, more to Life, more to the Name. But that is very well all within our own world, yet only the truest form of ourselves acknowledge her presence. I believe, we often look past our own world in hopes of a grass greener, but if we search within the simplest of moments of our Earth, we can plainly see the magic of all right here. Worlds beyond our own would be amazing to discover and explore, but what about which we have not known here? For there is plenty! Plenty for the common folk. It is more often than not, in the plain and dandy, that the course of life is more righteous and holy and therefore more beautiful! So then, let her name be Mother Earth and let her warm your heart with all Enchantments. Let her dance across our whitecaps and seas with all elegance and pleasure and allow her to curl her energies through your hair and fingers as she pushes you forward into the steps of your future. And notice her... for that is less than what she deserves, but a step in the right direction for those of us who have neglected her for so long. Bear her name and carry her work out among you, preserving her beauty and sharing it with others! A world beyond my own is much closer than I think. It is your world and his world and all our perceptions and walks of life. So let us share in it together and relish in the true magnificence of it as one.
Every now and then I get into this fantasy phase where my imagination floods and overwhelms. I'm swollen in mystery as I meander through the forest, the sun glimmering beyond the trunks of the beech trees and onto my freckled face. It's always the same dream. I wander and wander, a soft melody of the rush of winds and crackles of twigs beneath my feet, coax me to continue further. What lies beyond, I need to know. I walk a while; twists and turns lead me onward. My pace grows faster as my desire to reach the end becomes stronger. Shapes of animals race me to the finish line. Blurs of brown speed past me, as I cobble along the creek bank, my foothold on each stone a pure step of faith. I have little knowledge about the path I tread, but I know I must keep going. And it is all but in an instant, when all becomes white. The light beyond becomes the light before me and in such a wonderful display, I startle and fall back into the cool of the leaves resting on the forest floor. Moments that span beyond my recollection pass, as I awaken. The towering trees stand before me, reaching high into the sky. I can feel their energies from way down here. They dance a little. I breathe in their strong scent. Spring is in bloom. I sit up slowly. My head aches a little and my back twinges. I must have fallen hard. But to what I owe the pleasure, I don't quite realize, yet all at once I am surrounded by curiosity. Their little faces scrunched up, elder in appearance, yet incredibly tiny in stature. They peer behind rocks and trees, shrubs and leaves. They are everywhere. Too shy to come forward, yet bold enough to stay. Suddenly, none of which I see, I realize is familiar. The sky is glistening in diamonds while the ground around me-- once a cool layer of leaves atop a muddy bed, now provides a blanket of mossy green. I am overwhelmed by this serenity. Such marvels are too great to behold. Yet here I am in the middle of it. And I awake once more. Never to reach the next chapter. Is there more written? I plead with the Master of my dreams to continue his story that I might behold it in his finished, glorious form. What a gift it would be to stand in that enchanting forest, greatly attempting to persuade the little creatures to come out of hiding and sit a spell for a chat. I'd hope they'd take me back to their village or hut where they live together and be invited in for tea and biscuits with honey and jam. Or maybe, they'd introduce me to their friends of various kinds all across the woodland. That deep down, they would know I was not a threat and there I would reside with them. Day after day I would learn the ways of the Mystique and night after night, I would sleep beneath the stars that set forth their pride in the sky that weaved between deep blues and purples. The constellations I'd study and the tides, though hard to recognize, I'd come to know in time. In moments of rest, I'd connect to the earth in the mossy green and let it worm its energies through my spirit; establishing an everlasting connection with this state of pure contentment. But alas, I awake, more aware than ever. I slither back down into the blankets to catch another scene of the best of my dreams, but to no avail does anything ever come from it. So I muddle through my day in search of anything so enchanting. Even fruit flies seem to take on a new persona. Dainty fairies in their infant form, clumsy little flyers aching for approval, they float to and fro across my line of vision, I try my best not to swat at them-- though I do believe they wholeheartedly deserve it for such an interruption. I cling to my library in times like these, books of enchantment that seem to hold me together. I'd just about shatter to pieces and die in sorrow if not for these written reminders of imagination, speculation, observation with all a twist of magic sputtered in. I go to these when I become lonely, saddened by the heavy world around me. There is so much to hide from in the weather of this world, but so much to cling to when essential. And it is from these works that my imagination is renewed and I drift back to sleep in the great slumber of the Mystique.