BOHEMIAN

On a now frigid autumn evening in Prague, I spent the afternoon wandering the nearby hillsides, collecting inspiration for dances yet written. Mountainous clouds floated against the azure sky, the sun bright as an August moon illuminating every star in the midnight sky, vibrating off Saturn's rings for our eyes to behold. Songbirds chirped merrily, caterpillars feasting on fallen leaves. I wrapped myself in my self-knitted shawl, awestruck by the beauty before me, losing track of time, yet not a care in my quaint world.

My life has stood still since losing my beloved, Griffin. Our wedding day remains embedded in my dismantled heart as the most precious day of my life. We dreamed of having children to fill our home with warmth and love beyond anything we could have imagined. We were excited, to say the least, but knew best to hold off until the bloodstained Franco-Prussian battlefields had healed. However, my poor Griffin never returned home from the 9-month war, as once believed. Our children unborn, and our home never filled with warmth and laughter.

My life stands empty and alone. Sometimes, it is all I can do to step foot on the magnificent Bohemian hills surrounding me in the unrecognized territory. My cottage is the only thing that shelters me; otherwise, I would die in the bristling evenings our winters deliver. And often, I still plead that I would— die. I have found solace, however, in penning memories of what might have been. It is my only means of survival, seen only through my eyes alone. So, I dream within nature to dance with my darling husband again.

As I finish the evening sipping my tea, perched on my wooden bench before a crackling fire, my gaze drifts over my shoulder to the stranger fast asleep between the front door and the kitchen. It is unimaginable that I've allowed him to sleep within my confines. He was a stranger, yet I could sense his harmlessness. It was unlike me, but something about him compelled me.

Our backs facing each other, I hear his deep, nasally heavy breath. I can still see the exhaustion under his heavy eyelids when he approached my door. He couldn't even mutter a word before I stepped back, inviting him inside. He thanked me repeatedly in a foreign language, but our universal language of compassion was clear. I offered him a bowl of stew, in which he devoured two. I didn't mind, knowing he needed it more than I. I stoked the fire roaring and laid a blanket and pillow on the cot. Before I could finish with the dishes, he was fast asleep. I try to stay silent, allowing him to rest as long as he needs. Yet my eyes can't help but watch him breathe, my mind pondering his circumstances.

He is a young man, broad-shouldered but gaunt, his face aged beyond his years. He wears tattered and filthy Turkish fatigues, their once-bright colors now dull and insignificant. I am confident he is a soldier gone AWOL, perhaps through no fault of his own, hoping to make his way back to the life he once knew.

Gazing at the fire, I wonder if the soldier has a family. Is his wife waiting for his return, anticipating their hopes and dreams with the same excitement I once knew? This thought cruelly twisted my broken heart, for I wish Griffin had returned to the home that awaited him. Still, I feel sorry for the soldier.

Glancing over my shoulder again, I briefly envision Griffin sleeping soundly in my arms, safely pressed against the melody of my heart. Why couldn't this soldier be my husband? Why am I left caring for a stray who belongs to another? Why has he stumbled into my world, and why does he get to return to his? Questions I cannot fathom to ask, yet here he is, unanswered. But somehow, this stranger has made me feel less alone, giving me purpose I have never known, no matter how fleeting it may be.

Gathering a few canned goods and a jar of drinking water from the well, I placed them beside his bed, instinctively knowing he would be gone by dawn. Standing over him, I anticipated my Griffin again before I drew the blanket over his shoulder and bid my dear soldier a silent farewell.

It has been a mere seven years since I looked into the eyes of my darling, yet it feels far longer than any faint heart should endure. Morning has come, and I search for footprints wafting opposite my doorstep. My imagination takes me over the hillside and through a distant wooded path carpeted in frost-covered fallen leaves, leading further than I have ever ventured. In my heart, I know the soldier will find his way home.

P.S. Past life regression.

CENTER PEACE

One of my favorite parks in the city is in my old neighborhood. It's filled with old trees and a nearby music hall. Sometimes, people will play music under the trees. When I lived nearby, I would go there almost daily with my puppy, Holiday. We would wander among the trees as the seasons changed. When my heart was heavy, I would lean against a tree trunk and simply be with my feelings, listening to the singing bowl of distant musicians.

Holiday and I recently went to the park on a sunny autumn day after a week of stormy weather. We had not visited in a while, but I knew there would be lots of branches on the ground—fir, pine, cedar, and bay leaf. I wanted to get some of those branches for a table decoration that I make yearly in preparation for the solstice. It is a family tradition.

When I was much younger, my grandmother and I would go for a walk in the forest and collect fir branches at this time of year. We used the branches for covering frost-sensitive plants in the garden, winterizing, and decorating graves of our ancestors, and for home holiday centerpieces. We didn't have a ritual of asking for permission or giving thanks as we collected the branches off the forest floor, but we always took only what we needed.

Through daily meditation and affirmations, I am learning about reciprocity and communicating with the land and my non-human neighbors, such as caterpillars and dragonflies. For me, these experiences are part of reclaiming my humanity and healing the harm that society inflicts on us. I believe my grandmother would have found this just as harmonious as I do.

So, this time when I went to my old neighborhood park, I first walked around and greeted all the trees and plants I hadn't visited in a while to see how they were doing. It felt refreshing to be among nature, breathing its renown air after the storms. Then I sat down on a bench, grounded myself, and told the park why I had come and asked permission to take some fallen branches.

Suddenly, a little squirrel appeared out of nowhere. It watched Holiday and I curiously for a minute or two. Our eyes brightened as it began tittering around old tree trunks, galloped up a few large trees, and shook some brown and gold leaves to the ground. We giddily followed the little chap as it hopped to and fro. As we did, I found a nice-looking fir branch on the ground. I left some dried alfalfa I had grown the year prior in my garden as an offering to the tree.

In this way, we continued to move through the park, following the squirrel, sprinkling alfalfa, picking up trash and forgotten dog poop, and collecting fallen tree branches. I noticed that the most beautiful branches were often next to some garbage that needed picking up. I didn't mind. I sometimes had the urge to take more than one branch at a time, but I had to remind myself that I was here only to take what was freely given and only as much as I truly needed.

Finally, we reached the most beautiful holly tree. Its red berries gleamed in the sunlight, and I imagined how lovely a decoration it would make. But as I drew closer, I realized there were no branches with berries on the ground. I thought about asking the tree if I could cut a small branch, but I decided it was best to leave it alone.

Just then, the playful squirrel chirped and hopped around the other side of the tree trunk. We followed along, humming in rhythm to its song. As if guided by the squirrel, I found a single, perfect little holly branch with berries lying among the leaves under the tree. It was just the one I had been hoping to find! I squealed and smiled at the friendly squirrel and knelt to scruff Holiday’s furry chin.

Today, I used the small branches from the park to decorate my centerpiece. I collected precisely the amount I needed to cover the plate, and I was very happy with the result. To me, it was the most beautiful and perfect winter decoration I had ever made. Holiday seemed to agree, as he lay at my feet under the table, his fur flickering softly in the candlelight.

I am deeply grateful for my daily meditations, which guide me to move through this vast and wondrous world with greater awareness of myself, my responsibilities, and my interconnectedness with everything. I pass along gratitude to my grandmother for instilling this family tradition in me, and I also give thanks to my wild squirrel friend that I now call Chirp.

P.S. Giving special thanks and dedication to Dr. Conny.

REMANENCE

As the sultry summer breeze swirled around the house, a figure emerged from the shadows, his eyes burning with an intensity piercing the fog of his intoxication. With each step, his unsteady gait threatened to send him tumbling to the floor, yet he pressed on, his destination shrouded in a haze of drunken oblivion.

I hurried down the hall to my bedroom before he caught wind. The heavy thud of his footsteps echoed through the hallway, growing louder with each passing second. As the sound neared my door, I instinctively pulled the covers over my head, feigning slumber. The figure lurched into my room, his grunts reverberating through the air. He leaned heavily against the doorframe, his weight threatening to collapse it. A jumble of incoherent words spilled from his lips, a language neither I nor he could decipher. The stench of stale alcohol and burnt cigarettes wafted from his mouth, filling my room with an acrid aroma. I remained motionless, my heart pounding, praying for him to walk away. But he continued his one-sided conversation, oblivious to my presence or lack thereof. With a final grunt, he turned and stumbled away, his footsteps echoing like bowling balls rolling down a hardwood floor.

The sound of his door slamming shut finally signaled his retreat, and I sighed in relief. The room was again filled with silence; the only trace of his visit lingered in the air, a pungent reminder of his drunken stupor.

Suddenly, tears streamed down my face, unheeded and unrestrained. I let them flow freely, a torrent of grief and longing. It was a suffocating sensation. "Oh, how I wish Mommy was here," I gasped from my throat. Nights like this had become all too familiar since she left us. Daddy was a shell of his former self, a stranger I barely recognized. I knew he loved me, but the day Mom passed into Heaven, a wall slammed shut within him, locking away his emotions. Sometimes, I could feel her presence, a gentle whisper of her love, but it was no substitute for her physical presence, her glimmering eyes, her laughter, or even her bark. It was barely enough to keep me afloat from this loneliness.

Without her, I felt adrift in a sea of loneliness, lost in a world where I no longer belonged. School days were spent in a haze of daydreams, my mind drifting outside the classroom windows, yearning for comfort. The walk home stretched out endlessly, mirroring the oppressive summer heat.

The silence is deafening as I tiptoe through the empty house like a ghost in a haunting. I long for my mom's fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies; I could swear I smelled them sometimes, but instead, the phantom scent lingered, a bittersweet echo of her absence, while a shattered portrait hung as a stark reminder of our fractured family. Piercing through the discontinuous fragments, her gaze seemed to echo the despair that had consumed Daddy, leaving me adrift as the sun dipped below the horizon.

I lay on the couch, now a relic of our once-vibrant family room. My eyes trace the patterns on the ceiling, transforming them into pictures, conjuring fragments of the life we once shared. A wave of gratitude washes over me for the beauty I had taken for granted, a beauty that slipped away like water between my fingers.

As the last rays of sunlight faded from view, casting long shadows that danced across the ceiling, I caught a fleeting glimpse of my mother's silhouette, her warm smile seemingly imprinted into the intricate patterns. Her ethereal presence lulled me into a peaceful slumber as I drifted into a dream world where I saw my father and I exist in a life brimming with hope and promise. It was as if she was still alive, her spirit woven into the fabric of our shared existence, embracing the life she passionately desired for us.

Suddenly, the front door swung open, jarring me awake, heralding my father's return. It seemed like days had passed since he last walked through that threshold, his absence stretching into an interminable eternity. The night, a canvas of inky darkness, draped itself over his weary figure, casting long shadows that mirrored the turmoil within his soul.

I quickly jumped to my feet and stood tall, my petite frame radiating an unwavering strength that belied my age. I did not hide beyond the doorframe of my room while my father leaned heavily against it. This time, I would be present in his view and be his pillar of support.

With a delicate touch, I steadied him, my small hands seeking a firm grip on his frail arms. The warmth of his skin, once a source of solace and security, now felt rough and weathered, etched with the lines of hardship and despair. Yet, beneath the surface of his worn exterior, I could still discern the embers of the man I once knew – the man who had once held me close, his voice a soothing balm against life's storms.

Though now he rasped angrily in misplaced defiance, urging me to release his arm, insisting he was fine and needed no assistance. His words tumbled out like coarse gravel, but I knew otherwise. With every step, I felt his weight gradually lessen, his resolve slowly returning. The night, once a symbol of his desolation, now seemed to recede by a glimmer of belonging, or at least I had hoped. As tears began to leak from both of us, a weight was starting to lift. We wept together, our tears mingling in a torrent of shared grief, love, and forgiveness. Neither of us could speak, but our togetherness was worth a thousand and one words in this very moment of the here and now. The night's promise faded like a mirage as I awoke to find him gone, leaving me alone to face yet another long day ahead not knowing when or even if he’ll return.

P.S. Life is not measured by time, but by moments.