Living in real life is a bit arduous at times. I realize we humans are supposed to feel equipped to deal with the deck that everyday hands us. Specifically, it feels as if it’s just a guarantee second nature that women should claim a big swelling victory more often than not over the navigational propensity of L-I-F-E. That last sentence makes me tired just re-reading it.
I often wonder if that’s why we connect so well with stories. The art of fiction gives us freedom. It’s the place where we can fall short and feel better through the lives of characters. We don’t have to admit that bills aren’t always paid on time, that laundry piles consume our bedroom floors, or that all too often, we compare our insides with other people’s outsides. With a cup of steaming uncertainty, we pile onto the couch of us. With quiet reservations and booming doubts, we read and rest inside the pages created to feel normal for whispers of judgement or comparison can’t know the pages we inhabit.
If this feels like you, then I have a story I’d like to share. I’d love you to meet Magdellan. And read inside her life’s pages. Perhaps you know her. Perhaps you, too, have journeyed to the entangled forest. It is my hope that this Saturday’s Story will help you in whatever way that you need most. For we all so easily became twisted inside vines, ruddy and thick. May Madgellan’s journey encourage yours.
“Jumbled and weak, Magdellan poured through the forest in front of her. Behind her lay ruins of faintness and an ugly ambiguity. Past shapes compelled her steps forward, swift and uncertain and steady. My. How the leaves knew her. Her thoughts and sweaty palms were erratic and relentless. The trees seemed to absorb her unsung propensity and fears. Vines twisted. Vapors rattled and the fog encased her shapely presence hollow and disfigured with doubt.
She was lost. In herself. Beside herself. Wrapped dis-proportioned in the shadows and blanketed under-story of her skin. Branches snapped as she did her best to prod over her hopes, moreover, her skeletons made of bark. Coarse, their rippled reminders refrained her journey forward. Magdellan knew irritation and owned disgust as she attempted the trudging travel ahead.
The air seemed to beckon life. The glowy, enticing variety. One that pulses deep heartbeats and a prognosis of freedom from the uncertain, the unattempted even still.
Magdellan moved. Without a complete context for direction, nor a clear vision for the path ahead. Her entanglements proclaimed her. Possessing her with a devoutness like the dripping of water from a leaky faucet, rusty and abandoned.”
The entangled forest. We all have one. The vines are ruddy and thick as the path twists ahead and their are moments when lost and lonely is all we can claim. I think that’s why fiction says it best. Pages speak our hearts and we find peace there in the words that know us so very well.
So what’s your forest? How are you Magdellan? What’s entangling your journey? It’s my hope that her story can allow yours to find clarity. Your comments are most welcomed and appreciated as it takes courage to find your way. And, perhaps, removing the first vine from your path is just exactly what you need to do today.