flax-golden

a year of you

This year required a lot of bottles. I’m not sure how many, I didn’t count. More than last year, but I didn’t know you last year, which still seems strange.

I needed a very large one for tears cried. More than most years, but the whispered adorations bottle is almost as substantial, and I’ve never needed a whole bottle for unexpected moments of bliss before. It balances, I think.

It was a multitude of bottles sort of year, varied in shape and size and contents.

Now they’re all sealed and catalogued, ready to be stored on their shelf.

I have plenty of empty ones for whatever next year will bring.

I wonder how many of them you’ll be in.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

holiday cheer of the reluctant variety

I despise the holidays, consumerism and plastered-on merriment wrapped in festive ribbons and shoved down my throat before I’ve even taken my Hallowe’en costume off.

Every day a sale and fighting to find the best deals and the biggest tree and Santa Claus on soda cans, though I suppose that one is proper historical tradition by now and not just seasonal marketing.

Still, once it gets down to the dark days of December, there’s that something in the chill air. Something quiet during the longest nights of the year.

With twinkling lights on strings.

And eggnog lattes.

Hot chocolate and candy canes and that horribly intoxicating evergreen tree scent that’s practically mind-altering and the damned Vince Guaraldi Trio and their perfect Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack.

And a well-timed snowfall.

It makes it difficult to Bah Humbug.

Dammit.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

beautiful uncertainties

“Why do you do that?” he asks me, while I’m rinsing off my brushes.

“Why do I do what?”

“Why do you write things you don’t believe on the tables?”

“I believe some of them,” I say after a moment, watching the blue and red paint-tinged water circle the drain in almost-purple swirls.

“You don’t believe that one,” he says, balancing a tray full of empty teacups on one hand so he can point at the still-damp letters.

find the beauty and adventure in uncertainty and you will be free

“I’d like to.” I can’t look him in the eye so I focus on my paintbrushes instead before adding “Maybe someone will read it and think whoever wrote it must have believed it and that will help them believe it, too.”

“I wish you’d just believe it yourself,” he says.

When I look up he’s already taken his teacups and walked away.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

the way home

I am tiring of paths that lead to walls.

I know each wall will have a door, but they’re difficult to find and even more difficult to open, and it takes up so much time.

They’re roadblocks. Pathblocks, since there are no proper roads.

Sometimes it feels like I’m looking for a place that doesn’t exist.

Or if it does, it doesn’t want to be found.

At least, not yet.

I wonder how long I should keep going.

I wonder if I have a choice.

I wonder if I’ll recognize it when I get there.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

to help you see the whole truth

I didn’t really question my mental state until giant owls started talking to me.

Well, a giant owl.

One is probably enough for sanity-doubting.

Though I wasn’t even all that surprised when he showed up.

I thought “oh, it’s come to this” and that was that.

And really, it’s nice to have the company.

I keep wondering what it means, why he’s here. If I’ve finally lost it or it’s some sort of divine sign or a combination of the two.

He sits on my couch and drinks all my beer and tells me things I already know.

Which is its own kind of wisdom, I suppose.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

up to interpretation

She doesn’t call them tests, but that’s what they are. She tests me all the time, pulling single cards out at unexpected moments and holding them out to me, impatiently waiting for my interpretations, making me think on my feet without giving me time to consult dictionaries full of meanings.

It seems like one card at a time should be easier than complex layouts, but it’s hard for me to be concise. To pull out words and distill a symbolic image into coherent sentences. I was never all that good at coherent sentences.

Today the card that appears suddenly in front of me is The Lovers, and my heart feels heavy before my head can come up with a proper response.

It’s not about love, I say when I manage to untie my tongue. It’s about choices.

Good, she says as she puts the card back in the deck, a soft, sad smile tugging at her lips. Though if it is about love, there are no choices.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.