Ghosts of Faces

ghosts of faces are passing by
past they fly
could they be your friends, or mine?
or I theirs? - it's fine
for on streets or trails there's no goodbyes
for passersby living their own lives
rarely intersecting lines

and what of friends in different places
gone ten million paces
witness distant times
sharing but a moon and stars
of the sky's -
not ours
mountains here, desert there
forests and valleys
or dunes and seas

our times may meet but never, or twice
And your eyes say,
I love
I fly
my spirit's a dove
you'll never watch scrape the sky
nor the tears,
it cries,
of the endless phantoms you never meet
never treat for cups of tea
or campfire retreats
where rivers run besides
and their stories, well
you can never tell
they might have changed your life
might have loved, too
if only you, they, had chanced to say
who are you?

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We celebrated my mother's birthday today. Surprisingly, the weather held. Here's to hoping it lasts a couple more days, so I might hike along the ridge or up a mountain on Wednesday. It does not look promising. We drove to the beach and went to a restaurant that mother dearly loves, and we all glanced out the windows over the ocean and into the water as the ducks paddled by, the jellyfish bounced their way through the waters, the seaweed drifted in its soggy swirls, and kayaks drifted by in the amiable waters. The sun gleamed off the waters and the windows of passing boats, fishing, drifting or sailing in the brine with sea breeze gently pushing at the waters.
Matthew is going to Korea, tomorrow, which is my last outside-the-house friend in Washington that I'm aware of (currently in the area discounting his family and my family - sorry if I forgot you). It will be quiet, perhaps, though I've long needed a little quiet. And how quiet is it really when the word games get crazy? When the card games with the family get joyful? Not. So. Silent.
Or when the coyotes howl with the distant neighbors huskies or when the wind races through the valley, stirring all the trees into frenzied whispers and wooden groans. It is a good sort of silence, and loudness. A restful set. Maybe I'll finish a few more books this week, too. Time for some creativity, time for some art, time for story magic and myth.

Cinderella

I've always loved fairy tales and fables. Stories where the clever rabbit fools the vexed fox; or where the jack tricks the giant and scampers away with the golden hen; or stories when a simple maiden is blessed by her fairy godmother and allowed to attend a ball and dance with the prince.  Something has always endeared me to underdog stories. I think that I've always cherished these characters as akin to myself. Many of my favorite, nostalgic, childhood reads contain characters that exhibit depths of courage and heroism despite inhibitions, whether social, physical, or temporal. Ender (only because he was the third child - otherwise, he was quite gifted); Taran Wanderer, the pig-keeper hero; Cinderella, a maid stuck cleaning while her sisters attended the ball; the cobbler in the Thief and the Cobbler (possibly my favorite childhood movie); Benny in the Boxcar Children (only because he was youngest and had a splendid name and broken cup).

There is a yearning in my heart for a hero who, facing impossible adversity, rises to the challenge in faith and courage, and triumphs. Cinderella comes from nowhere and captures the eyes of a prince. She's poor, but she has a beautiful heart, and great courage. One of my favorite Miyazaki movies (and movies in general) is Spirited Away where a little girl's parents are transformed into pigs, and she braves a strange, spirit world full of kami and oddities in order to restore them. It is when the hero surpasses the mentality of weakness before overcoming what before seemed impossible - I love these stories.

The other thing I always liked about fables and fairy tales was their allegorical nature. Stories like Narnia, various mythologies, The Remarkable Journey of Prince Jen - stories where the characters are more than just pictures and facades, but archetypal exemplars of humanity. Even exquisitely crafted stories like East of Eden or Lord of the Rings contain pieces wherein characters transcend into substantive symbols. These stories, too, I love. It is why I shall always enjoy the Silmarillion and Gaiman's varied mythologies.

I think in my heart there is another reason I like these stories so much. I always felt like I empathized with the characters in broken circumstances whose mountains seemed without summit, trials without end. Everything I gained, I always felt like I had to fight for, nail and tooth, until beaten and wearied. Nothing came easily unless I struggled and fought my way through things in a blind scramble. Sure, I learned to read quickly, write passing fair, compete, win. But all I really ever wanted was to win my very own Cinderella story and, overcoming impossible obstacles in faith and fight, have a chance to go to the ball (or defeat that Horned King. What a monster!). In the end, I think I have, multiple times, but instead of living happily ever after, I crave my next encounter with impossible adversity, for what can surpass God's power? The wanderlust of adventure is upon me.