A little aroma to start your day. And remember, don’t color within the lines. Stay out of the box! 🙂
All these old journal kernels (entries) are raw, unedited and scanned into this blog.
RAW Journel Kernels – For You!
6
Category Archives: Uncategorized
Four Quills of a Tale- as scribed by Elias Kent (Entry 5)
(Four Quills of a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)
My hand cramps and I must stop. Not from fatigue, but sadness. How can a great storyteller lose her voice, her color, her light, her purpose in life? Because I, like the rest of you, are fools. Although we would like to believe otherwise, she is not immortal.
The goose-feathered quill quivers on my desk and pleads for me to continue. I pick it up and point the nib to the fine parchment and allow it to take control.
I had been walking both old and new countryside for so many years that, whenever I chanced upon a pond’s reflection, I scarcely recognized myself. The lines in my face became more abundant. My once beautiful auburn hair was laced with coarse gray. Even my thoughts became barren as if poured out of a once beautiful and ornate decanter.
And, my sweet Goose. Her feathers were also withering as if in sorrowful response to my countenance. Or, perhaps, I withered in response to her feather’s atrophy. Who is to say? And which answer matters?
Remorsefully, feeling I had little if nothing left to give, I finished a brief story then left the crowd of villagers awaiting more.
I am unsure as to whether Goose followed me, or I her. But my heart says it was the later. We continued to wander and the further we traveled, the more my footsteps played a sorrowful tune. Needing rest, I discovered a large rock to serve as my pillow. I laid my weary body and soul on the crisp, dying grass and watched as Goose pecked around for silverweed and clover roots before she settled beside me.
Hours, perhaps day later, I awakened to find the empty space beside me where Goose had last been.
Four Quills of a Tale (as scribed by Elias Kent) – Entry 4
(Four Quills of a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)
I stroke the feathered quills between my calloused fingers with care, unsure what to expect. Katrina the Great Storyteller has been my shining star atop the tallest pyramid and, if the old woman is correct, Katrina will soon be revealed. But what if my grandiose impression of her becomes one of disillusionment? As a General orders the march forward, my duty calls. I inhale a breath of courage and place the first goose feather quill between my fingers. I insert the quill into the ink.
What is this? The quill refuses the ebony ink, repelling it like water on a duck. My hand trembles, but calms when the nib forces my press upon the parchment.
It is because of Goose, my muse, that this is, my final story, will be written and subsequently told. I trust that you, Mr. Kent, will not become tiresome or burdened with this charge, but instead, ultimately enlightened and fulfilled.
I drop the quill. Yes, I am scribing. But these thoughts, these words, this handwriting, is not my own!
The quill rolls decisively toward my trembling hand. I have no recourse but to, again, place the first goose-feathered quill between my fingers.
I never abandoned you, my listening friends. Not with intention. I once was a soul of brilliant color. Sometimes, my hues of imagination were bountiful and my flowers bloomed from gardens sweet. I tilled the soil, deep in exploration of dreams, and stirred fertile ideas in the rich black earth.
Once discovered, I took the gems to flowing rivers, cleaned them, and analyzed them with curious and appreciate eyes. Oh, how I loved those times—when Goose and I traveled the countryside sharing tales of imagination with you! Even now, I smile remembering how Goose fluffed her tail feathers with bravado when amongst the listeners.
And then the colors of my imagination began to fade. Weeds in my gardens multiplied like diseased cells. I yanked and pulled, discarding the bad, hoping the good would conquer. Sometimes, the scarce treasures bled around my hand and trembled with frustration like a blank canvas waiting for paint. Particles of uncertainty coursed through my veins. I tried to find the voice within my stories and the stories within my voice. But they had vanished, as if stolen by thieves in the darkest of night.
What could I offer if not my stories?
to be continued ….
Why am I sad?
Because I fed her and the rest of her eager mates in water world every morning?
Because I was excited when Alex the Fish Man said yesterday she was bloated and may be ready to have babies?
Alex the Fish Man is on speed dial. I told him she was laying on her side, panting as she stared at me. He said she could have been bloated because of a something-something disease. The companions continued to swim by her, nudging her. “Get up. Get up!,” they said.
I turned up the oxygen level as told. Her panting slowed but she did not get up.
The others stared at me like saying, “aren’t you going to do anything?”
A brief visit to my computer, I went back to check. No movement. Nothing. Gone.
All I could do was say, “I’m sorry.” And to the others, I said the same.
Life.
As I often say, during the good or the bad, “There goes that Universe again.”
She was still alive in this photo. Posting her dead would have been callous.
Meryl Streep’s Speech Tonight at the 74th Golden Globe Awards
Check out Rob’s blog/website. Beautiful photos, words and help for mental illness.
Meet and Greet: 1/7/17
Thanks, Danny. I’ve been bad about not doing this so here I am. When I’m not on the computer keyboard, I throw the ball for my mini Aussie, fitness box, sneer at at certain politicians, play with Grand-Babies …. Two published novels and one on the way. I suffer from ASS (Author Sleepless Syndrome) especially when I am percolating an idea. You may find me at http://carolyndenniswillingham.com because I’m usually there.🙂
Four Quills of a Tale – as scribed by Elias Kent (entry 1)
If my newfound knowledge was an honorable truth, these four newly acquired quills upon my desk will finish the tale. Then you, and I, will finally discover the truth of what happened to this beloved woman.
I must inform you that I do not consider myself an author. I am a historian. Tis’ the reason I took it upon myself to discover how and why she disappeared and left the countryside in such deep despair that they deemed it “The Reign of Drought.”
Hence, I traveled this side of the globe gathering bits and pieces of her existence from contacts with perfect but willing strangers.
If the old woman in the cottage was correct, that she was indeed the last to see Katrina the Great Storyteller, then, according to her, these four newly acquired quills she gifted me will guide my weary hand without waver or indifference to me.
Yet, they remain untouched on my desk.
Yes, I stall to pick up the first of the four. I have traveled too far and if disappointment awaits …
I allow my mind to stray from the quills. I think of the nameless old woman with the silver hair who rocked to and fro in her chair, her thin hands folded on her petite lap, the oil lamp dimly lit in the corner of her one room cottage.
“Please ma’am,” I had said. “I have traveled many paths for an answer and carried with me many questions. Your path is my last. Will you unburden me?”
She peeled her eyes away from her lap and looked at me for the first time. “My dear Mr. Kent,” she said in a whisper of age yet one as clear as a robin’s song. “There is never a last path, nor a last road. Only a last breath.”
And then, she gave me the box.
A book launched Texas style…
Aside
Since I have “friends” now, I’m reblogging this post from 2011. It was a special day for me, indeed.
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham
No Hill for a Stepper was launched Texas style with James “Slim” Hand as our special musical guest. Singing the songs of Cono’s era that would have made Bob Wills and Gene Autry proud, the music was the perfect foreground for our hill country setting. What an evening! The word for the evening was “surreal” as I saw the efforts of the last 3 1/2 years come to the end of just a beginning. I cannot begin to thank all of the attendees who supported me although I certainly tried! Plus they donated sacks of coins that I will give to the winners of the students in Bell County for the “No Hill for a Stepper” essay contest. Payin’ it forward as they say.
To the crowd of over seventy…
View original post 303 more words
Online theft
This blog helped me. Maybe it will you, as well. 🙂
When we make an impact but don’t know it
I’ve been Tempted to share something with you but I didn’t want to come across as egocentric. Maybe the word prompt was a sign to follow through. Besides, each of us during our lifetime will experience a moment (hopefully more than one) that will puff us up and make us feel good about something we did – even if we didn’t know the impact we had at the time.
You may or may not know that I am retired Early Childhood Specialist.
So in awe of what occurred on September 17, 1999, I asked if I could keep her notes. Here they are, framed, with my explanation typed at the bottom: PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU CAN’T READ IT!
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 