Once there was a little girl with eyes that see deeply. She could see more, more and different things than other people see. She could see at the cellular level. She could see how people were feeling and what they were thinking. She could see their thoughts in just a word; see what they would do by standing near them. Being just a little girl she didn’t know that others couldn’t do this. She knew only that it was a way to help people.She often helped people.
When she saw someone was hurting, she found little ways to soothe him. When she noticed darkness in an action, she found a way to shine some light. If someone offered her a token, she was sure to keep it faithfully. If hurtful things were done to her, she was first and always forgiving. When a friend was confused or self-deceiving, she’d gently show how things were not as they might seem.
These were gifts she gave.
Yet when her eyes got large with fear or pain, no one returned these favors. She wondered why they gave no comfort when she had held them with their needs. She did not know that she had a gift.
Why would a child think she had special powers?
She did not know, could not conceive, that others could not see the way she could see. Children believe what they believe. She believed they chose not to see her. A sadness moved into her eyes.
The little girl had to fix things. She’d prove she was worth caring about, by caring even more. She used her sight to slay dragons that tormented people and to describe the demons that stood in their way. She was sure they would thank her, but instead they turned in rage. They began tearing at the fabric of her person.
She was injured by the kindness of her own intent. She went to live alone for her own kind of ever after.
The girl grew into womanhood and made a home—a cabin with a bell. The cabin was worn with wisdom and filled with details of her heart—books, paper, pens and pencils, canvases, paints and brushes. Works of art and wildflowers dressed up every wall and table.
Children came to visit often. They loved to hear her stories, but their parents kept their distance. They feared the grown-up girl who could see too much about them. She was saddened by their fear, but she accepted that they had it.
She now preferred the company of the old pine forest.
Over time the girl met a few who saw as deeply as she did. They lived in cabins scattered in small meadows through the forest and the hills. She got them all to gather, to talk and share their stories. But the scatterlings could not stay long. They could not bear the time together. Each struck a chord in the others that played out their defining difference. Finally being seen was now too much and way too late. They were soon itching with intensity to be alone again. And so they all returned to their private cabins with the books and art and flowers.
The people in the villages called them scatterlings and seers.
The people in the cabins called themselves writers and artists.
—me strauss Letting me be
26 comments:
Interesting point. It's kind of like an allegory but you leave it up to the individual reader to decide for himself what the meaning is.
Hi Mojo,
Is that what I was doing? I think this is one that if that is what I was doing I'm not supposed to say so. : )I think what I was saying is that writers and artists see differently, at least some do and they often feel distanced by it.
smiles,
Liz
I read this and wanted to say "me, its me!" I hope that glow goes through everyone who reads it.
Theres a whole other book in whether the individual writers and artists developed their crafts in order to describe understanding, or to be understood.
Thank you Cheryl,
I was opening that someone might see himself or herself in this piece besides me. Someone else did and wrote me an email, and now you. So I guess it does what I had hoped.
Thank you for your idea. I think on it. What would yours be?
smiles,
Liz
We see the world in a different way huh :)
You know I always wondered why it was so easy for me to be by myself. I'm quite comfortable in my own little world.
I like your stories Liz. You have a memorable way of making points, or making me see different sides of a story :)
Hello Jennifer,
Good morning and congratulations on sending off your stuff to publishers. Now could you finish mine? :)
Thank you for what you say about my stories. I was just think "oh they're not going to like this one. It's not upbeat and funny." Guess I was wrong."
I'm glad you see yourself in this story. I wanted people to identify with the girl.
smiles,
Liz
Thank you :) It's exciting (but I hate waiting--I think that's the case for everyone)
LOL I'm not quite sure where I could squeeze it into my schedule :) If I find an opening I'll reserve it for you :D
Very interesting illustration of peculiarities.
Whatever we are called does not matter. What we do is all that matters.
Hello Orikinia,
Thank you for stopping by.
It's true it doesn't matter what we are called. I have many names myself. It's who we are and what we do with that that matters.
Your point is well taken.
smiles,
Liz
Liz, beautiful, just beautiful.
Thank you Tree,
Thank you.
Liz:
An allegory of the blog, and of bloggers who post and share. I like how you invite the reader in to sit for a spell and listen. The image of the bell and the inside of the cabin gives the feeling of being wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold morning. I think you may have described my behavior very well. Although I'm not sure in what ways I may see diffently from an artist, I do think of craft. As I spend time in my own little cabin here, I shape my words in thought and form alike and once I have finished, I post to my blog. After I've posted, I go about visiting my friends to see what they've been up to. I think it's good way to be.
Scot
Scot,
I can't tell you how perfect your timing is. Your words are like a warm blanket to me. Thank you for the support you give. It's meaningful. It really is.
Liz
Sometimes they go temporarily deaf, and can't hear the clear, wise bell, and they wander off exploring as they've always done before. Sometimes they need to, to remember who they are.
Sometimes their stories are about lands too distant for the bellkeeper's ears. Sometimes they wonder if the bellkeeper is real, for she never seems to sleep. Sometimes they also wonder if they deserve her attention, unable to give so much in return.
But they miss the sweet melody of the bell keeper's voice. They miss the connections they knew they once had. They hope the bell's ringing will never stop, for its bright music is healing when their hearts have gone dull.
Garnet,
There is no land so distant that the bellkeeper cannot hear, because she can see sounds and colors everywhere and she wears her heart and yours on her sleeve--side-by-side hearts for they are friends not to be parted.
Liz
And Garnet walks in step with her heart's rhythms as he journeys into strange lands to find lost parts of himself.
But there's nothing missing, he's just not playing music so he's not hearing all of the parts come together.
oops, logged in wearing a suit from a far land.
and how handsome you look in that color.
The music is there, but it's jumbled, like two bands playing together.
So still yourself and let them find their harmony. You know that harmony only comes when you let it. It's passive resistent list I am you know.
Good night, sweet bell. I'll lay still as I listen to all with quiet strength.
You listen for a soft ringing sound in the night. That will be my heart singing to yours.
I like this one. Nice alegory, and gentle story as well. Sometimes I feel like I'm off in my mental cabin in the woods...where nobody understands, and nobody wants to see me. But I like it there...that's where I can be me without having to cover it up..
I am 25 with an 8 year olds heart. Most of what I read here, I connect immediately with your words. From time to time I'll read something that causes one hell of a flutter inside. Like flowing right over the tip of a coaster about to plummet... Excitement, I think what you might call "cellular excitement" :)
I don't really know why, nor do I really care why. I know that your words have a soul of their own once you've released them. They're yours always but the things they will do and the hearts they will touch have a life of their own.
I never had to ask if you believed, never. I know I was meant to find this place, your words.
I was that girl for a short time, it was lack of acceptance from others that started the change. I never understood but desperately wanted to be accepted. I'd like to reclaim her, she was a nicer person than I.
Katrina
(sry for the long comment)
If you'd like to reclaim her, then she is yours. She's been waiting for you.
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