Pearls and Presence, Chapter Three- Remnants

In the tallest room of the tallest tower are my precious idols. This is where I spend most of my time in worship. I fashioned these idols carefully so that they would be everything I ever wanted, and I wait for them to love me back. I pick them up and turn them over and over in my hands, trying to make them love me. I press them to my heart and kiss them and speak words of adoration. I serve them, I devote my time and energy to them, I sacrifice my life for them. But it is never enough, and I keep giving more and more and hoping for them to reply. But these idols are made of stone. They are perfect, beautiful, cold, and lifeless. They are also safe, because they cannot hurt me, they cannot walk away from me, they cannot reject or abandon me.  They are on a pedestal, and they are mine.

Who will love me?

~*~

Mara pushed the heavy cart away from the house, over several mounds of sandy, grassy earth to the well-worn stone path, rolling the squeaky, wooden wheels over the rocky path towards the beach.  She moved rather quickly, wanting to avoid the guilt which followed closely behind.  Mara turned back just once to see if Achor had left.

  He was still standing in the same spot looking after her, a satisfied look on his face. Several rejected flower petals were scattered on the ground at his feet, glowing bright white and abandoned against the dark soil. Achor stood there by her vineyard, watching her until she was out of sight. Then he turned and walked silently back to the shadows of the Valley.

Mara looked down at the broken, mangled roses. She felt conflicted. She realized she might not see him for several days now. When he retreated, that was always when her vigor for writing returned to her in full measure. But then, eventually, the absence of Achor would make her lonely and she would run out of things to write, and then like clockwork he would return to her side without a word, somehow already knowing that she was lonely and missed his influence.

Mara was loath to admit that when she sent him away it left a hole in her life. She had come to depend on his attentive presence. At times she was secretly glad for the way his criticism motivated her to attain perfection.

And now she couldn’t shake the haunting truth of the words Achor had said to her before Mara departed. “You mismanage the white roses and make so many mistakes with them.”

The shaming words followed her with every step she took. There was so much truth in his condemnation. Painful truth- the kind that goes unaddressed for many years through denial and avoidance.

That night when she got home, Mara was able to compose many powerful words in her journal, ones which told the story of past hurts and present hopes. Writing was the healing balm for the doubts that Achor had inflicted on her heart.

~*~

A few days later Mara was feeling especially motivated and got an early start towards the beach. It was then that she noticed that more seagulls were in the air than usual. 

She was going to her normal spot to search for breakfast, and brought along her cart in case she found any unusual treasures to carry home. She never knew what the ocean would leave behind on its shores- rare rocks, shells, or driftwood, pieces of lost treasures- delightful relics of ancient stories that she would never know...

…broken and fragmented remnants of the past that had been broken and refined by the intentional and consistent pressure of the rolling sea. 

Bits of worn-out stories that had been made new by a powerfully destructive love.

She pushed her cart across the stony road while avoiding precarious ruts and rocks on the path. On each side of the pathway stood tall seaside grasses which moved with even the slightest breeze.  The trail came close to the shores of the bay, and the familiar smell of seashells and driftwood reached her nose as she came closer to the beach.  A gap between the rolling hills allowed a wide view of the coastline. 

Mara looked out on the water, remembering again the floating object she had seen there several nights ago.  Had it been a whale, or was it indeed a boat?  She found herself slowing down to study the rolling motion of the water, searching for the unexpected.

          As the empty wooden cart bounced over the sandy road, she thought again of the wild and majestic man in white from her dream.  Though she knew it was an empty curiosity, she stared intently in all directions, walking slower to take everything in around her.  What she was looking for, she didn’t know for sure. 

          Forging ahead, she turned away from the tiny path and continued on her way down the hill through uncharted grasses.  As Mara approached the sand, she noticed a group of seagulls suddenly take flight into the air on the opposite side of the beach, squawking loudly in protest.  They flew up from their nesting area, which was blocked from her view by another grassy hill on her left.  The tall dry grass tickled her ankles as she strode down the hill. 

As she came closer to the water, a sudden gust of salty air blew her gold-spun brown hair off her shoulders. With brazen freedom her dress billowed out, molding to her legs in front and trying to take flight behind her.  She put her hand on her head to hold down her over-sized tan sunhat, which she always wore to keep the sun off her face, and pressed her other hand to her heart. Her eyes closed and she paused to honor the current of the air. 

She was a picture of regal repose.

          The ocean stretched out before her so far that she couldn't quite differentiate it from the sky where they kissed on the horizon.  A light mist hovered over the water, the ghost of clouds which had been there in the early morning, before being burned off by the heat of the morning sun.  Several feet below the bluff on which she stood lay the sandy beach, where the waves crashed freely against the shore, unrestrained and powerful.

She felt the familiar longing to dig her toes into the warm sand and just sit idly by, watching the endless ocean stretch out before her.  She wanted to lay there on the sand and simply enjoy her existence within the natural world. She wanted to stand with her hands lifted up to the sky and sing. She wanted to sit and meditate on the vastness of the sea. 

The shore had always been her inspiration for writing, and perhaps, thought Mara, that was just what she needed to find something new to compose.

Glancing up at the sun and shielding her eyes, she saw that she still had time before the day was too warm to forage the shore. So feeling suddenly ambitious, she took off her shoes and abandoned them and the empty cart at the top of the bluff so she could wander freely and unhindered along the beach.  

She jumped down the short, rocky embankment to the sand below, and the sand crunched delightfully under her bare feet where she landed. The pressure of her steps made cracks in the soft dried sand and left a trail of imprints behind her.  She walked across the beach until her toes met the foamy edges of the tide.  

She paused and stood there, breathing in the fresh, salty air and listening to the sounds of the waves breaking on the shore.  She tilted her head back so that her profile was kissed by the bright sunlight.

She closed her eyes, brought her hands together at heart center and raised her soul up to the surface of her awareness, drawing it out into the light. And for a moment she was at peace and all was well. She smiled with deep joy. 

But then, pulled by the weary habit of worn repetition, her mind drifted back to Achor, and her soul receded and her countenance fell.

And then without warning something cold and clinging touched her feet, enveloping them with a groping heaviness.

          Gasping and stepping back, she saw that there, swishing back and forth in the tide, was a large, broken stalk of seaweed. Tangled in its mass of cold tentacles was a discarded string of pearls, bright and shining, peeking out from within.

          “When did this thing get here?” she asked out loud. Curious, Mara reached to pick up a stick of driftwood that lay a few feet away on the sand and used it to drag the massive stalk away from the tide.  It was heavy, a great clump of water-logged kelp leaves, so that she had to drag it very slowly and with much effort. 

When it was on higher ground away from the water, she caught her breath and paused to stare down at the string of white which peeked out from within. It stood in stark contrast to the dark oily green of the plant. Mara slowly got on her knees and bent cautiously over the tangled mess, using the stick to lift some leaves up in order to reveal more of the strange treasure. 

It was radiantly bright, and it was crafted so expertly that Mara couldn’t imagine how human hands could have done it.  Nothing on the island could explain this. She sat back on her heels and stared in wonderment. Her mind raced to understand. She blinked several times in confusion and then continued to poke and prod the entangled necklace this way and that.

She discovered small letters on one of the pearls- Tirzah.

“Tirzah” she read it aloud. She had meant to whisper, but it came out abruptly as a loud and powerful declaration which echoed and bounced back at her off the rocky cliffs. 

And as she spoke the word it was startling and invasive, like a foreign voice that breaks and shatters the total silence.  

The entire flock of gulls on the other side of the beach took off suddenly from their nesting ground, abandoning their young and calling shrilly to one another in excitement. They flew up to land on the cliffs above and settled in to observe Mara from a safe distance, watching her with curious animal eyes to see what she would do next with this mysterious and tangled remnant from the past...

~*~

Join me here next time for chapter four! 

www.persuasiveabundance.com

To go back to the beginning of this story, click here.

To read my public confession of redeeming love, click here.

With deepest gratitude for all my readers- 

Rebecca

Pearls and Presence, Chapter Two- Forbidden

The Accuser lives here with me, and I don’t know how he got in except that I must have left a window open. I don’t like him here, but at least he keeps his distance most of the time. I have come to tolerate him. Only I don’t like that he always watches me, and sometimes he walks with me. He is often nearby but rarely speaks. Occasionally he will offer a brief suggestion. I feel that he is waiting, but I don’t know for what. I accept him because I don’t know how to make him leave. Usually he does not scare me. Only sometimes I do wish he would leave. Other times I am glad for a companion in this vast and empty place.

Why am I lonely?

~*~

          Knowing that she must protect her vineyard from her neighbors’ prying hands, Mara rapidly moved through her morning routine. She changed quickly into a tan, cotton dress which flowed gently to her ankles, sprinkled with tiny yellow rosebuds so small that it was difficult to tell what they were unless one looked close.  She glanced in the mirror, stood tall and approved of her dignified and courtly appearance. Although she was a very beautiful girl, she never thought so of herself.  She knew she was decent, presentable, with the appropriate touch of pride when she lifted her chin. She accepted her appearance matter-of-factly, nothing more and nothing less for this princess of the light, for she did not ever allow herself the luxury of arrogance.  Such reserved and simple self-perceptions were reinforced by her long, voluntary solitude on the island.

          Therefore Mara took no more time looking in the mirror than was necessary to pull her waist length, golden-brown hair into a high bun, secure it firmly with pins, and then hastily splash her face with cool water from the wooden basin which she had placed on her nightstand.  She rushed out of her room with an air of graceful hurry, flying down the steps to the kitchen.  She pulled up a stool and ate quickly, as she did not want to face her unwelcome visitor without the basic sustenance to rebuke him.

     Then she pushed open the front door and allowed the morning light to greet her with the kiss of the salty ocean breeze. She was drawn out by the sound of waves as they applauded her appearance. The sunlight made a faint golden halo around her head where it struck her light brown hair from just the right angle.

          The day was warm and the sun was bright.  Clusters of giant white tugboat clouds moved across the blue sky, reflecting their images in the pools of water that had formed in some nearby marshes.  Already, many birds out on the water were diving and scooping up beaks full of sea life to bring back to their young.  Turning her face away from the sun, Mara shaded her eyes and spotted the intruder in the north garden, leaning over a large cluster of white blossoms.  He appeared to be examining their leaves, and a small pile of uprooted roses sat in a cart behind him.

Even from a distance, his charisma and attractive physical features were apparent. His name was Achor. He lived in the valley neighboring her home, and he was the keeper of the idols, those lifeless objects which were the source of Mara’s shame.

She had never learned why Achor first came to her island, except that his purpose in life was to follow her around in close observation of her every move, accusing her of things and questioning her motives. There was a great deal left to criticize, after all.

He especially liked to remind her about the idols he saved for her in the Valley. She didn’t like this topic and refused to discuss it with him. It still brought her great inner pain and turmoil. Occasionally he would offer a brief suggestion about returning to visit the idols for worship, and that always made her feel deeply conflicted. He would remind her that she had not worshiped at those altars in so long, and he would look at her with condemning eyes. And her heart would threaten to break again.

His eyes were always knowing, charming, searching. And they made her completely forget her own Divine inner power.

Achor was a gentleman, despite his sometimes irreverant disposition. But there was one exception to his gallantry- when he pried into her vineyard of white roses it was the only time he directly opposed her wishes and invaded her personal space. Just as he was doing now. Otherwise he never too closely imposed himself where he was not wanted- he knew better.

He made it obvious that he didn’t like her white roses and often searched violently among them, pulling off the ones he didn’t like. He was looking for something- she wouldn’t ask what, she would just order him to get out. And he did- only to return at a later time when she least expected it and her guard was down. She often forgot to shield herself from his influence.

She hurried over the sandy grass to her rose garden, her dress billowing in a sudden gust of soft sea breeze.  There was a warning in the air even now, but she ignored it in her haste. As Mara approached him, she made a mental note not to think of her dream.  He could not read her mind, but Achor was very skilled at reading her face, and she knew the dream would translate as fear in her expression. 

He didn’t look up from the flowers in front of him when Mara spoke.

“Excuse me,” she said firmly, planting her feet and crossing her arms defiantly. “I would have been out here sooner, but I didn’t realize you would be meddling in my garden today. As I have said before, you are not welcome to work in my vineyard. I don’t want you in my rose bed. These belong to me and they are mine."

“Goodmorning Mara.” His voice was flat, as if he was too caught up in his work to pay her any attention. He was examining a white petal closely.

Achor pulled off the cluster of white roses he was studying and threw them into the cart with a dismissive gesture, then moved and lifted up two more from a neighboring plant nearer to the fence.  He continued to scrutinize them carefully, turning them this way and that in his tan, skillful hands.  

Mara bent down to move the cart away from him. He glanced over at her movement, and then his gaze drifted slowly from her head to her feet and back again, then returned to linger on her face- he studied her with the full attention of curious eyes. Then he lost interest and returned his attention to the work at hand. 

Mara stared at him in silence for several minutes, feeling violated and tapping her foot as she watched him ravage the flower.  She instinctively knew that he was waiting for her to do or say something, but she didn’t know what. The lack of conversation began to bother her even more than the unspoken tension between them.  She wondered if Achor knew something new that prompted him to raid her garden with such blatant irreverence.  

She uncrossed her arms and placed them on her hips, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Just as she was about to muster the courage to order him away, he finally broke the long tense silence.

          “I came here today because I heard you crying out in your sleep.”  He stood up to his full height, straightened himself and ran his free hand through his black hair. He threw the crushed roses he had been holding into the cart. As he stepped out of the rose bed, he wiped his hands carefully on a towel draped over the side of the fence with the grace of a proper gentleman. Then striding towards her purposefully, Achor closed the gap between them and looked down at Mara with an expression of feigned concern. Tilting his head, he arched an eyebrow and asked, “What was wrong?” His handsome eyes were very dark.

          Mara hesitated and looked away. His air of chivalrous gallantry was daunting and made it hard to think.  She didn’t realize that she had been crying out loud in her sleep during the night.  But as she could see, Achor already knew the truth, and so she decided beat him to the admission.  “I had the dream about a storm again.” And the man in white came for me this time- she instinctively knew she should not mention Him, because that part made Achor violently jealous. She would never speak of Him again.

          He sighed, a spark of worry flashing in his eyes, and he quickly turned his face away from Mara towards the ocean.  “I thought as much,” he said, an unusual hint of uncertainty in his voice.  Mara pushed back loose strands of brown hair out of her face as she followed his gaze out towards the bay.  Then she looked back at him, observing his strong profile against the light of the sun. She thought of the wild and regal man who she saw in her dream.

She recalled the mysterious boat she had glimpsed last night- or did she only imagine it? She wondered briefly if Achor had seen it, and what he would do if a visitor came to Empire Island. She shivered at the possibilities.

After several seconds of gazing out towards the bay, Achor turned back to Mara, a masked expression on his face where there had been worry moments earlier.  “I suppose,” he paused and gestured with one hand to her garden, ”I suppose you really should reconsider turning over this vineyard to my care. You are obviously under too much stress managing all of them. It seems you are not capable of handling them.” He pointed accusingly at her roses.

          Mara lifted her head proudly, snorted arrogantly at his suggestion and reacted in anger to push away Achor’s hand just as he was sweeping it in the direction of her rose bed. 

          The minute her fingers brushed his, Mara knew she had made a huge mistake. It was always anger that got her into trouble with Achor. It was innate fear of his opinion that made her lash out at him, and every time that happened shame had the last word in their conversation, just as it did now.

With an animal reflex he moved his hand so that he was gripping her wrist firmly, her small hand open towards him in the graceful pose of a beseeching prayer. He held it there tightly for several seconds, looking right past it and boring his eyes into her own. He was taking some of her dignity and power away. He remained silent in order to cultivate her shame and bring his own strength to fruition.

Their eyes were locked in battle- time stood still, and there was an aura of light glowing around Mara even as his knowing gaze penetrated into her soul. She held his look with equal intensity, refusing to break away. She knew better than to resist him, and knew to bide her time with learned patience. When he looked at her like that she knew he could see way down into her fears, where her shame was. And these were the opportunities for him to learn about her weaknesses. 

So she abandoned her uncertainty and stared back at him boldly. She called on her self-worth and goodness and channeled the image in her dream of the Rescuer in white.

This was not the first time he took advantage of her contact with him, nor would it be the last. He never once touched her first, it was always her move- this enemy of hers could not have access to her being without her expressed consent. And so many times she thoughtlessly gave him permission to overpower her by her own careless choices. For some reason she could never remember that reaching out to him in anger always ended in more pain and regret. And like a snake waiting to strike, he always took full advantage of it.

She had made the choice to connect with him, slapping his hand in animal fear, and now she knew the price would be a little piece of her dignity. So she waited until he was satisfied, until he had taken what he wanted from her steady gaze. This was how he possessed her soul, piece by piece, one mistake after another.

But the moment, though powerful, was ever so brief, and though their eyes remained in combat, Achor slowly released his grip. Mara jerked away and cradled her offended hand close against her heart, still staring back in offense. The hole he left in her spirit filled with arrogance now. She found her voice and spoke in a tone that defied her fear. She raised her chin higher and spoke loudly.

“I don’t need help with my vineyard. I want to work alone! Alone! This is why I came here in the first place, to keep my white roses to myself.”  She couldn’t keep a hint of desperation from her voice.  “There is nothing wrong- I have a harmless, reoccurring dream.  Nothing will ever come of it, and it has nothing to do with you! Nothing.” 

Flustered now, Mara bent down and picked up the last uprooted flowers near her feet, throwing them into the cart without even looking.  She continued to glare at Achor with all the malice she could muster as she shook the dirt off of her own hands and walked hastily around to the other side of the cart. 

Anger was unbecoming and unnatural to her bright blue eyes and courtesan face. Achor could read it like a hawk and knew just what to say.

          “You know you can’t keep this up forever, it’s too hard for you to do this by yourself. You mismanage the white roses and make so many mistakes with them...” Achor’s voice trailed off as he considered his next words carefully.  “You really should reconsider sharing your vineyard with me. I know exactly what to do with them.”  He smiled victoriously, seeing Mara’s discomfort at such a remark, then qualified his suggestion by saying, “I’m worried about you, that’s all. The gardening is too much work for you to handle by yourself. This vineyard is too great a burden. You should let me advise you- let me get involved. Let me help you tend your white roses. Give them to me.”

          “No. They are not for you, they are for Someone else.” Mara found her strength from the sound of the sea and the salty breeze it sent her way. She pictured the man in white, walking towards her, and felt that He was affirming her resistance to such a temptation. “No, Achor. There is no need for worrying and no need for your advice or your help. I have told you before- I don’t want you in my garden. I want you to leave my vineyard alone. My white roses are none of your business, they are mine to give to whom I choose.”

In her fear Mara added haughtily, “And now all the ruined flowers must be discarded of properly,” she gestured angrily at the cart beside them. She avoided any more eye contact with Achor as she lifted the cart up on its wooden wheels, because she was afraid he might see the doubt in her eyes. She clenched her jaw with stubborn determination as she lifted the cart, preparing to walk away.

Achor moved out of her way with a low bow and then grabbed his hat, which was resting on a nearby fence, and donned it with a sweeping arc of his arm. He looked closely at her as she continued her rebuke.

“I will take this to the beach and give them a proper burial, and I don’t want you to come with me. You are forbidden!”  She knew he would retreat now, because he never followed her when she rejected him.

“Ah! Forbidden, am I? Just so.” Achor found this choice of words to be comically delicious, and it showed up in the satisfied grin which spread across his handsome face. He reached up to tip his hat to her, nodded slightly and turned on the full force of his charisma. He spoke with exaggerated respect, “Yes, ma’am. Forbidden. As you wish.”

She felt utterly violated by his easy compliance. Mara turned her back to him and felt she had somehow lost the battle, because without a doubt he would return again with more temptations.

And as she turned from him, she heard him say in his genteel manner, “I will see you soon, Mara.” He arched an eyebrow and laughed softly to himself as he watched her walk away, narrowing his gaze and nodding his head. He would indeed be back- just as soon as she started to miss him. She would always long for the forbidden fruit of his presence.

~*~

www.persuasiveabundance.com

Join me next time for chapter three! 

To go back to the prologue of this story, click here.

To learn more about my own personal story, click here.

With gratitude for all my readers- 

Rebecca

Pearls and Presence, Chapter One- Beloved

Inside of the walls of this empire are many streets and rooms and towers, each representing a place in my heart and mind where my idols reside. It looks a lot like the places from my past, except that all of it is empty- I walk the streets alone. I can hear the waves crashing on the shore outside the walls. It sounds a lot like the voice of Peace. And sometimes a breeze will carry a bit of the sea spray over the high walls, sparkling like diamonds on the wind, and I will smell the gardenia-scented aroma of hope. The ocean is just outside. But I never go there, because all my time is spent here inside my beautiful and lonely empire.

~*~

          Sometimes Maras’ life on the island was pleasant.  Other times her existence on Empire was just a way to get by without any painful memories.  Occasionally she dared to admit to herself that this isolated existence was lonely and meaningless.  But she never dared consider leaving.  Her little boat never went further out into the ocean than was necessary to bring back an adequate amount of fish.  No one came to visit. Nothing changed. The only surprise was the occasional storm that left its violent mark on the shoreline. 

There was an unspoken yet ever present fear within her of what lay beyond the horizon.  Was it fear of the unknown, or something much more dreadful?  “What would people think?” was the self-talk she used when her heart began expressing an internal longing for connection.   Mara clutched to such a warning almost daily within herself, so that she could think of no other option but to live isolated as she did.  She felt a constant need to protect herself with a quiet, modest, and simple existence- alone. With the exception of the shame that followed her around.

          But there was one part of her life that was all her own and brought her great inner peace and joy- her writing. It was the one thread of connection between her past, present and future. When Mara wrote something it became true, and so she used her power carefully. Writing was her special gifting, and she valued it highly.  Ever since she was a child, writing had been a catalyst for self-expression and gave her an innate sense of freedom.  She had come to discover within her poems and stories an inner sense of purpose and articulation of her true identity.  Mara was sure she would be creating written artwork until her dying day and beyond. 

Even now, she sat at her oak desk with a pen in her hand, poised to begin writing something new.  But somehow the words would not come.  Often her head was swimming with ideas, but today the minute she sat down to compose, Mara became completely devoid of inspiration. She had danced around the edges of her ideas for so long that she had used up all the reserves that were on the outside. Now it was time to go deep, where the treasure was.

          She wrote several lines which were not her own creation, but ones that she now recalled reading many years ago…

A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,

A formula, a phrase remains,-

But the best is lost.

The answers, quick and keen,

The honest look, the laughter, the love,-

They are gone.

They are gone to feed the roses.

Elegant and curled is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom.

I know, but I do not approve.

More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

          These words were powerful, and they spoke to her, but they did not belong to her. Frustrated that she could not come up with anything original, she leaned forward over the blank stack of papers to look out her window.  Her modest abode overlooked the bay on the side closest to the Valley, which loomed darkly behind her, on the opposite side of the house from her room. 

Her deep blue eyes took in the view of the wide, gray-green ocean.  She knew she had just missed the sunset from the looks of the faint red colors draining quickly from the bottoms of the clouds.  Her eyes grew heavy as she leaned further forward, resting her chin on her upturned palm. Sometimes her ego tried to put her to sleep to prevent her from writing. If she did not stand guard, she would drift off and lose her best intentions.

          Just as she was about to slip into an idle doze, she saw a small dark shape trailing across the water on the far side of the bay.  It looked like it might be a small boat.  But it was so far out in the ocean, much too far to be certain.  Mara was suddenly wide awake, because nobody ever came to visit Empire Island.  Nobody other than her accuser ever inhabited this place with her- and he would never touch the water or even go near it. So who was it? She closed her eyes and willed herself with artful practice to block the fear out.

          Hoping for a better glimpse of what she hoped was probably just a whale that looked like a boat, she set her pen down and turned her full attention to the ocean view. She scanned the horizon, only to see that she had already lost sight of the object on the water.  Now there was only silvery moonlight on the rippling surface of the bay.

          A sigh escaped from Mara’s lips as she straightened herself and put a hand to her hair, adjusting a few wayward strands, then pushed the scattered blank pages to the edge of the desk.  She shuffled them all together and then pushed them, along with the pen, into a desk drawer, shutting it firmly.  Leaning back in her chair, Mara closed her eyes and leaned her head back to stare at the ceiling. She took a deep breath and let it out very slowly, abandoning her fears.

          It was late, she decided, and she wouldn’t be thinking up any inspiring words for her writing tonight anyway.  She realized how exhausted she felt from an unusually hard day of tending to her vineyard.  “I may as well go to bed now,” she said out loud to herself, unable to hide a hint of forlorn disappointment that it would be another boring, lonely and uneventful evening.  Blowing out the candle which was flickering on her desk, she got up from her chair and padded across a thick, pale-yellow rug to her bed. 

          Pulling back the heavy blankets, Mara crawled between the covers and pulled the large quilt up to her chin in an attempt to fend off the cooling night air.  The fire that was blazing steadily in the fireplace across her room crackled and cast an orange glow on the room, and she closed her eyes in the semi-darkness.  As her thoughts floated sleepily on reflections of another lifetime, she found herself drifting into the narrative of a dream…

I am standing on my little fishing boat far out in the ocean.  I look towards the distant shoreline and see with dismay that it is my island.  I am so far away, I realize in panic, and have never dared to travel out this far in the ocean even on my bravest day.  There is a wild storm breaking right over my head and sheets of rain began pouring down all around me. The chilling wind is whipping through my long hair, which has come undone, and I have to keep pushing it out of my face.

Does anyone know I am out here?  Fear fills me as I remember that I live alone except for one unwelcome companion who accuses me of failure. I need a savior, but nobody will answer my cries for help.  The waves are getting bigger, and icy water is splashing on me every time the heavy waves crashed against the small boat.  Thunder shakes the sky, and the taste of salt is in my mouth- it is the salt from my warm tears as I cry in desperate hopelessness.  The storm rages around me, and I am so far from the refuge of the familiar. I cannot rescue myself.  

I sink down onto my knees on the bottom of the fishing boat, bring my hands together in prayer position at heart center and lift my face to the wild, churning sky.

“Save me!” I cry out into the storm, and the rain mixes with my tears. 

I lower my head into my hands, bow low to the hull of the boat and weep as the storm rages. But just as my voice is lost to the increasing roar of the storm, the wind changes and brings the smell of peppermint followed closely by lavender. And I look up and see a wild and regal man clothed in white walking quickly towards me through the grey sheets of rain.

He is moving steadily over the rolling barrels of the sea as if they are solid ground.  His arms are open wide to me.

 I hear him call me “beloved” over the sound of the storm. 

My fear melts into wonder, but as I leaned forward to try to make out his face, my hand slips on the wet siding and I lose my footing. With a cry I fall headfirst into the churning water, and all is cold and dark…

          Mara awoke with a start.  The fear which had been so real in her dream quickly faded as she felt herself surrounded by warm quilts.  The sun was shining brightly through her window, illuminating her room with a warm, golden glow.  She sat up in bed, the quilts and cotton sheets falling in her lap.  As she rubbed her eyes, trying to erase the nightmare from her memory, she became more fully awake and realized suddenly how she could begin her next work. Pulling the heavy blanket with her, she dragged it off the bed, across the room and sat down in her chair. Throwing her thick braid over her shoulder, she pulled her journal out from the desk drawer, poised her pen, and began to write.

Prayer Story

Day after day I climb the stairs of the tower to worship and serve at the altar of my favorite idols, and I find myself spending more time there than anywhere else in my vast empire….

Just as she sat back to observe the effect of this brave new beginning, Mara heard noise below her window, like the thudding sound of dirt being thrown into a pile.  Oh, it’s him again, she thought with a sudden feeling of deep inner conflict. She glanced back at her writing with doubt, uncertain now about what she had written. 

She felt the accusations beginning inside- you are not enough. Nobody cares about this.

Another thud of dirt drew her resolve to get up and sacrifice her inspiration for the sake of addressing the distraction outside. She pulled the quilt back across the room to her bed, then straightened up and took stock of her emotions. She could not approach her accuser with any weakness showing. Placing her story back into the desk, she glanced out the window with wary eyes and the familiar mix of heightened anticipation and fear rising up inside.

Her unwelcome neighbor from the Valley was meddling in her garden again, just as he was already meddling in her storytelling, and now she must prepare herself to meet him…

~*~

Join me here next week for chapter two! 

To go back to the prologue, click here.

To learn more about my personal story, click here.

With gratitude for my tiny tribe of readers- 

Rebecca 

Pearls and Presence, Prologue- Longing

I have built an empire next to the sea. It is a beautiful empire, custom crafted by my own strength to include all the things I have ever wanted.  The foundation is fear, and it rests firmly upon the sand. It is built up with my well-worn tools of desire, control, ambition, jealousy, envy, pride, and obsession. It is enclosed by walls of insecurity, doubt and fear. These are strong walls that nobody can penetrate, and the door of weakness is locked. I once had the key, but I don’t remember now where I left it last. It doesn’t matter, because I never plan to leave. This is where I live, this is my home.

Dear God. What have I done?

~*~

The sun was sinking into the watery horizon of the bay, marking the end of another day.  The feathery clouds that stretched across the pale sky were stained with pink, red, and copper traces.  The ocean extended to the horizon, and tiny sparkles glinted across the gentle rolling motion of its surface.  On the shore, small crabs scuttled away from the lapping waves, hurrying to bury themselves in the grainy sand before prying seagulls snatched them up.

A light breeze played across the bay, gently cooling everything in its path with a soft, sighing touch as it traveled across the air.  Intricate patterns of brown and gold and tan shifted ever so slowly in many directions across the sandy ground, guided by the wind.  Palm trees, old and weathered, stood proudly in abundance along the winding shore.  Waves crashed on the beach with power and prestige, slowly wearing away the rocks and shells that rolled back and forth in its tide.

The sound of the sea could be heard to varying degrees from any vantage point on the small island, with the exception of the Valley. In that place, there was no evidence of beach life- it was devoid of the sea breeze and the gulls never frequented its shadowy confines. It was frequently shrouded in fog. The only signs of life here were stone faces which looked down upon their altars with immobile passivity, waiting for a suitable sacrifice. This godforsaken piece of land was called the Valley of Achor, named after its master. The inhabitant that dwelt here carried himself with well-practiced patience and gallantry, for the prince of darkness is indeed a gentleman.  The Valley was meant to be the source of all bitterness and the birthplace for the dark night of the soul. Here was found the key to death.

With the exception of the Valley, all other living things on Empire Island were calm and existed simply.  All things worked in unison just as expected, every day, for an easy and comfortable existence.  In such an isolated world here, life was simple and safe.  Not a particularly enjoyable way of living, but a steady form of survival.  There were no undue surprises, no interruptions in the daily routines of adequacy on this island.  There were no shameful reminders of pagan idols, as those were all hidden discreetly within the confines of the Valley. And over time, this predictability and comfort had become the definition of peace.

          The sun finally sank below the water, leaving traces of silver ripples which traveled outward into the ocean, to be lost from sight.  Seagulls came to rest on their rocky beds, and the frantic crabs by day found sleepy refuge in the dark cover of night.  Several seashells, unbroken by the tide, rocked back and forth on the sand in the foamy edges of the water, creating a subtle clinking chime as they were pushed together and pulled apart by the tide.

          The stars came out, twinkling in their black velvety beds of night sky.  The clouds were no longer shades of red, but reflected the white, pale glow of the waxing moon.  One of the sandpipers somewhere below the jut of rocks gave a last call before silence settled in on the small bay.

And in the distance, there was a disturbance of ripples in the swaying ocean which only the silvery fish noticed. In the peaceful silence, a small boat floated quietly into view, far out on the moonlit horizon, traveling across the water towards the shore – towards the sleeping island.

~*~

We are worlds, we are bodies
Empires of dirt and grace
Silhouettes and reflections
Caught in His holy flame

–Empires, Hillsong

The inspiration was escaping so rapidly that she couldn’t capture it in words. Her blue eyes were filled with uncanny longing, and her light-brown hair was escaping from her long braid in defiance of her best attempts.

The blank pages were increasingly frustrating.  Each empty sheet seemed to represent a wasted day, a mark of shame, or perhaps a lack of control.  The white space in front of her reminded her of a willing laziness and self-destructive selfishness.  All these things were combined and made tangible in a single and very heavy sigh.

For years and years she had known what needed to be done, but as it grew from an idea to a realization, her resolve moved from a place of hope to one of apathy. She needed to give up her idols, but she couldn’t find the words. She needed to write her story, but she didn’t know how to begin. Something held her back from writing- a lack of self-awareness, a fear of looking too deep inside her own mind. Instead, she remained always on the outskirts of her motivations, in a place of unconcerned acceptance where there was no need for asking any troubling questions. She danced around her own thoughts, keeping to the edges in order to avoid offense.

This was perhaps the biggest problem, and the reason why she couldn’t find any inspiration.  Apathy is quite possibly a writer’s greatest enemy, and it was certainly hers in this moment.  And yet, though it stopped her from pouring herself onto paper, it also helped her to walk through the hard days with her head held high in a queenly state of dignified denial.  For the princess of light is indeed a lady. Her writing was meant to be the source of all introspection and the birthplace for the freedom of the soul. Here was found the key to life.

This is why she felt such tension and resistance when she sat at her desk. So Mara pushed her chair back and placed her journal back into the desk.  Instead of writing, she decided to take a walk down to the seashore, hoping for some kind of discovery in the smell of the salty air and the sound of the crashing waves.  The eternity of the ocean was always somehow calming, a soothing balm for the unquenchable desire that she carried with her each day.  Her mind would wander often to the troubling idols of her past, but the sound of the sea would always pull it back again.

She tugged her knitted sweatshirt over her head and slipped on a pair of worn sandals.  The sun was setting and she knew the temperature would drop, but something about the feel of the warm pebbles and cool sand prompted her to approach the beach with sandal clad feet no matter the weather.  She liked the sensations when she removed her shoes and walked the shoreline; the smooth pebbles and sea stones retained some warmth from the sun for a short time, contrasted against the coarse sand which had quickly cooled. She liked the inspiration that crashed upon her there, wave by wave.

It was as if she was able to steal the last bit of warmth from the seashore every evening and keep if for herself, like a coveted secret.  For the seashore often called to her with promises she couldn’t articulate in words, but which spoke to her spirit with an eternal perspective. The feeling of walking the shore was a calming ritual, one that could transport her to any memory in her life, to times before she had worshiped lifeless idols in the Valley of Achor.

She walked the shoreline every evening, longing for Someone she did not know, and trying to articulate the words she would like to say to Him. She was waiting for a treasure of great price to wear around her neck and a crown of beauty to place upon her head. These called to her soul…

~*~

Join me here next time for the next chapter!

To learn more about my personal story, click here.

With gratitude for all my readers- 

Rebecca