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