The old chairlift creaked and swayed gently
as the crisp morning flurries nipped at the rosy, red cheeks of the young girl.
Her grandmother sat to the left and her grandfather to the right.
Both of them had their arms wrapped tightly around her, attempting to keep her warm.
They sat in silence and watched the mountain grow in front of them.
The bright sun illuminated every aspect: the smooth coating of ice that clung to the trees,
and the conformity of every neatly groomed trail.
The previous snow had left a fresh layer of powder
that wordlessly begged them to disrupt its purity.
At the peak, they looked down and out over
the mountain, the town, and the valley that seemed to stretch on forever.  
The sky taunted them, dangling just out of reach,
and the overwhelming panorama reminded them how small they were
—even at the highest points.  
 

A girl lays in a flower filled field,
The light pink petals sit in her hair
And all over her off white dress.
Her eyes are crystal clear
Yet they seem foggy.

A girl lays in a flower filled field,
Her fingers tapping the time,
Her heart pounding to the beat of the earth,
As it aches from love and hate.

A girl lays in a flower filled field
Trying to forget her past.
But it sneaks up on her
Distracting her from the present
Keeping her on the ground.

A girl stands up in flower filled field,
The light pink petals fluttering to the ground
She walks forward,
No longer stuck in her past
Now on her way towards the inviting future
With her off white dress trailing behind her.

 

 

My earliest memories undoubtedly developed during my two years at the small pre-school I attended, Caring Community. There are a number of experiences from that time in my life that I am occasionally reminded of by something quite small, like when I hear about the character Big Bird from Sesame Street, I immediately think of the Big Bird bouncy toy my cousin and I often fought over, or when I see Mott's apple juice, I remember when my teacher let me pour juice into Dixie cups for all of my classmates (all by myself!) While most of these recollections are vague, there is one very distinct memory I have from pre-school that occured around Christmas season. My class took a walk outside not far from our school building to choose a Christmas tree for our classroom.Once we arrived to the fir trees, my classmates and I noticed that they were decorated with candy canes, bead necklaces, small plastic lizards, other small goodies, and of course, snow.

once there was a girl who forgot 
what words tasted like
when she drank them up with her eyes
and her thirsty brain was finally satisfied.

once there was a girl who stopped loving 
the words that had once tatooed themselves onto her skin
who washed them clean every time 
her eyes wandered from the page. 

once there was a girl who lost her dreams
and scoffed at magic when the subject was brought up, 
forgetting that she once used to find the fairies 
that lived on the other side of the creek. 

once there was a girl who lived 
in 
black 
white
grey 
grey
grey. 

before, 
there had been explosions of paint 
and color 
and brightness.

once, there was a girl lost. 

but then something changed.

once there was a girl who 
healed the desert inside with an 
oasis of beautiful words. 

Each year, I make a chain of quotes to hang in my room for inspiration. Here are excerpts from this year! I found inspiration and quotes from all over the place.
 

Seventh Grade
    I feel the eyes of the other students blazing through my back. Ms. Delaney is looming over me as a cat does to a mouse. I did do my science homework. It was the first thing I did when I got home yesterday. But alas, I come out of my backpack empty-handed. Ms. Delaney sniffs and sits down at her desk writing what I know is a detention slip. My eyes drift to the yellow and orange lava lamp at her desk. My bloodstream envies its steady and calm flow. Ms. Delaney stands back up and delivers the slip to me.

    “Well then, Mr. Trelloi will be seeing you during detention is his room today.” Ms. Delaney turned away, proceeding on about amphibians and other cold-blooded animals. I don’t hear. I can’t hear. I can’t even think straight. All I hear is one word, echoing throughout my mind and my whole skeleton: Detention.

We’re running up the hill, shrieking with laughter, going to our safe place, our haven. This peaceful, dangerous place leaving us breathless every time. The beautiful, jagged redstone, covered in chives and red clovers. We check to make sure that our names are still written on the wall, ensuring our rule over this mysterious place. The trees and plants are our people. The loud geese flying south, the golden sun sinking down, and the uneven rock jutting out are all part of what we love about this place. Sometimes, we stay there for hours. We climb up the precarious ledges to the tippy top of the quarry, looking down on our empire. We stand, side by side, feeling the wind in our hair. We are at bliss, feeling like we own the world.

 

The brushes of the winter wind
Whisk across the cottage windows.
Only in the darkness do they paint
For they are shy
And work best in the night.
When the world is fast asleep
They come
They come across the freezing moor
Peering in the windows of all the houses.
Riding the tendrils of clouds
Carried along by the gusts of chilly wind.
They come to each window
And dip their brushes in the frosty air.
Then they create 
They paint small spirals and designs all over the glass.
They dance through the winter air and dab at their canvas.
When each window is a masterpiece
They retreat back to the sky.
In the morning,
The children walk up and gasp in surprise at the painters work.
They use their fingers to add their own touches to the frosty art.
Soon the sun
Melts away their work 
Clearing the canvas
So the winter painters can cover them once more.