Cynthia L Fortner
I like words, their etymologies, as meaning comes from memories, histories, that little internal voice, barely a birdy chirp. Words are a performance of meaning psychologically. So, I like memoirs, writing them, birds, flowers, and seasons.
Scent in the Wind
Feeling the soft breeze announcing, just barely, the beginning breaths of Spring, Isabel walked into her courtyard, wishing for the first blossoms to bring their scents into her surrounding evergreen garden. In Brazil, Spring first arrives in late September, especially in the higher elevations of Minas Gerais State; although, she is only a few hours north of the warmer year-around Sao Palo.
Like the Sounds of Cracking Pond Ice
“…Abrupt sounds of cracking ice in a frozen pond...” ********** They came to me in snippets, Andres’s visions. They were often announced by incongruous sounds that were clearly not part of my summer garden world. Me, the Sorceress whose purpose it was to comfort souls as they were in transition before fully entering the spirit realm, if that was their choice.
The Light of Souls
Few ever saw her, this forest Sorceress, whose magic was in comforting those fallen amongst the leafy ground cover, fragrant herbs, flower spikes, thistle, thorns, and tree branches. Her voice, if someone chose to listen, could be heard, faintly audible, lilting slightly with the wind as she counted souls:
My Raging Bull
His name was Andres, but I knew him as Andy. He ran with the bulls, the Pamplona bulls, not just once but thrice. His passion for life raged on, spontaneously, intentionally, like diving into red paint, making a splash that left indelible droplets on each life he touched. I loved him. He loved me. We were never a "we" in that lovers' way, but we loved each other. Maybe it was just like the song: "If you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with."
Tex: My Uncommon Rescue Cat
Tex is an adult male, tuxedo kitty, not typical markings, but close enough, and he has a particular story to tell. I adopted him as the seventh of my rescue cats over the last 25+ years. Four of my rescue kitties have traveled on to their own hereafter. So now with my three remaining, Abby--a beautiful Rag Doll, Callie--a feisty Calico, and Tex--a shy, big, softhearted, dressed-up-to-his-nine-lives guy, we are a family, including all that unexpected groupings bring with them.
Becoming Organized by Managing Time
The extra hour we gain by springing forward into Daylight Savings Time is really a restatement of time, a clock adjustment, instead of making a 24-hour day into one of 25 hours. I always questioned that claim of an extra hour. We get more sun by the earth's rotation and other planetary vibes, instead of from some old-time agrarian concept of helping farmers have more time to plant in the Spring, which is what the history of Daylight Savings Time truly is. However, this 2021 spring forward in time holds a lot of promise to getting 1 hour closer and faster into a post-Covid-19 world. So, I am embracing Daylight Savings Time this year with new meaning and vigor. I have defined this time-organizing self-awareness into 2 categories: 1) Pandemic Time and 2) Cardinal Time.
I Learned to Take Photos of Tiny Things by Doing Sports Photography
I love to take photos of bees. I work to support them with flowers specifically planted to attract bees into and around my yard. Last year, I documented 7 different species of bees on my Echinacea flowers (aka cone flowers) in 1 afternoon alone. The medium-sized bee in my photo above is not enlarged as I simply took the shot a few inches above the feasting bee. These nerves of steel I gained from sports photography. More on my sports-photography venture in a moment, as I'm on flight with my bees.
The Magical Bird: a Contemporary Fairy Tale
Once upon a not-too-distant time, there was a young eight-year-old girl who sought refuge inside the graceful, downward-sweeping branches of an old weeping willow. The massive trunk had weathered sun, wind, and rain like a stalwart sentinel, standing guard equally against anger, pain, and meanness. The bark had become compressed at the willow's base by the weight of centuries, as if the lofty crown had tried to push its way back into the ground. The long branches split the sunlight entering the circled space into wavering lines. But the magic of early Spring brought out blooming catkins, creating polka-dot shadows on the emerging soft grass.