Tag: a river of stones
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The man who walks through music
In a section of Mike Oldfield’s instrumental and voice album Amarok there is a man who walks through music, you can hear his footsteps as he walks down imagined shadowy vaulted halls. This music is the kind you paint with, woods, wars, adventures, mountains, sun rise, danger, triumph, exhilaration. But there is other music too,…
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The texture of silence
Silence has a texture, a soft gauze landing on the surface of things like a dust sheet. In its fabric is the interweave of the invisible waves, light, heat, radio that are travelling through and there are pinpricks of the barely audible, the leap of a solar flare, the fizzle of a star, the gurgle…
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Untrammeled joy
My 3yo and his baby cousin playing happily alongside each other with alphabet blocks. My son crawls alongside the baby to keep him company. They do the kitchen, hallway, living room circuit. They look at each other directly and with untrammeled joy, laugh out loud, delighting in each other and their game.
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Zen and the head of General Grievous
In college years ago my Cognition lecturer told a story where he and his son walking on the mountain and his young son lost a chocolate bar while climbing. To illustrate the Zen Buddhist way of being, he said that he suggested that rather than search intensively for it, they ‘keep an eye open’ on…
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Tracking my agitation
On the school run, when my son falls and loses a part of a beloved toy, on the way to a meeting, in the queue in the post office I can feel a restlessness, a tap tapping that doesn’t manifest in outward signs but seems to propel and spin me anyway. The man in front…
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Children in the alder woods
Two of the children running light like deer through alder woods, then negotiating the dark green undergrowth, their voices the only clue. I pull back out of their world so they can find their own adventures, discover themselves brave, strong, wily, alive.
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All at sea
The wind sounds like waves crashing against this fragile shore. A crescendo of sound then the whish that is the falling on battered rocks. This house is a boat in the dark, my bed the life raft. I am still safe.
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Small stones: Toddler in the wash basket
I pull my toddler in his wash basket boat with a dressing gown belt as a rope. Up the hallway, around the living room, I follow his command. We collect things on the way, teddy bears to ride along and cars and dinosaurs. He is my youngest child and still fits in a wash basket,…
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Honey
Pure honey on my breakfast table, the honeycomb still visible, the dark triumphant golden of the hexagonal walls, the structure that seems to breathe, to concertina, something that you could walk through. But I don’t walk through, I take the castle on my spoon it passes across my lips and tongue, down my throat, coating…
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Small stones: The moment not
I feel this moment a lot, this moment not, this time with no outline, no handholds. This falling like terraces, down, a small plateau, and down again, the expectation that is stretched beyond it’s elasticity and becomes limp. The unanswered word, message, gesture, look, or the time of not knowing when.
Alison Wells Author 