Today is the first of a few meme posts that I have lined up, but I have no doubt you will enjoy this one. I wasn’t tagged in it. Like the Friday Flash Fiction that L.S. Engler would post, or the occasional #3WW (Three Word Wednesday) poems, this meme I decided to join in solely for the pleasure that sharing brought me.
And so, I give you my version of Fiona Robyn’s The Most Beautiful Thing as I wrote it, nearly freeform, in 750words this afternoon:
Thinking about the Most Beautiful Thing… Given it’s originator, it’s something of a “small stones” exercise, but even without truly exploring the depth of beauty I have found, I know where it lays… I don’t need a small stone to know that I have something incredibly beautiful here with me every day.
There are days I would say it is so beautiful to have my few hours alone at night, in my own home, working on stories, sitting in an almost dark home, relaxing yet getting so very much done…. which I do. My power hours for writing, reading, typing all come after 10pm. I only go to bed around then because the 6am waking time to get the Boodle to school (which we haven’t been making at all lately) seems to come earlier and earlier each day.
(Of course, my 10pm going to bed time usually drags out into the 1am to 2am “I just want to finish one last thing before I turn off the computer” bedtime. And often, I don’t turn off the computer because too much is still running.)
But while I find those moment peaceful and empowering, I would never attribute them as “beautiful”. They are necessary for my sanity, desirable for my efficiency, and even pretty darned nice. But beautiful… no.
What is beautiful? The Boodle… his genuine heart and love.
A little backdrop here: Yesterday, crossing one of the two public reservoirs on the way home from my Boodle’s school, I hit a bird. Well, this daring aerialist swallow decided to see if he could fly under the car.
Hurt, but not dead, I knew he’d suffer for a while there on the road. With a broken wing, a blinded eye, and a few missing tail feathers he wasn’t likely to fly ever again, but he seemed determined to live from what I saw. So I brought him home. We had cat food (kitten chow is recommended for feeding these birds when nursing them), sunflower seeds, water… an old box from some computer memory filled with some extra soft rags…
He didn’t really like the box and chose to settle against my chest and sit there.
But the injuries must have been worse than I could see. I should have suspected, given the damage to his eye. I rose for a few moments to go see if he’d prefer a little perch in his box, settling him in it. I came back inside less than minute later, and he’d died.
Now, of course, you might wonder where my Most Beautiful Thing is in this….
Well, after my last post, one might wonder if I fear I may be raising the next Hannibal Lector. Trust me, I’m not. The Boodle is enormously sensitive and aware of the feelings of others. This is the boy that will run and cower in another room and hide when someone speaks to him loudly or will start crying just because he’s seen a friend hurting. And this is the boy who came over to me to hug me and held my hand so we could walk outside and say goodbye to a little tree sparrow that I’d hit with the car yesterday. He held my hand, he hugged me, and he told me to “Feel better” and that the little bird would go back to Nature where it came from.
And my husband’s heart is amazing too, because even before the Boodle came home from school, he gave me hugs and encouraged my support of that little bird.
So maybe the Most Beautiful Thing really is mine, not theirs. It is my life and the fact that they (and so many other amazing people and experiences) are a part of it..
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