once upon a time there was a flat little pebble sitting by the seashore, all by himself. He was very envious of the seashells that got picked up by the beach goers. They oohed and ahhed over how pretty the seashells were and the people took them home. Their happiness over the shells’ beauty made him envious and sad, for he was but a flat rock.
One day, a bunch of people started picking up all the flat pebbles. The pebble was very happy because finally he made someone happy. Finally, someone wanted him. The people began throwing the flat pebbles into the sea, skipping them along the water and they all sank to the bottom of the sea.
The pebble then spent ten thousand years waiting for the tide to push him back onto the beach.
Moral of the story: shut up and enjoy the view.
(Hubby told me to tell him a bedtime story. This is what I came up with)
Edit – Thanks to Chris Lindsay for the suggestion on changing “jealousy” to “envious”. Check out his blog for a collection of beautiful essays and short stories.
In my previous post I wrote about writing little things on my cell and saving them.
This one I wrote with the intention of putting it in my book. It never made it in, though god knows I have plenty of time.
My book is about abandoning your home, and your parents, and yet we always come back, even when sometimes we shouldn’t, because there’s this blood tie.
Salt water runs in my veins and I never feel it more than when I am “home”, or when I am away too long.
Here is what I wrote, late at night, emerging from a painful experience. I was thinking about my first visit home after leaving my island, believing at the time that running away was my only salvation, the only way to keep my sanity.
“I was like a child defiantly running away from home because my mother had asked me to clean my room. After I’d been gone a year I realized just how much I loved and missed that home, the island, my earth mother, with her soothing ocean washing clean my pained soul. We never realize what beautiful gifts we have until they’ve been taken from us, or until we discard them like broken toys, and I dearly missed the caressing fingers of her sands as she tickled my toes. But it was too late and I knew it. The child inside me had died and I was left empty, hollow and lost. Only when dipping my feet in her ocean did I again feel whole.”