Her Ways were Odd




She will be remembered for the quiet Magic that followed her.  The flowers that seemed as if to sprout in her hair.  She wasn’t the type of girl to go to the trouble to try to look pretty or be good.  She didn’t care what others thought about her.  In the summer, she shaved her head, partly because she liked to shock people out of their sleepwalking ways, but mostly to keep cool.

She will be remembered for the wings that unfurled from under her shoulder blades.  Sometimes, when you sat behind her in a crowded room, you would see the fabric on her shirt shudder.  She mostly kept to herself and she tried to blend in and not be noticed.  She always moved through the room quickly, like the room was on fire.  It was as if she might fuse to the earth if she wasn’t in constant motion.

Some folks swore that they saw her either late in the evenings when the moon was out or very early in the mornings…up high in the heavens – doing loops with other smaller birds and dive bombing trees only to pull out before impact.

She will be remembered for her unusual way of listening intently and speaking only when there was utter silence.  Her voice blended in with the silence.  Some words would float like a soap bubble and glisten with rainbow hues enlivening the senses.  But no one could ever hold onto her words, they flew right out the window and out of the memory cells.  Somehow her words were more like music, to be heard and to inspire, but them let go and let loose. They weren’t meant for the human spectrum of hearing and knowing.  They were catalysts for inner change and for starting uprisings of love.

She was like remembering a perfect summer day with no flies, ripe watermelon slabs laid out to devour, iced green tea with a fresh mint sprig floating ever so perfectly.  She never put anything to paper.  She was to be forgotten.  Her time was fleeting, her ways were odd and she might even be a tune you hum to yourself rather than someone you remember.  It was the Magic that surrounded her.  The feeling that you got when you were in the same room.  You just knew that there was a purpose, a grand scheme and that you and she were all apart of it.  We all had roles to play and there was no doing it wrong.

She always had a sideways smirk on her lips.  Did she know something that we didn’t?  Did she know the secrets to the Universe, like Being Present without expectations or without regrets?  She knew how to have her glass filled to full and overflowing.  Did she ever really answer anyone’s questions?  She said she was an open book, but how can you read something that has never and will never be written?

She will be remembered in the songs we sing and the stories we tell about her as we sit around the campfire. She also loved music, anything with a great beat or a story to be told caught her attention.  We all think she was here, but there is no proof of it.  Like stories, we tell small children of the Easter Bunny or Santa Clause that become real.  The oddest thing we will remember is that no one ever caught her on film.  Her image somehow just wasn’t there.  The air was thick and the sunlight glistened, but she wasn’t captured.  Perhaps she wasn’t here at all.

The final proof is in the pudding, or in her case the Pies.  She loved fruit pies.  You could always win her over with a fresh baked Raspberry or peach pie. It was the best way to get her attention.   We might be able to tell she was here simply by the volumes of pies that were consumed by her.  Is something missing proof of Existence?!

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