Alison Hendrix's Blog, page 3
April 24, 2023
Morning Sky
It must be soft to touch, and smooth and rich like silk. It’s baby blue, and so soft.
Bird’s egg blue, like beads on the carpet next to a bit of string and a teddy bear.
Like flecks in my mother’s eyes. So soft, so life-full.
Pale blue like where the Albemarle meets the sky in a haze and my brother climbs in the trees while I feed the ducks, and my mother spreads a blue blanket for picnics.
A pale blue morning feels soft like nostalgia, like the melody of peaceful imagination with soft sounds of family in the next room and the tv downstairs and Mama talking on the phone.
God made our hearts for soft blue mornings, and he made soft blue mornings to heal our hearts.
March 30, 2023
SOMETHING FUN, THIS WAY COMES!
This fun frame of clouds and rainbows only shows a beautiful blue spring sky. However, on THIS SUNDAY, APRIL 2, a book cover will begin to emerge…MY NEWEST PICTURE BOOK!!
In case it isn’t obvious, I am excited to announce that I have completed a project Ive been working on for about a year. I have loved every second of creating this sweet story about kindness and gratefulness. It’s also been extremely nostalgic, as it takes place in the neighborhood I grew up in! It’s also loosely based on real people, places, pets, and plants. I absolutely cannot WAIT to share it with you!
Mark your calendars for MAY 6, RELEASE DATE!! And be sure to check my Facebook page @ https://www.facebook.com/alisonhendrixwriter on Sunday for the FIRST GLIMPSE of the cover!!
Thank you for reading, may you find some magic in this lovely Spring!
March 25, 2023
Wisteria Story
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trounces in fragrant glory, tells a story;
how once a love came down, soft like an angel touching ground,
but fell into dust, and more profound, though die he must, glorybound
and broke the world and turned his shoulder, we will know when we’re older.
Purple dances in the rain, through the shining, brilliant pain.
When in death and turbulent, the sky dark, the curtain rent.
And then in brightest purple victory, dances too short a time for me,
but dances still in perfect rhyme, dances still, till end of time.
January 25, 2023
Simeon
His body is weak and achy and old. He shuffles along the cold stone floor, puffing and wheezing in the early morning darkness. He stops for a moment and leans upon his walking stick. He pulls a faded brown cloak more tightly to himself and begins again. Oh, the days stretch behind him, and the shadows nip and tug at him. He glances with a small smile. He knows something they do not.
Even now, the dust of death is on his lips. He is not long for this world. But a light sparkles in his eyes. He will serve until he sees. His faith will be his eyes. Not much longer now. Hope.
His shuffle is interrupted once more. The gloom of early morning is broken by unseen sunlight. It falls in glittering rays around his shoulders in the cold passageway. He laughs aloud and, shaking, raises both arms toward the sky, toward the light only he can feel. “They are here.” His own voice echoes in the dark, but he is in the light. A single tear bumps along a wrinkled cheek. Hope.
The light follows, pouring over his shoulders and pooling on the floor, as he begins again and makes his way to the entry room. His short breath catches in his throat when he sees them. They are here, as countless others have been. This happens every day, in the same way, but today is different.
He breathes deeply and closes his eyes for a moment. Now is the time. His body trembles and he smiles wide. He hurries as his bones will allow, and laughing, he stands before them. He takes the child in his arms. Such beautiful light glitters in his eyes at this moment, those present wonder and marvel at it. He laughs aloud again and holds the child close.
There are no shadows here. No fear of the future or bemoaning of old age. No weariness. Only that permeating light filling the room, filling the world, and hope. Relentless hope.
[image error]December 22, 2022
Christmas Thoughts on Magic
“Seeing isn’t believing. Believing is seeing.”
-Some little elf on “The Santa Claus”
I used to think that was a silly line that didn’t make any sense. But as I look in wonder at my lit Christmas tree in the dark of an early morning, I think I understand it. And how true!
Magic is in perception. In the seeing of that magic. As a child, everything we see is bright and beautiful and mysterious to us, and so, magic is everywhere. The magic has never gone away; it’s still there, waiting for us to perceive it once more.
A Christmas tree sparkles with tinsel and white lights that shine like a decorated night sky; And the angel, majestic, glowing, and holy in such a warm and loving way, stands guardian on the top. A sweet sentinel of memory and worship. These are things that will live in our memories of Christmas! In a child’s growing up, in all her days, she may forget the gifts, the activities, but she will remember how she felt, how warm her heart was, how filled with family, and it will be washed in the glorious glow of Christmas tree lights sparkling like stars.
All of this lighted glory stands against my picture window. An ornament hangs in the window, red and shiny, and reflects the glory of the tree and angel. The lights on the tree spill over to the lights reflected in the window glass, and I see it all through a reflection in my mirror. A reflection of the reflections. How appropriate when we think of our perception of Christmas. For now we see only shimmers, sparkling glimpses, of what is to come. Those mere glimpses are the most glorious parts of us, the most celebrated, the most anticipated. . .and yet they are mere glimpses. What rich treasures forever must hold! What sparkling beauty and homecoming and song and celebration! I hope to do much more work here first, but oh how I long to celebrate Christmas in Heaven!
December 14, 2022
Orange Sky Inspiration
A faint, fresh fragrance of tangerine and ice. . . But it isn’t really there,
only in my imagination.
Softly falls the morning, quickly fades color into glow.
Fuzzy frost and puffy breath, early day, off to work we go!
But not before you see, not before God grabs you by the arm, pulls you in.
See. Breathe in the gift, the faint, fresh fragrance of tangerine!
It is only there in your spirit.
Strange we seem,
Those of us who live in daydream
Who see beyond the day ahead,
We dive into this moment instead.
This quickly fading moment of tangerine and ice.
The sky was just absolutely stunning this morning, all decked out in orange and gold and glory! I had to write a quick tribute. Then I thought about this song by the insanely talented, Alexi Murdoch. Give it a listen here: https://youtu.be/gOBWSb14wrU
September 8, 2022
How Like a Rose
How like a rose she was!
Soft and pink, so kind and beautiful. A soul so soft and joy-inspiring, so fragrant, so decorative. In a world of mud and weeds and rain, how rare, how precious, how like a rose.
How like a rose her tough thorns. Fighting, without fear, for justice, for family, for love of Jesus. For Him she would risk all, she would go anywhere, chase down every soul.
How like a rose her deep roots, stemming from an unbreakable branch, she lived for her family. And she lived nobly.
How like a rose, her fragile bloom. From start to finish, a roaring and royal, encouraging shade. But too quickly shaken loose from this world. A flower too quickly gone. Its lack is like darkness where once a cheery fire, a gray and muddy stem where once brilliant color.
How like a rose! The flower is gone. But the plant remains, forever changed by the blossom that was surely, a most lovely, triumphant, rose.
September 7, 2022
Butterflies
They are airy, light, flitting and hurried, like leaves of pure yellow driven by the early Autumn wind. Though, there is no wind on this day of thick humidity. The air hangs heavy and slow, fragrant with recent rain from clouds drifting, still close by, their rumbling thunder yet sounding in soft peels. The sun seems tired and heavy, but still is smiling pools of thinning light across the wet ground. All is still. Except those light and fidgety flyers. They hover and play among the leaves of the pecan tree and skim above the soybeans, as if laughing to each other, perhaps laughing at me.
They know of things I do not, but they lend their secrets. No one of them will fall or fail but He knows of it. They would laughingly remind of the worth of one worthless human soul- one floundering, or flying, or drowning. They recall to mind the fleeing days of summer, light, youth, harmony, freedom. They recall and refresh and renew, if only in memory. Not one will fail but He knows of it.
Through the stifle of an early southern September, they laugh because they know of things to come. And, there it is, (I laugh with them now): the cool breath of an evening breeze, a stirring, even as the cicadas sing, of the freshness of a coming Fall. Coming slowly, sneaking, breathing out a new season, of weather and of men.
Bright yellow messengers, you are ever most welcome here!
[image error][image error]March 14, 2022
Coffee Steam in a Sunbeam
A worn woman, in shades of pale color, sits by a worn window, with pale sunlight streaming through. And the sunbeam caresses the steam. She puts down the cup and smiles at me.
A man with brown hair and mustache reads his Bible in the yellow light of morning, black coffee steaming. I watch the gray tendrils dance as if they have a life, a will, a sort of triumphant cheerfulness. He takes a sip, closes his Bible, and says good morning.
A rushing young woman with dancing eyes smiles down at me. Her hugs are treasures. I listen and I watch her from the back seat. Her hurried brown skirt matches her hurried coffee, splashed into a mug for driving. The steam rises and a ride to school smells like love.
In the chill of an early morning, the cabin is still except for a man, with graying hair now, and mustache. He holds his Bible in one hand, his coffee in the other. I watch the steam make its way to light. More slowly now, but ever so content. He raises his cup in greeting.
A look outside shows me a woman, no longer rushing, but her eyes still dance. Wrapped in a blanket, overlooking mountain splendor, her Bible in her lap, and cup of coffee perched carefully on the porch rail. The steam tells a story as it rises, a story of passion and courage and love; and then, so quickly, it disappears.
The spring day gathers its treasures: birdsong, flowering pear, and soon the pitter patter of precious toes. But in this moment, my coffee sits next to my Bible. I raise it to my lips and it finds a sunbeam.
It’s too fast, of course it is. But it is a treasure, a vapor, an instant, a smile, a memory. Life is a dance, coffee steam in a sunbeam.
August 28, 2021
Southern and Everyday Magic
There is magic in the heaviness of a southern summer morning, and maybe even more in the afternoon and evening. The thick air hugs the sparkling heart more closely, perhaps, than elsewhere, and though it may be dripping, it comforts and surrounds; it makes lazy and reflective the mind that might otherwise be engaged in pitiful trivialties, and therefore miss the stunning richness of the day.
A mother waiting for her family to come to table she’s supplied, perhaps hurredly, perhaps happily, perhaps by sheer will, is a kind of gold that filters through memory and brushes against the soul with eternal affect.
A child’s scream of delight when Daddy walks in the door from a long and tiring day, rubbing his eyes against the setting sun his whole drive home, bemoaning traffic and perhaps even more the certain chaos of scattered toys, tired wife, tireless children: the cry from young lips that idolize is gold that cannot be measured. The slumped shoulders straighten, no matter what the day held at a thankless (or thankful) job, it is delight now!
Why can’t we see the smile and sparkling eyes of those we love, but see often, for the magic that they are? Why is it that the golden thread must be ripped from our hearts (though it is entwined mightily, and therefore spins us round and round as it uncoils and is snatched away for eternity) why must we suffer this loss before we realize that such ordinary things like home, like grandparents, like slapping supper on the damn table, these things are the golden, magical things? The eternal things? The only things that hold meaning in this life?
You will find magic in the everyday, in the ordinary, in the tired, in the routine, in the expected hug and the expected noise. You will find it if you look; and my dears, if you do not take the time to look, you are to be most pitied of all men.
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