Alison Hendrix's Blog, page 5
June 12, 2021
Out of the Blue Depression Rolls Like WavesPexels.co...
Depression rolls like waves. Sometimes it overpowers you completely, leaving you pressed, uncontrollably, unable to move beneath all the weight, unable to breathe. Sometimes you can see the waves coming, and you try to move to higher ground. But you can’t really, because you’re trudging through thick sand that sucks at your feet, impossible to run or even walk away. Sometimes, the waves merely play at your feet, swirling and smoothe, only splashing up to your knees every so often to remind you that you’re still in the wet.
But if you’ve ever climbed back onto dry sand after being driven madly through tumultous waves and dragged mercillessly across the sharp floor; if you’ve taken a deep breath of air when the healing winds are blowing hard enough to whip the smell of salt away, if only for a moment; then, oh then, you know that you have never been lighter. The heaviness of the heart suddenly evaporates, the weight jumping up with so much force and taking flight you might say it is like a gull startled by a jogger on a foggy morning. It leaps away, leaving the heart to rebound as it can. And it can. It does. In fact, it swells into such action and furvor as no young man, eager for his craft, has ever set to task. No heart is busier than the heart of an ex-depressee, and none is more hopeful.
And then, none is more broken, crushed, shattered, beaten, when the waves-gone for a breath-return full force to make it an unwilling swimmer once again.
Out of the Blue Depression Rolls Like WavesPhoto by ...
Photo by Alex Conchillos on Pexels.comDepression rolls like waves. Sometimes it overpowers you completely, leaving you pressed, uncontrollably, unable to move beneath all the weight, unable to breathe. Sometimes you can see the waves coming, and you try to move to higher ground. But you can’t really, because you’re trudging through thick sand that sucks at your feet, impossible to run or even walk away. Sometimes, the waves merely play at your feet, swirling and smoothe, only splashing up to your knees every so often to remind you that you’re still in the wet.
But if you’ve ever climbed back onto dry sand after being driven madly through tumultous waves and dragged mercillessly across the sharp floor; if you’ve taken a deep breath of air when the healing winds are blowing hard enough to whip the smell of salt away, if only for a moment; then, oh then, you know that you have never been lighter. The heaviness of the heart suddenly evaporates, the weight jumping up with so much force and taking flight you might say it is like a gull startled by a jogger on a foggy morning. It leaps away, leaving the heart to rebound as it can. And it can. It does. In fact, it swells into such action and furvor as no young man, eager for his craft, has ever set to task. No heart is busier than the heart of an ex-depressee, and none is more hopeful.
And then, none is more broken, crushed, shattered, beaten, when the waves-gone for a breath-return full force to make it an unwilling swimmer once again.
May 31, 2021
Fairy Figurines
Photo by luizclas on Pexels.comLilac and Rose raced across the sky, heading for the pink and white playhouse at the other end of the neighborhood.
“We have 3 minutes until Molly comes outside!” screeched Lilac in her teeny tinkly fairy voice.
Rose responded, “We’ll make it! Don’t be such a worrying ninny wart!”
“If we aren’t in exactly the same place she left us, we’ll break the code and she’ll know something’s up! She’s not like other kids, Rose. She’s smart!”
Here, fairy Lilac barely avoided a run-in with a lumbering June bug, and had to roll to one side. She picked up speed to rejoin fairy Rose.
Rose glared at her. “I know,” she said, “but we’ll be fine. Besides, if we’re not in the back corner by the flower pot, she’ll just think her Mom moved us.”
“What?” cried Lilac, “That’s ridiculous, now move it!”
Rose rolled her eyes and started to respond, but she sucked in her breath. “Lilac!”
But Lilac had already seen. Molly was coming outside to play a few minutes earlier than usual.
“Oh no.” was Lilac’s breathless reply.
Rose yelled, “Fast as you can! Go in through the window!”
And that’s just what they did, sailing through the playhouse window in the back as Molly entered through the front.
The fairies froze into figurines as Molly opened the door. The little girl stopped when she saw the fairies. In their hurry to get back inside, they had not been able to reach the flower pot, so they stood, side by side, on the windowsill.
Molly did not move for a second. Then she screamed, “Mommy! My fairies have moved! They have real fairy magic!”
Mommy dismissed her cries as one sometimes does, but Molly ever after watched her toys with suspicion.
She whispered to them, “I believe in you.”
And that, my dears, is what is most important.
The End
March 14, 2021
Moon Poem
Photo by samer daboul on Pexels.comShining blue pools of liquid light, silent and strong, an even clear night.
We walk along and then stand like stone. For the moment I gaze upon the blue light, up and up and up, and imagine I am alone.
The world sleeps and sees not this beauty of ages, their cares and trifles stifle them in their cages.
Not me, never me, I am ever ever ever free, so long as this this blue light in the night sky can find me!
Childlike
What dreams dance in the late evening moments, seconds, before a child-or the childlike- fall softly, peacefully, into slumber? There in the blue of nightlight and doze, those memories, flashes of color and feeling, these dance flickering across the heart, opening the gateway to dreamland. And, if we are very lucky, they will dance again in the day, when we can think on them properly.
Memories flood my mind. The glass flashes as it moves. Melody is a memory: there is much pink and blue, and a kind of energy that is waiting, rushing to adventure but quietly pinned within a heart full of imagination.
Colors flash again, and I’m returned to singing a soft lullaby to my child. But for an instant, I was the child again.
That is one magic of being a Mommy.
March 9, 2021
More out of the blue
Photo by Alex Conchillos on Pexels.comWeight. Heavy, sure, steady pressure. Resignation to fear. Desperate, but no will, no strength, to do desperation justice. I forlorn my life away. My guilt climbs on. More weight, it’s too much. I can’t breathe, I can’t move. Even more guilt now. Its overwhelming. No more tears to cry, or energy to cry if I had them.
Yet all this is better, much better, than the cold empty that comes sometimes. That is what terrifies me more than any scary thing ever to have formed itself in my imagination-however hideous. That cold empty cannot be born. It is the absence of everything, the absence of joy, love, peace, life itself. Most horrifying is the absence of God. Will hope come in the morning? I cannot tell, for it is morning now.
From the Blue
How is it that the sun never tires?
Photo by Alex Conchillos on Pexels.comStretched, thin, worn, immobile am I, but I remember being the sun. Every morning a fresh day, a joy inside that I could never extinguish: could never burn out, could never thin to the pale thread of vapor I am currently-passing away quietly, gently, suredly. How does the sun endure? Poets speak of those liquid golden drops, the bright sparkles of orange that prick the gloom of early morning, and speak of hope. But I have none, even as I watch that glowing orb. At least, I have very little.
How does it never tire?
February 25, 2021
Introvert’s Woe
Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.comA thrill-seeker does not care about the myriad and bejeweled colors that decorated my backyard this morning as the orange sun sparkled awake. They don’t care that those Creation’s gemstones elicited an adventure in my mind of epic size- an adventure I would happily carry to completion, if ever one could, in my own mind, even if it took the rest of my life. But, you know, the rest of one’s life could never be enough for such an undertaking- ha! a laughable thought!- could never last long enough to catch the emotional adventure derived from each passing inspiration. There are many. They are infinite!
And the awful truth is, an introvert must choose only a few of these delights to think about, to chew on, to drink in. What then? Once the thought has been chosen, there are infinite paths from there: point of view, should I carry it further? Create something with it? Talk about it? Draw, write, color, paint, sew it? Discard it completely? Merely take it to prayer?
And in the midst of this whirl of emotion and decision making that takes place in an instant, comes life. The phone rings, your child laughs, someone needs something, the alarm goes off. You know, life. And that abruptly ends something that could have been beautiful, eternal. It is dropped there and forgotten, or perhaps picked up again, if memorable enough, in an early morning while life is still quiet enough for contemplation. Then the sparkling sun comes up again, and the whole process starts over: fresh ideas, fresh emotions, fresh realization that there may be infinite inspiration, infinite expression, but a pitifully finite amount of time to unpack and work them out, and a pitifully finite amount of those who would understand or care for such things.
January 16, 2021
John and Olivia’s
The Inspector told me that it’s magic, and I agree with him. I’ve long known the power of sunshine and familial love, the power in nature’s beauty, and the power of a simple temporary change of atmosphere. There’s also power in being surrounded by something comforting and safe. I found all of these things on Walton’s mountain, and the peace was nothing short of magic.
Earl Hamner has been a hero of mine since I was a little girl, since before I even knew I wanted to be a writer. Now that I have found my calling, he is become something of an intangible, an inspiration. I believe there is probably no greater honor than having your words come to life to bless others, to bring them a sense of home and peace, and that’s exactly what Mr. Hamner has done. I hope he knew that, I think he probably did. Though his books were a bit different than the tv show they inspired, I think the overarching feeling has been captured in The Walton’s. Earlier this week, I got to walk through his family home and also a replica of the Walton’s television show house, and actually to stay there!!
I walked into the front door of John and Olivia’s, a B&B run by Carole Johnson, just a few yards from Earl Hamner’s childhood home, and barely held back tears. It was just like walking into the Walton’s house! You almost expect a young Elizabeth to come running down the stairs, chased by Jim Bob, or to hear Grandma fussing at Grandpa, and to see Olivia’s welcoming face. Olivia wasn’t there, but Carole was, and her friendly, smiling face and willingness to chat about all things Walton’s put me right at ease, like I was at home. I couldn’t believe how like the show it all looked, and more than that, it felt like it, too.
There was one other guest staying there, Inspector Mark. A kinder soul will never be found than this man. He was a long way from home for work, and has found a temporary home at John and Olivia’s. He had fun stories to share about moonshiners in another county, and good suggestions for nearby food and things to do. The best part, he was ok with us doing the “Goodnights,” calling, “Goodnight Erin, Goodnight Olivia,” and we responded, “Goodnight Ben!” I don’t think our stay would’ve been complete without him.
When we walked up the steps, an almost perfect replica of the show, I took a breath before stepping into our room, the Writer’s room, John Boy’s room. It was so meaningful for me to look around in there, to see the Boatright University banner, the lovely lace curtains, and then the typewriter. A pair of round glasses sat next to it, so I of course had to sit down and try them on, as I played with the keys. I felt a kindred spirit there, though I know this wasn’t the actual home of the actual writer. It was, however, an exact replica of the tv room where a writer sat and formed his manuscripts and his words of love of family and God and country life, all things I hold most dear.
This place is a beautiful gift, I highly recommend it for a girls’ weekend, a vacation, a family reunion, or just to get away and grab some peace. Tell Carole hello for me, and see the magic for yourself.
December 21, 2020
The Littlest Angel
The littlest angel was thrilled as she could be!
Her Lord was going to earth, in a blessed nativity!
She danced in Heaven, full of spirit and happiness,
Hoping with all her heart to go with the heavenly host and sing with all the rest.
When it came time for God to choose,
She waited for Him to call her name to share the good news!
A whole host was chosen, but one was left out,
The littlest angel began to pout.
But then God pointed to her and said, “Oh my dear!”
“You must be one of my messengers to spread good cheer!”
So off flew the angel, quick as could be,
To be the first to proclaim the good news joyfully.
When she arrived at the manger and saw Jesus there,
She forgot what she was supposed to say, all she could do was stare.
Looking around, she thought really hard.
Then an idea came to her, in that holy barnyard.
Around the manger, she danced with all her might,
Swooping and swirling so lovely on that Christmas night.
All who saw it were truly blessed,
And then the host of angels appeared, and the littlest sang with all the rest.
