For my Friends and Readers:
I sincerely hope that you will find some of this reading entertaining and / or stimulating. Any comments and or critiques are welcome. And, of course, purchase my books and stories and tell me what you think. You may also wish to visit my page for Readers Reviews (coming).
Please also follow the link to my United Kingdom website http://adellebradford.org.uk. This site has been up since the beginning of October 2006. It appears to be developing a readership as well and I am very happy about that!
Suffolk, Virginia, USA
I think I understand the difference between "childish" and "child-like" now. One morning in May, I stood on a grassy hillside where apple trees were blooming. Quite suddenly, it became MY time, MY place . . . the sun, the almost-tangible taste of the sweetness and clarity of the air, the almost-audible whispers of buds opening and leaves unfurling, bird sounds, bee sounds, and oh,the colors! The marvelous colors!
The years fell away, and in my emotional nakedness, I dived in it, swam in it, frolicked in it, absorbed it through my pores. And I remembered, oh so clearly, a boy named "Howard," the dearest friend of my first fifteen years, the closest thing to a big brother I will ever have. He survived the Hell of landing on Omaha Beach in World War Two. Only three days later, he wrote to me as he sat in an apple orchard somewhere in France. In his boyish way he tried to describe to me, the naive girl who knew only harsh Arizona deserts and who had never seen an apple tree, the lushness of it all, the beauty of apple blossoms falling on the paper as he wrote, how alive he felt, how far away the war.
He was killed the next day.
That was so many years ago, and I was a half a world away. Only now do I truly understand what he tried to tell me.
For an hour on that hillside in May here in Mauer, Germany, we were together, children again when everything was new and glorious, and there were no questions, no yesterdays, no tomorrows.
In that moment, I simply "was" alive, everything I am and will ever be . . . child-like.
And now the lilacs are blooming . . . .
I believe in magic . . . the good kind,
Transforming dross into gold.
I believe in ritual . . . and dreams
So all encompassing
They transcend mundane reality.
Sometimes, when deeply mired in wars
With self and the world outside me,
I chant my secret words and charms,
Begin my the long practiced rituals
And soon I am at peace,
Tranquil and serene,
At one with myself,
In that magic place
Where the real me lives,
Mania is bottled anxiety,
part arousal, part madness,
an electricity that
both illuminates and electrocutes.
the lot of she who creates,
for when she loves her work
and needs to birth it,
when ideas flood her brain and
she must arrange them
into coherent patterns,
she is driven along by
her own relentless passion
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