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boltjacksonstories · 4 years ago

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The Thing in the Mountains

She walked by the river every day.

She was once asked what she would miss most about the earth once she was gone. Her response was unequivocally the rivers. She loved her old family, she’d miss her old friends, and maybe even shed a tear for her pets, old and new- but it was the rivers, she knew, that she would miss most.

And why shouldn’t she? Do you not see the beauty in the ceaseless pounding of endless water on a log? Do you not hear the music of a rushing current slowly eroding the stones of time? Do you not feel the chill awaken your bones as soon as your feet break the water? Break the flow. Become part of what has always been. Try and connect with what you’ll never be. She did. She did all of these things every chance that she got.

“Where only voices spring For speakers fear they fall To find the warmth of spring Still looking like the fall.”

That was her place, her spot. She wrote that poem for it, or rather, that poem came to her because of that spot. Her place was a boulder overlooking the river bend. Overlooking? About fifty yards overlooking. For speakers feared they fall. And that’s where she found her peace.

It was her piece of land. It was her slice of heaven. It was her domain and under her dominion and as long as she was there she knew it could never be taken away. Not from her. She was it’s mother.

Her nature was that of a quiet type. Her mousey face came with a voice to match. Quiet, unassuming, unwanting, contented. The material world was for Madonnas. The Madonnas of the world were for material. Her countenance never could find the comfort in that type of life. She preferred her long blond hair to lay out on a rock to rocking it back and forth at some show. She loved the quiet of nature.

She floated through her forest like a spirit. She was still bounded by the physical world, just not the material one. She still lived in the world as it is today, but she didn’t care much for it. No care for the world, but only for the earth.

She lived alone in a cabin that she built from the earth she loved so much. The roof over her head was more like a canopy. Her walls changed with the seasons and reflected what was available in the surrounding woods. Her door was always open though she never had any visitors. She had only one friend in the world to speak of: an eastern chipmunk with an agouti coat whom she had lovingly named Alvin.

Alvin was her only hold on to mammalian affections. He seemed to visit her every day, especially when prompted by the dried berries she’d leave on the windowsill. Windowsill. She only had a windowsill in the months that afforded one. When the weather would necessitate it, all windowsills were sealed up. Those were the days that Alvin would come inside, for the warmth and the shelter. She liked to pretend he liked her company.

This was the life she had chosen for herself. This was her unbeaten path to happiness. And every day that she could, she walked the whole thing.

She owned few books and even fewer mirrors as her only prized possessions. The books provided an escape. The blank books provided a means of expression. The mirrors provided some relief from the seriousness of her survival. Funhouse mirrors, made to bend and distort realities. The four she brought with her into the woods were from her grandmother, whom she had loved a very long time ago. For hours on end, she would sit in the dirt with a mirror directly in front of her. She may laugh, she may stare blankly, she may call upon the powers of her blank book and pencil to try and give the mirror’s image some permanence. Her favorite mirror was the one that elongated her face, her body, or whatever stood in front of it. It amused her because she had always been petite- she was born that way, seven pounds under weight. The miracle child, her grandmother had called her. How happy her mother would have been, she used to say, to have seen her make it.

And make it, she did. She lived her dream out here in the woods, what with her rivers and books and mirrors and freedom. She lived the dream of every wilderness princess she had imagined as a girl. And now she was a woman. It had been several weeks since she had last seen Alvin. This was not highly unusual, as he was a feral rodent. Still, his absence was disheartening. The season was as dry as the berries she left sitting in the windowsill, but still no Alvin. She imagined he had better things to do, perhaps even a family to attend to.

“Alvin, where have you been? The children have missed you terribly.”

“Oh hon, you know, I’ve been on a business trip. Hey there kiddos, look what I brought back for ya- dried berries.”

She imagined Alvin’s life in her hut was that of a double life; that she was the other woman he kept secret from his first love. So she understood why he couldn’t always come back and, in that same vein, anticipated his return. She was heading out to the trail for a leisurely walk when she noticed something strange with her favorite mirror. The image it reflected back looked exactly like her, not distorted at all.

Unperturbed, she moved forward with her day. Out the door. Down the winding trail. She had become so familiar with her trails that she could follow their twists and turns step for step in her mind. On stormy days when it was unsafe to go out she would close her eyes and just picture herself walking anyway. Turn for turn and twist for twist. She knew to conserve her energy around the first three bends that took her to a lower elevation, for what goes down must also come up. She knew where to stop and turn around to see the prettiest views. She knew where to step off the trail to touch her favorite tree- a skyscraping oak so wide that her hug couldn’t cover even half of it’s circumference. She knew exactly the points that marked a quarter, half, and three-quarters of the way. She saw things that no one else could have possibly seen on their first few walkthroughs. So imagine her surprise on that day when she saw, glimmering off in the distance, something else in her spot.

She was approaching her overlook on the river when she saw it about fifty yards off in the distance. She froze instantly with fear. She had never encountered anyone out here. Somehow, in her seven years in the woods, she had never encountered another soul. Not even a park ranger, or a lost runaway looking for escape. Not a single soul, excluding that of Alvin’s, whom she loved dearly. The sight of something else so human in the distance, in her spot, stole her breath away.

Who could that be? She regained her thought and instinctively moved to investigate. The sun’s blinding reflection made direct eye contact with it’s bald head nearly impossible. She moved closer with a cautioned curiosity.

She crept towards the vision on the toes of a ballerina. She moved behind her trees and brush in desperate hopes of remaining undetected. After all, she was only a small woman miles away from civilization. Who knows what kind of things other people this far out in the woods could be up to? She had two advantages on this thing in the distance. The first was her familiarity with the territory. The second was her camouflage. No, she did not dress in hunting gear or cheap patterned fabric. Her camouflage was natural, the same you may expect out of a squirrel or a deer. Her camouflage was the result of living in her environment. She was a part of the earth there, and the earth was a part of her. Her body was coated in a thin layer of dirt accumulated from her daily scavengings. She only cleaned her skin, hair, and nails when she played in the river. To the outside world, her hygiene would have been seen as appalling. Perhaps this was a result of her distorted reflections. Perhaps this was a result of her isolation.

Whatever was in her spot did not belong like she did. It possessed none of the camouflage she had spent years building in. Like a mechanical ant in a beehive, this figure stood out as a stranger. A chrome mechanical ant. It stood with an eerie and natural confidence while remaining completely unnatural in it’s surroundings. The sun’s dimmed reflection off it’s exterior only illuminated her fears as she snuck within twenty yards of it. She inched closer and closer; each step more difficult than the last. With the weight of the world on her shoulders, she finally made a mistake.

Maybe it was the gravity of the situation. Maybe it was the allure of something new. Maybe, and just maybe, she deeply wanted to be heard. Maybe she had a secret desire to reconnect with something so human after all these years. Whatever the reason, she broke the silence of the hills with the loud crack of a branch being snapped in two under the weight of her foot. The thing responded by snapping its neck to focus in her direction. For a moment, there was a silence heavier than any stone she had ever stood on or seen. A silence so heavy as to muddle the air between them like the communication of something horrible. Even more strange was the comfort she felt in being noticed. Her comfort evaporated with the breaching of that silence.

It located her in the brush. She found it’s eyes meet her own. It’s eyes. Were those eyes? They looked empty, metallic, and cold. The black of its pupils hid no soul; its iris’ were as silver as hers were blue. As soon as their eyes met, the thing snapped its shoulders and torso around to face her and unhinged its mouth. It produced a screech reminiscent of a train braking before it reaches the light at the end of the tunnel. The volume and the pitch of it’s howl was nothing she had ever heard before. It was so loud that it produced in it’s wake a sort of silence of its own. She was surrounded by its roar and could hear nothing at all. The endless river seemed to stop flowing. Birds vacated their trees. Those trees that she loved seemed to cower in fear as their leaves and branches were blown back by the pure power of vibrations emanating from the thing’s mouth. Her instinct left her no other option but to run. And run she did. Sprint, in fact. She moved faster than she had moved during her days as a track star in high school. Her legs were propelled forward by the adrenaline of unadulterated fear pumping through her veins. Her heart expanded to accommodate the unexpected influx of blood. Her lungs reached deeper into her torso than ever before to capture all the oxygen from the trees and their fear. Her calves filled with lactic acid for more and more energy that was doomed to build up upon itself and slow her down but she didn’t care because she was numb numb with the terror of the unknown that shrieked behind her still even though she had now ran half a mile away from where their eyes met. Half a mile. She checked her surroundings and began calculating. That’s the tree around the third bend behind the fourth hill. If I’m at the third tree coming from the other way then that means there’s three more hills. Three more hills? Two more hills. Count backwards. Average pace? Two to three miles an hour. I’m at eight to ten now. My heart is hurting. Push on. Three quarters of a mile left. About seven minutes. I’m seven minutes from home. Keep running. She bounded through the woods like a gazelle tailed by cheetahs. A pool of sweat began to mix with the dirt and get into her eyes. She didn’t care. She had no time to care. As her home came into view, she could still hear the screeching far off in the distance, though it did not seem to be getting any closer. Did it? She realized she couldn’t tell.

She ran through her open door and fell to her knees. She heaved violently to catch her breath. The screeching had finally stopped. Sweat poured from her neck and forehead as she gasped for breath. She looked up to her windowsill and saw that the dried berries were gone. She started to laugh, almost maniacally. Finally, she thought, Finally, he’s come back. Her breath regained and her heart rate slowed. Her tunnel vision widened and her blinders faded away. She stopped laughing as she started to notice what else was missing. With her knees in the dirt, she took a slow inventory of her one room hut- everything was gone. Everything was gone. The canopy over her head began to rattle. The wind outside shook the forest. The shriek of the thing was replaced by a more natural yell. It was the screaming of the clouds; the winds of shifting pressure. She looked back up to her windowsill. Alvin sat in the center of it. He stared back at her, motionless. He stood erect on the windowsill without moving. She stared at him, he stared back at her, they stared at eachother. Half a minute passed and she thought she saw him shake his head. He turned to run and she thought she heard him saying good-bye forever. The wind outside grew louder and stronger. The fearful woods bent in response. Her canopy was completely removed. Hard rain began to mix with her sweat and dirt. Lightning struck and thunder roared in the near distance. A storm was brewing more powerful than this season was known for. From her knees, she looked up to the sky. Torrential downpour provided her with the first shower she’d had in years. With her knees in the mud, she was washed clean by the fall of the sky’s tears. The sky was crying for her. It was all over now.

The unnatural screeching returned even louder than before. She looked to her open door only to see the thing staring right back at her. Right in her eyes. This was her best look at it yet. It stood seven feet tall with the build of an Olympic swimmer. Its bald head glimmered with a completeness that the rest of it’s body did not share. Its eyes burned a hole right through her chest like an acid eroding her soul. Sparking wires were exposed from its abdomen and sculpted arms. It began to move towards her, screeching still. She noticed the pistons turning in response to shifting pressures from its legs, propelling the thing’s movement like an engine. Each step shook the earth beneath her knees. She began to cry harder than the rain. The thing now stood directly in front of her. Its cry was ceaseless. Sobbing, she looked up at the thing to take one final inventory of it’s build. It looked stronger than anything she had ever seen in the forest or in her former life as a civilized person. She looked back down at herself to notice her natural skin tone, unaffected by dirt and grime. She had forgotten about what fair skin she had. Her grandmother used to say she had a complexion that most women would kill for. As a teenager, she was the envy of her classmates with her fair skin that never harbored any blemish. She had forgotten how beautiful she was. She looked back to the thing which had now stopped screeching. The rain over them turned to a sprinkle and her sobs returned to a few sniffles. Once again, and for only a moment, there was an eerily comfortable silence between the two. It almost felt like an understanding. In her confusion, she began to smile. The thing reached out to her with both hands. Its cold, hard palms cusped both sides of her head and gently turned her face towards its own. She began to bawl again. Somehow, she knew this was the end. Their eyes met. The thing seemed to oblige her deepest fears. At the realization of what was happening, her weeping became uncontrollable. She wailed like a baby. She cried like she did when her grandma died. Oh, her grandma’s death. Her final straw before abandoning civilization. Her great loss that had defined everything else in her life. In that moment, she missed her grandmother’s smile more than she ever had before. Her heart ached to hold her strong, kind hands again. And even though she had broken down beyond all repair, she still managed a prayer: To see you again, Granny. To hold you again soon.

The thing slammed her soft skull into it’s unbreakable kneecap. In an instant, she was dead. It released her lifeless body back to the earth from whence she came. Blood from her ears and mouth mixed with the mud and sweat below. The thing looked around the empty hut, searching for anything useful that it had not already taken. Finding nothing of utility, it turned and marched off onto the trail again, heading back to the overlook it had found by the river. Seven minutes later it had returned to that overlook, where it scanned its environment for anything of use. Perceiving nothing of value, it moved forward through the trail and into the future; always ready for progress waiting around the next bend.

#shortstory

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poetzproblem · 8 years ago

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Something In Your Eyes Is Makin’ Such A Fool of Me

Something in your eyes is makin' such a fool of me When you hold me in your arms, you love me 'til I just can't see. ~Borderline, Madonna

Rachel is in an extremely good mood as she strolls along the sidewalk toward her apartment on West End Avenue, humming the melody to her very favorite song off her newest, soon to be released album. Well—all of her songs are favorites in one way or another, but she's exceptionally attached to this one because she'd written it about her beautiful little girl. It's a promise to always be there for her, and God-willing, she'll be able to keep that promise so much better this year than she had in the last.

Rachel loves her life. She adores her family. And she's thrilled with the sudden explosion of her career on every front that's been happening in the last two years, but she's the first to admit that she'd overextended herself more than a little in the past eighteen months or so.

That first year after Calliope had been born, Rachel made it a point to be home with her wife and daughter more often than not, passing the time by working on her first album with Atlantic Records—a moderate success that had earned her a Grammy for Record of the Year, thanks to one particularly catchy (and, in Rachel's humble opinion, masterfully recorded) song that had broken out and been all over the radio right before the nominations.

But when Callie was fast approaching her second birthday, Rachel decided to sign on for a television pilot that had been filming right here in New York, and to her surprise and delight, it was picked up by the network.

That had been the beginning of Rachel's newly crazy schedule, even though her role on the show, Union City Blues, is technically a supporting one. (One that won her a frickin' Emmy last September, thank you very much!)

Hard on the heels of her television success had been the offer to reprise her role of Iris in the big screen adaptation of Confessions, and there was no way that Rachel was going to pass up that opportunity, so she'd burned through her summer hiatus from Union City with an insanely exhausting film schedule before going right back to work on the second season of the show.

And in the middle of that, the record company had pushed her to start recording the second album of her two album deal, and—

Needless to say, she hates how little quality time she's actually been able to spend with Quinn and Callie recently. Quinn has been so wonderfully understanding about all of it—supporting Rachel and encouraging her to take these opportunities—but Rachel can feel the strain it's been putting on their family, especially with Quinn's time more in demand thanks to the success of her books and the resulting movies.

So now, finally, Rachel is looking at a blessedly light schedule for the rest of the year. Her album is coming out this summer (so she'd just been at the record company this morning to listen through the tracks again and offer some final input on the cover design) and the Confessions premiere is set for the end of August (appropriately in time for Callie's fourth birthday), and the fate of poor Abby (her character on Union City) is about to be tossed into cliffhanger-y suspense just in time for May sweeps, so Rachel already knows that she won't be required on set quite as often when they start filming season three.

(And maybe—just maybe—watching Santana and Teresa decide to take on motherhood for themselves had given Rachel a touch of baby-fever and caused her to mention to her producers that she and Quinn might be thinking about trying for a second baby in the near future and ask if the show would be able to work around a possible pregnancy. Nothing like that is happening just yet but it maybe could be in the next year or so.)

With a bounce in her step, Rachel turns into her building, waving at Stanley, the part-time doorman, on her way to the elevator. She loves that they have a doorman here. The apartment had been on the very upper limit of their budget when they'd signed the lease four years ago, but with the recent successes that they've both been enjoying in their careers, it's more than comfortable now—comfortable financially anyway. Space, on the other hand, might be becoming an issue with an energetic three-going-on-four–year-old who bounces around from room to room like a bunny on speed. (An adorable, cuddly bunny that Rachel loves with all of her heart and soul.) It might just be time for Rachel and Quinn to discuss upgrading to an actual house with a yard for Callie to enjoy somewhere outside of Manhattan, especially if they decide to go ahead with the potential expansion of their family.

When the elevator comes to a stop on her floor, Rachel practically skips out of it, eager to spend the rest of the afternoon with her girls. It's such a lovely day—in the mid-seventies and sunny with a nice breeze—and she's thinking that maybe they can all go play in the park. She's still humming when she slides her key into the lock and opens the door, stepping into their bright apartment with a cheerful, "I'm home."

She frowns a little when she isn't immediately greeted by her wife's voice or her daughter attempting to tackle her around her knees. "Quinn, baby? Calliope?" she calls out on her way through the foyer.

"We're in the living room," Quinn finally answers, voice sounding a little odd.

Rachel heads directly for the living room to discover Callie curled into Quinn's side on the sofa with wide, wet eyes while Quinn looks up at Rachel regretfully, one arm curled securely around their daughter.

Rachel's heart practically stops beating before jumping into her throat. "Oh, God. What happened? What's wrong?" she asks in a panic, rushing over and sinking onto the coffee table across from them, immediately reaching out to gently cup her daughter's wet face, but Callie only turns her head into Quinn's breast to hide from her.

Rachel sucks in a harsh breath at the rejection and jerks her hand away, her heart breaking as she turns to Quinn in hurt confusion.

Quinn reaches out a hand—the one that isn't currently holding their sniffling daughter—to take Rachel's limp one as she offers a reassuring smile. "Don't panic, sweetie," she instructs in a calm, even tone. "We're both fine. No one is hurt." Then she cringes mildly, glancing down at Callie. "Well…no one except Emmy."

Rachel's brows furrow even more as she glances between the two most important people in her life before her worried eyes settle on Callie, who's peeking around Quinn's damp shirt with doleful eyes.

"Who's Emmy?" Rachel asks in bewilderment, wracking her brain to remember if Callie has any little friends in her preschool class named Emmy.

Quinn sighs, shaking her head as she lets go of Rachel's hand and reaches down to pick up something from the sofa beside her. Rachel's eyes follow the motion, registering the flash of gold and—

Rachel's hand flies to her mouth to suppress a squeaking gasp of horror, and her eyes go wide as they take in her once beautiful statuette—now broken off its black base with a missing globe and bent wings.

"She took a little spill this morning," Quinn explains apologetically. "I'm afraid her condition is critical."

Rachel's attempt to respond to her wife's inappropriate humor is barely more than a pained grunt.

"I'm sorry Mama," Callie mumbles tearfully—though it comes out sounding more like Mm thawee Mmm since her face is still mostly buried in Quinn.

Rachel pries her hand from her mouth and forces a deep breath into her lungs, tearing her eyes away from her poor, mutilated Emmy Award to study her daughter's guilty posture. It finally registers that her precious baby girl is Emmy's assailant.

"H-how did it happen?" she finally manages to ask, glancing back to Quinn with a forced calm.

It's just a statue. An inanimate thing, she silently reminds herself.

The third piece to completing my coveted EGOT that is now in pieces!

Quinn sighs, rubbing a comforting circle over Callie's small, quivering shoulder. "Someone got a little too rambunctious during her reenactment of Merida's daring rescue of her mother and ended up tackling your award case."

Rachel's frown deepens, and she reaches up to rub two fingers over the bridge of her nose. "I knew we should have gone with the wall mounted one," she grumbles—but no, Quinn had thought that one would be too dangerous with both Oliver and Callie running around, so they'd gone with the floor cabinet instead, and—

"Oh, my God," she gasps in realization, immediately sliding off the edge of the table to kneel awkwardly on the floor in front of Callie, her decimated award all but forgotten. "Callie, baby, are you okay?" she rushes out, gently running her hands over her daughter's tiny form. That case is heavy oak with a thick, glass door. Callie could have been seriously injured. "Did you get hurt?" she asks fearfully, stroking Callie's dark hair as she tries to urge her daughter's face away from its hiding place so she can thoroughly inspect her for injuries.

Callie's little head shakes furiously against Quinn, but she still won't look at Rachel, and she's beginning to fidget noticeably even as she stays burrowed into Quinn's side.

Quinn bites into her lip, suppressing a smile. "She's perfect, Rach. No injuries whatsoever. I promise."

Callie makes a noise then that doesn't sound much like a sob at all. In fact, it sounds more like a muffled giggle, and Rachel frowns in apprehension as her gaze flies back to Quinn, whose eyes are alight with a suspicious twinkle.

"I don't see what you could possibly find funny about any of this," Rachel accuses, and her daughter—her sweet, guilt-ridden daughter—collapses into giggles.

Rachel's eyes narrow. "Quinn?"

Her wife ducks her head close to their daughter's hair with a mischievous smirk. "Callie, hon, what do you have to say to Mama?"

Callie pokes her head up then, all her tears dry as she grins toothily at Rachel. "April Fool!" she squeals before enthusiastically flinging herself at Rachel, tiny arms looping around Rachel's neck and tugging her forward.

Rachel teeters off balance from her daughter's unexpected weight, and she has to catch herself against the edge of the sofa to keep from toppling forward. Next to them, Quinn is laughing her ass off.

"This…this was a prank?" Rachel realizes incredulously, even as she instinctively wraps Callie in her arms. Belatedly, she remembers that today is, in fact, the first day of April. God damn it!

"We got you good, Mama," Callie boasts, obviously tickled pink at her part in this subterfuge.

"You certainly did," Rachel admits with a faint smile, unable to resist her daughter's infectious exuberance. She'd really believed—wait! Her eyes suddenly fly back to the mangled award still in Quinn's hand. "But…but my Emmy?"

"Safe in the closet," Quinn assures her. "This one is plastic," she supplies, holding it out to Rachel for closer inspection. "I have to say, those prop guys on your show do some high quality work."

Rachel's eyes widen in disbelief. "Quinn! You turned my own crew against me?"

Than damnable eyebrow inches up smugly—because yes, Quinn's eyebrow absolutely is capable of being a smug, little bitch all on its own. "What can I say? Tommy likes me."

Rachel scowls at her. "A little too much, if you ask me," she mutters, making a mental note to have a few words with the cocky, young prop master when next she sees him. His crush on her wife has just crossed the line from cute to bothersome.

"Your face was so funny," Callie tells her, still grinning irrepressibly.

"Oh, it was, was it?" Rachel challenges, feeling her lips twitch at her daughter's giggly nod. "And did Mommy tell you exactly what to do to get me to make that face?"

"Uh huh," Callie confirms happily.

Rachel darts her reproachful gaze back to Quinn. "I can't believe you dragged our innocent daughter into your wicked plot to dupe me again," she huffs, heaving herself off the floor with Callie still in her arms—it's not nearly as easy as it used to be when she was smaller—and settling them both onto the sofa next to Quinn with Callie snugly between them.

Laughing again, Quinn shakes her head. "You should be proud of how well she takes direction. She's a natural," she compliments with a proud smile, tapping their daughter's nose and receiving another delighted giggle before bowing her head to press a kiss to Callie's messy curls. "You're as good an actress as Mama."

"I know," Callie agrees, beaming up at them both and making Quinn laugh in delight.

Rachel presses a hand over her heart, realizing that Quinn is absolutely right. Callie had her convinced that she was distraught—tears and all—right to the moment she broke down laughing. Her daughter has talent.

She's so incredibly proud.

Except—

"You were very convincing, little star," Rachel promises her daughter, wrapping an arm around her, "but we really have to work on the roles you agree to take. Being Mommy's evil minion," and she side-eyes Quinn, "is a waste of your immense talent."

Callie giggles again, and Quinn rolls her eyes, reaching out to gently comb her fingers through Callie's hair and fuss with that one stubborn curl that always curls in the opposite direction. "But we had fun, didn't we, Sunshine? Mama's such an easy mark."

"It was fun," Callie agrees with a nod, kicking her little legs against the cushion. "I wanna do it again."

Quinn laughs in delight, and Rachel sighs in resignation at her daughter's easy betrayal. "I can't believe I have two of you now," she complains affably.

"You love that you have two of us," Quinn counters knowingly.

Rachel feels her mouth curve into a content smile as she gazes lovingly at her two pranksters. "I do," she agrees, cuddling Callie closer as she leans into Quinn and brushes a brief kiss across her smirking lips. She'll happily play the fool for them every single time.

#something in your eyes is makin' such a fool of me #don't blink #it happened in a blink #faberry #ficlet #april fools day #this will be archived when ao3 is back up

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yogaatgarfield · 7 years ago

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0Greetings,

Due to a previous appointment, the Tuesday 9:00AM class will be cancelled.

We will go back on regular schedule Thursday, April 19.

We had a lovely class yesterday with a little yoga wisdom spice added. Included in this spice was Jack Nicholson’s profound reasoning as to why he does yoga.

It is a joy to see how this class is slowly growing. I purposefully set the time at 9:00AM as a lovely French friend (who lives around the corner and has two children) suggested that that would be a perfect time for her and other moms to practice. With the kids having just been dropped off at school, the class provides a time where one can breathe, settle and rest.

The practice is not forceful. In the past, I have done a forceful practice in the best sense of the word. In time I gravitated toward a gentler practice though without the loss of strength. From my experience I describe this strength similar to that of water slowly entering a dry dock. As the caisson fills, the vessel rises off its support structures effortlessly. The water does what water does. It follows the least path of resistance. And because of this ships rise.

It is somewhat daunting to me when someone asks me “what style of yoga do you teach” Sometimes I say that “I didn’t study styles, I studied characters” And while that is true the most honest answer I feel I can give is that it is the “style of no style” For me that humanizes the practice without losing its mystical charm and makes yoga and its deeper aspects available to everyone.

It also makes it fun for me to teach.

So this is a little of where I come from and what I do. My yoga “resume” can be seen as a journey unto itself. My first classes being taught in Old Pasadena in 1993, teaching at a yoga cooperative that morphed into Yoga House off Fair Oaks, coming back to my ability to heal in anticipatory support of my partner who soon be going through breast cancer, realizing that I was on the path to teach Madonna (and I can forever say I was her first yoga teacher) Meeting friends. Losing friends. Having profound moments that I have always carried with me. Teaching some classes at the Ritz-Carlton before it became the Langham Huntington. Being the guiding presence for my partner as she left her body due to cancer.

For me that’s not a style. That is life. That’s the ship rising.

Let’s make it fun and do it together!

Facebook - Yoga at Garfield Twitter - yogaatgarfield

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networkingdefinition · 5 years ago

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Firewood Quotes

Official Website: Firewood Quotes

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• A man may plant a tree for a number of reasons. Perhaps he likes trees. Perhaps he wants shelter. Or perhaps he knows that someday he may need the firewood. – Joanne Harris • As a child I drew objects that caught my eye outside the window of my room – the dry twigs, leaves and lizard-like creatures crawling about, the servant chopping firewood and, of course, and number of crows in various postures on the rooftops of the buildings opposite. – R. K. Laxman

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Firewood', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_firewood').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_firewood img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Cassoulet, that best of bean feasts, is everyday fare for a peasant but ambrosia for a gastronome, though its ideal consumer is a 300-pound blocking back who has been splitting firewood nonstop for the last twelve hours on a subzero day in Manitoba. – Julia Child • Centres, or centre-pieces of wood, are put by builders under an arch of stone while it is in the process of construction till the keystone is put in. Just such is the use Satan makes of pleasures to construct evil habits upon; the pleasure lasts till the habit is fully formed; but that done the habit may stand eternal. The pleasures are sent for firewood, and the hell begins in this life. – Samuel Taylor Coleridge • Cows provide approx 100 million tonnes of dry dung a year costing Rs 5000 crores which saves 50 million tonnes of firewood which again means that many trees saved and more environmental damage prevented. It is calculated that if these 73 million animals were to be replaced, we would need 7.3 million tractors at the cost of 2.5 lac each which would amount to an investment of 180,000 crores. In addition 2 crore, 37 lakh and 50 thousand tonnes of diesel which would mean another 57,000 crore rupees. This is how much we owe these animals, and this is what we stand to lose by killing them. – Maneka Gandhi • Do you know anyone who hasn’t changed his mind? This door was a tree, then it will be firewood for someone, then it will return to air and earth. We’re all like that, constantly changing. It’s simply honest to report that you’ve changed your mind when you have. When you’re afraid of what people will think if you speak honestly, that’s where you become confused. – Byron Katie • Fire and light compete today in the East. But there is a lot of green firewood in this fire, and there is a lot of smoke in that light. – Ameen Rihani • Frightened of change? But what can exist without it? What’s closer to nature’s heart? Can you take a hot bath and leave the firewood as it was? Eat food without transforming it? Can any vital process take place without something being changed? Can’t you see? It’s just the same with you – and just as vital to nature. – Marcus Aurelius • From the fallen tree everybody makes firewood. – Barbara Kingsolver • Here we grow the flax and grain; here we raise the meat they eat, and the wool to keep them warm; we cut trees to build their houses and firewood to heat their stoves. – Ernest Poole • How miraculous and wondrous, hauling water and carrying firewood! – Layman Pang • However much you study, you cannot know without action. A donkey laden with books is neither an intellectual nor a wise man. Empty of essence, what learning has he whether upon him is firewood or book? – Saadi • I knew the tree when it grew, and the tree is now gone. The farmers cut it up, and it’s become firewood. And there’s this tremendous sense of absence and shock and violence attendant to that collapsing tree. – Andy Goldsworthy • In all this welter of women I still hadn’t got one for myself, not that I was trying too hard, but sometimes I felt lonely to see everybody paired off and having a good time and all I did was curl up in my sleeping bag in the rosebushes and sigh and say bah. For me it was just red wine in my mouth and a pile of firewood – Jack Kerouac • In Kenya women are the first victims of environmental degradation, because they are the ones who walk for hours looking for water, who fetch firewood, who provide food for their families. – Wangari Maathai • It is only great pain–that slow, sustained pain that takes its time, in which we are, as it were, burned with smoldering green firewood–that forces us philosophers to sink to our ultimate profundity and to do away with all the trust, everything good-natured, veil-imposing, mild and middling, on which we may have previously based our humanity. I doubt that such a pain makes us ‘better’–but I know that it makes us deeper. – Friedrich Nietzsche • It is quite affecting to observe how much the olive tree is to the country people. Its fruit supplies them with food, medicine and light; its leaves, winter fodder for the goats and sheep; it is their shelter from the heat and its branches and roots supply them with firewood. The olive tree is the peasant’s all-in-all. – Fredrika Bremer • Like in Africa, if somebody doesn’t have fuel, they’re still going and collecting firewood. If they get an oven, that’s a huge difference. You can do things to reduce the inequities by making sure that they can get clean energy, safe energy. To make sure they’re not having to collect water every day. That’s huge for women in the developing world. – Melinda Gates • My father had been a forester and I had grown up on those hills. I had seen forests and streams disappear. I jumped into Chipko movement and started to work with the peasant women. I learned from them about what forests mean for a rural woman in India in terms of firewood and fodder and medicinal plants and rich knowledge. – Vandana Shiva • My men have suffered greatly (from boredom), much blood has been shed (by mosquitoes), and I have swung my ax mightily (chopping firewood). Surely we have earned our place in the annals of history—for never has there been so little war in a war. – Seth Grahame-Smith • My wife, Daniela, and I live in an old house from 1810 with three fireplaces at the end of a dead-end dirt road on Cape Cod, so I turn the trees into firewood for us and a friend of mine sells the rest. – Sebastian Junger • Rural American families who depend on firewood to heat their homes will be hit just as hard as those who use oil and natural gas. – Richard Pombo • The greatest gift of life on the mountain is time. Time to think or not think, read or not read, scribble or not scribble — to sleep and cook and walk in the woods, to sit and stare at the shapes of the hills. I produce nothing but words; I consumer nothing but food, a little propane, a little firewood. By being utterly useless in the calculations of the culture at large I become useful, at last, to myself. – Philip Connors • The joy of late love is like green firewood when set aflame, for the longer the wait in lighting, the greater heat it yields and the longer its force lasts. – Chretien de Troyes • The landmine cannot tell the difference between a soldier or a civilian – a woman, a child, a grandmother going out to collect firewood to make the family meal… once peace is declared the landmine does not recognize that peace. The landmine is eternally prepared to take victims. – Jody Williams • The piano is not firewood — yet. – Regina Spektor • The thrust of continuous action is the firewood which fuels motivation. – Steve Backley • The value of the things is not in themselves autonomously, but that God made them, and thus they deserve to be treated with high respect. The tree in the field is to be treated with respect. It is not to be romanticized as the old lady romanticizes her cat (that is, she reads human reactions into it). This is wrong because it is not true. When you drive the axe into the tree when you need firewood, you are not cutting down a person; you are cutting down a tree. But while we should not romanticize the tree, we must realize God made it and it deserves respect because He made is as a tree. – Francis Schaeffer • There is a legend of an artist who long sought for a piece of sandalwood, out of which to carve a Madonna. He was about to give up in despair, leaving the vision of his life unrealized, when in a dream he was bidden to carve his Madonna from a block of oak wood which was destined for the fire. He obeyed and produced a masterpiece from a log of common firewood. Many of us lose great opportunities in life by waiting to find sandalwood for our carvings, when they really lie hidden in the common logs that we burn. – Orison Swett Marden • We as children went up the mountain to find feed for livestock, like goats, cows and horses, and because in the winter time we would light the fire in the house, we would climb the mountain to collect firewood as well. Because of that, I suppose I became used to climbing mountains. – Tamae Watanabe • What is it that dies? A log of wood dies to become a few planks. The planks die to become a chair. The chair dies to become a piece of firewood, and the firewood dies to become ash. You give different names to the different shapes the wood takes, but the basic substance is there always. If we could always remember this, we would never worry about the loss of anything. We never lose anything; we never gain anything. By such discrimination we put an end to unhappiness. – Swami Satchidananda • When she looked at herself in her wedding photographs, Ammu felt the woman that looked back at her was someone else. A foolish jewelled bride. Her silk sunset-coloured sari shot with gold. Rings on every finger. White dots of sandalwood paste over her arched eye-brows. Looking at herself like this, Ammu’s soft mouth would twist into a small, bitter smile at the memory – not of the wedding itself so much as the fact that she had permitted herself to be so painstakingly decorated before being led to the gallows. It seemed so absurd. So futile. Like polishing firewood. – Arundhati Roy • Why should anyone be afraid of change? What can take place without it? What can be more pleasing or more suitable to universal nature? Can you take your bath without the firewood undergoing a change? Can you eat without the food undergoing a change? And can anything useful be done without change? Don’t you see that for you to change is just the same, and is equally necessary for universal nature? – Marcus Aurelius • your culture has become sophisticated, like a computer, or a drug that you take for a headache. You can use it, but you cannot explain how it works. Certainly not to girls who stack up their firewood against the side of the house. – Chris Cleave • Your mother sounds like a formidable woman,” Valek said into the silence. “You have no idea,” Leif replied with a sigh. “Well, if she’s anything like Yelena, my deepest sympathies,” Valek teased. “Hey!” Leif laughed and the tense moment dissipated. Valek handed Leif his machete. “Do you know how to use it?” “Of course. I chopped Yelena’s bow into firewood,” Leif joked. – Maria V. Snyder • You’ve gotten drunk on so many kinds of wine. Taste this. It won’t make you wild. It’s fire. Give up, if you don’t understand by this time that your living is firewood. – Rumi [clickbank-storefront-bestselling]

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equitiesstocks · 5 years ago

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Firewood Quotes

Official Website: Firewood Quotes

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phillis94994325-blog · 6 years ago

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Renovations & Fixing.

Even with that LLCs and providers both have some practically equivalent to highlights, the important phrasing regularly associated with each kind of legal drug, anyway inside the United States, is every now and then distinct. daan-gymblog.info They likewise bring in Wildcat White Moonshine and look dealing with a rye. Some of the absolute most well-liked dog types, Maine Coons are actually also considered usually the biggest species from domesticated feline in the world. They are additionally considering to launch a Bad Alfred's Rye, distilled in-house. They additionally intend to launch Cooper's Classic American Whiskey, also distilled in Indiana as well as Cooper's Tradition, distilled in-house. They are also dealing with Flat Landers Diehard, Bodices, Mixes and Whiskey Wheat Or Grain Bourbon, Kissing Cousins Whiskey, Ravens Rye, Last Feather Rye, Twelve O'clock At Night Rye, Not a Master Rye as well as Cedartucky White Lightning. Idlewild Moods, Wintertime Playground, CO. This whiskey plans making a single malt, Woodcutter's Scotch, a five grain whiskey, as well as white colored scotch. Distillers Method, Ferndale, WA. This business plans to discharge a nine year old diehard. Started in Greater london through an established designer attempting to heal her power degrees after a negative struggling with exhaustion, this approach that mashes yoga and also voguing (a dance style Madonna promoted in tune in the very early '90s) promises there's absolutely nothing to this. That is actually a heart exercise in a nightclub ambience along with a DJ and at times even neon lightings. What Laughs are actually: They frequently browsed thousands attend a day but ever you believed that why individuals do so, exactly what is actually the genuine definition of a prank, why they are actually consistently sought after as well as just what variation perform they create in our lives. They are actually predominantly a Scotch bottler but have bottled a Heaven Hillside Whiskey, a Catoctin Creek Rye, MGP scotches, a mixture from whiskey and rye off High West, a Couple of Spirits rye, a Koval whiskey as well as a solitary malt coming from Westland Distillery. PHYSICIAN Einertson additionally feels another reason some pet dog managers don't feed wet meals is actually since they strongly believe dry food items is much better for a cat's pearly whites. Nov 14, 2014 The ranking is actually based on an amount of factors: trainability, lifestyle Perimeter Collies, according to McCandless, are best pet dog breed around. Journeyman Whiskey, 3 Oaks, MI. This all natural distillery creates WR Bourbon, a white colored rye bourbon, Ravenswood Rye, the 1st batch of which was brought in at Koval in Chicago along with succeeding sets being created at the Michigan whiskey, Featherbone Bourbon, Silver Cross Scotch, a four surface bourbon, Buggy Whip Wheat Or Grain Whiskey and Three Oaks Single Malt. Bay Region Distilling Carbon Monoxide, Brentwood, CA. This business organizes to launch Golden Condition The golden state Corn Whiskey. Montgomery Whiskey, Missoula, MT. They are intending on making bourbon, single malt, Early Release Rye and also Sudden Knowledge Rye. Shoes Hillside Whiskey, Dodge Area, KS. This distillery considers to earn diehard, white colored bourbon, corn scotch, and Reddish Eye Scotch, produced from a bourbon mash. Canines are actually the species most likely to become provided an individual label. Dry Area Whiskey, Marysville WA. This distiller makes a number of spirits featuring an Irish design whiskey made off barley, oatmeals and rye. They additionally intend to launch Pendergast's Reddish Keep in mind Rye and Blue Take Note Rye, which appear to be distilled internal. Lumber's High Mountain range Distillery, Salida, CO. This distillery creates Tenderfoot Whiskey, a malt scotch as well as is working with a rye. 6 & Twenty Distillery, Powdersville, SC. Established in 2012, this whiskey brings in Six & Twenty wheat or grain bourbons, Carolina Rouge Bourbon as well as 6 & Twenty Blue, a vatting from wheat bourbon as well as Kentucky diehard. Some people assume reactions are actually a type intellect in pets.

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worldhotelvideo · 7 years ago

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Hotel Novecento in Scicli, Italy (Europe). The best of Hotel Novecento in Scicli Hotel. Welcome to Hotel Novecento in Scicli, Italy (Europe). The best of Hotel Novecento in Scicli. Subscribe in http://goo.gl/VQ4MLN The general services in the establishment will be: wifi available in all areas.. In the restaurant section you can enjoy: wine/champagne, breakfast options, restaurant, breakfast in the room, bar, packed lunches and room service. For health, the establishment has pool/beach towels and massage. With regard to relocation we find car hire, airport shuttle, bicycle rental (additional charge), bikes available (free), street parking and airport pick up. For the reception we can find luggage storage, concierge service, 24-hour front desk, safety deposit box and newspapers. Within the related areas we can enjoy garden, terrace and shared lounge/tv area. The role of cleaning services will include dry cleaning, ironing service and laundry. If you travel for business matters in the accommodation you will have meeting/banquet facilities and fax/photocopying. barber/beauty shop. We will be able to highlight other benefits such as non-smoking throughout, air conditioning, facilities for disabled guests, toilet with grab rails, vip room facilities, non-smoking rooms, bridal suite and heating [https://youtu.be/VdV2gf2NS5I] Book now cheaper in https://ift.tt/2qAaPwH You can find more info in https://ift.tt/2ENcovL We hope you have a pleasant stay in Hotel Novecento Other hotels in this channel Gloria Palace Amadores Thalasso & Hotel https://youtu.be/D33w6BJNMGc Hotel Shokhkand https://youtu.be/WYtMeG8xu78 The Salvation Army - Booth Lodge https://youtu.be/-mu8cbHOOp0 Wyndham São Paulo Berrini https://youtu.be/NV7JfsLyuV0 Magnuson Grand at Oak Plantation Resort https://youtu.be/wxgCcVsxDWk Bel Fle https://youtu.be/pNwhZf2rKNc Lake View Hotel https://youtu.be/va9uGTwSPnM Holiday Inn San Jose Aurola https://youtu.be/mNmQZ4hEMZo Hotel Imperial https://youtu.be/PM4BmR_R5kw Wealth 30th https://youtu.be/pEns09V86eo Hotel Royal Kinshasa https://youtu.be/yrfNrlUUN6o Cala Millor Garden Hotel - Adults Only https://youtu.be/vka09IXjNwY Treasure Beach Hotel https://youtu.be/zo-plBlFJSA https://youtu.be/e4sS8ojBg9s Arcadia International Hotel https://youtu.be/9HbBv2it5w0 In Scicli we recommended to visit In the Italy you can visit some of the most recommended places such as Irminio, Palazzo Beneventano, Antica Farmacia Cartia, Church of San Matteo, Gli aromi di Russino, Chiafura, Spiaggia Micenci, A Rutta re Ron Carmelo and Palazzo Busacca. We also recommend that you do not miss Palazzo Bonelli Patanè, Live in Scicli, Nativity in the cave "Giovanni Marinero", Remains Of Castellaccio, Chiesa Madonna del Carmine, Via Sampieri, We hope you have a pleasant stay in Hotel Novecento and we hope you enjoy our top 10 of the best hotels in Italy All images used in this video are or have been provided by Booking. If you are the owner and do not want this video to appear, simply contact us. You can find us at https://ift.tt/2iPJ6Xr by World Hotel Video

#whv #YouTube

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aamunkoittaa · 8 years ago

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"Madonna of the Dry Tree (or Our Lady of the Barren Tree) is a small oil-on-oak panel painting dated c. 1462-5 by the Early Netherlandish painter Petrus Christus."

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wildportugal-blog · 8 years ago

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Wild Food Portugal

Here’s a sneaky peek at what you’ll find inside The Wild Guide Portugal....

Slow-food is a prerequisite of dining in Portugal, whether it's porco preto – the black pigs reared for three years free-range in Alentejo- or oak-aged wines from Douro vineyards, the entire process from farm to table is a labour of love.

Portugal's passion for fish is unfathomable. Along the coast you can dine on stuffed squid, grilled octopus, sea bream, sea bass, cuttlefish, prawns, limpets, barnacles, sardines and nothing beats the simple joy of a crab eaten by the sea with a glass of wine. Inland, the rivers offer fresh-water fish, try grilled eels in Ribatejo or fresh trout from the River Côa.

The cuisine is more varied than simply fish- the diverse dishes reflect a varied geography. We visited mountain cabins where smoked sausages- farinheira, moucela or chouriço - hang above open fireplaces and discovered small-scale farms keeping bees, their honey tasting of rosemary, heather or sweet chestnut, depending on the region. In the Azores we discovered cozido nas caldeiras, a rich stew cooked in a pot buried in one of the island's volcanic vents. I have written about many places to eat in the Wild Guide Portugal guidebook but here are a few of our favourite:

Miradouro do Castelo, Castro Laboreiro

A homely restaurant with a terrace looking out over Laboreiro castle. Sip dry Alvarinho white wine and watch the last rays of the sunset light up the castle turrets. Inside there's pão castreiro frito com chourico, local bread, with a hard dark crust, fried with smoked meats. A good selection of local wines. All food here is typical 'mama food', a great place to try traditional Portuguese dishes.

Vila, 4960-061 Castro Laboreiro +351 251 465 469

Snack Bar Sol é Vida, Consolação

‘Sun and Life’ offered on these Rocks of Consolation which jut out into the wild Atlantic sea. Great fish, very fresh crab. Eat out on the veranda with the salt wind in your hair. Watch fishermen on the rocks below while you console yourself with dressed crab and a sparkling dry white.

Largo Nossa Sra. da Consolação 9 +351 963 708 840

Restaurante Adega do Lagar, Covas, Viana do Castelo

Come in on a Sunday and they will have only one dish. Go with it. This family-run restaurant has an ancient wood oven, wine press and a generous landlord. Locally sourced meat, wine, potatoes, vegetables and bread. Try the bagaço com mel, a strong spirit mixed with honey, but more than one, and you will leave aterrada.

Ponte Covas, Covas (Coura bridge) +351 251 948 064

Restaurante Aguas Quentes

A good place to try the cozido nas caldeiras, a stew slow-cooked over six hours in pots buried under the earth of the Furnas fumaroles, volcano vents, on São Miguel island, Açores. Each mouthful is heaven, with a slightly sulphuric edge. At the back of the restaurant is a small shrine with electric candles and saints dedicated to the Madonna- and the cozido chef.

Rua Água Quente 15, 9675-040 Furnas +351 296 584 482

Restaurante Os Templários, Monsaraz

Dine on the terrace of Os Templários and look out from the walls of the ancient Templar castle at Monsaraz. Hidden behind the town's oldest gate, the restaurant commands views out across the Alqueva dam, Beja and Spain. Naturally, the wine list is extensive at this restaurant in the heart of Alentejo's wine region. Swirl a glass from Carmim, a world-renowned Monsaraz winery, and try the gooey baked goat's cheese with olive oil, oregano and Alentejano bread to dip. Sopa de cação is a broth made with dogfish, worth a try, but the King of the Dishes here is bochechas de porco assada, roast pig cheeks with potatoes and pumpkin. With the panoramic views, ancient history and joy taken in food and wines, this is a feast for eyes as well as your appetite.

Rua Direita 22, 7200-175 Monsaraz +351 266 557 166

For many more beautiful places to eat, drink and feast (with maps and GPS co-ordinates) pre-order a copy of Wild Guide Portugal here out 3rd April 2017.

#food #wildportugal #portuguesefood #foodie #travel #fish #feast #wildfood #adventures #azores #saomiguel #wines #winestagram #slowfood #local #porcopreto

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