Letters to Lelia - Chapter 18 - Blessed Touch

The next morning brought sunshine, which beamed crisp and clear through the recently unburdened skies. The leaves were still loaded with the raindrops that had pounded them through the night and the lightest touch of wind or excited little critter turned them into ad hoc waterfalls and scattered their liquid load on the ground.  Mornings like these made for the best memories of Claire’s childhood, those mornings when she woke up without a care in the world and nothing to do and rushed outside to greet the sunshine and the doves and the wind in the trees. During all of the time she’d spent here, in her grandparents’ house, Claire could not remember a single instance of bad weather. It’s not that she hadn’t had her share of soggy winters and hot summer winds, it’s just that she never perceived them as bad.  Life unfolds all its magic in front of the eyes of an enchanted child, it holds nothing back, drunk with generosity and abandon, it shows itself in the ways in which it wants to be seen, ways that become impenetrable to the sight of grown up eyes. The cold winter rain carried feelings and fragrance, the scent of the wet oak trunks and soggy moss and damp earth. The strong summer winds whirled their spirit through the branches, heavy and labored like the raspy breath of a hunted creature in search of a safe place to rest. The whole world was a miracle, every leaf, every sight, every day. 📖  Found yourself in the middle of a story? Visit STORIES by Francis Rosenfeld.

The rain started so suddenly Claire barely had time to get in from the porch and close the doors behind her before the downpour delivered a deafening drum solo on the roof. Claire’s grandfather was rushing through the house, as he used to do under these circumstances, closing up doors, windows and shutters and making sure everybody was inside, safe from the storm. The young woman smiled, tracking his movements through the house by the noises he made - feet shuffling on the floor, sounds of doors opening and slamming behind him, footsteps up and down the stairs, the screech of the attic ladder being dragged on the floor in the hallway upstairs.  Claire’s grandfather was a force of nature, he blew rather than walked through the doors, in a motion more akin to a rushing wind than to a living breathing person. He never closed a cabinet or a drawer, and when he moved through a room small napkins and pieces of paper which happened to be left on the table got caught in his draft like leaves in the wind, stopped from trailing behind him only by the doors which invariably slammed shut after he walked through them. Claire didn’t even realize how much she had missed those noises. She spent a few minutes listening to this symphonic racket like she would to a fine piece of music, failing to notice she was standing in the alcove between the mirrors again. 📖  Found yourself in the middle of a story? Visit STORIES by Francis Rosenfeld.

She wasn’t used to seeing coffee in that cup, given her usual fare as a young girl which consisted of linden tea with lemon and honey or chocolate milk. It made her sad that there was a grown-up beverage in it now, especially since she hadn’t managed to figure out how to be a grown-up yet. “Milk?” Grandmother offered, as if she’d heard her granddaughter’s thoughts. Claire poured milk in the already full cup and made the coffee spill into the saucer in the process. “For luck!” Grandmother dipped her forefinger in the saucer and smeared coffee on the young woman’s forehead, another one of the many customs Claire never questioned. One threw salt over one’s shoulder, ate beans on Wednesdays, wished on the first fruits of the year, wrapped up the outdoor activities at sundown. Life had different ways of marking the passing of time in their household - by the songs of the pigeons in the morning, by the height of the sun at noon, by the sounds of the old bell in the church nearby in the late afternoon. Seasons were announced by scents - the fragrance of the tree blossoms, the overheated aroma of the herbs, the sweet heavy scent of the harvest, the damp smell of the rain. The grandfather clock was the only exception in this world that marked its own time, as if it were brought there from outside just to make a point. 📖  Found yourself in the middle of a story? Visit STORIES by Francis Rosenfeld.

“Get out of the doorway!” The words boomed like thunder in Claire’s ears, now almost thirty years later, with the same intensity and pronouncement they carried the first time she’d heard Grandmother utter them, the first time of many. She smiled vaguely to the memory. It was vast, this mansion of her grandparents where she had grown up, but Claire didn’t know it at the time; she never questioned what she saw because she’d never known another way of life, she’d never ventured past the end of the formal alley flanked by huge oak trees, hundreds of years old, which led straight to its front doors. For her the mansion and its garden were the world. 📖  Found yourself in the middle of a story? Visit STORIES by Francis Rosenfeld.

Keep your house in order, your garden well tended, your body strong and your mind on praiseworthy thoughts. Never assume anything but trust that you'll have good guidance to find your way through the haze of uncertainty, because, my dear, that love you have in your heart is everything. Blessings, Sister Mary-Francis 📖  Found yourself in the middle of a story? Visit STORIES by Francis Rosenfeld.

“Most of us stumble upon our purpose later in life, but you have to have one if you want your time here to make sense. Imagine trying to make a cake by adding random ingredients into the mix, just because you have them: there isn't a single chance of it coming out edible. Your life works the same way, you have a cupboard full of ingredients and you have to select the ones that aid you in your purpose in order to make it happen. The real art begins later, when after knowing what the ingredients are, you refine their quantities, the timing, the quality, with higher an higher standards of excellence, until the results become extraordinary. With craftsmanship comes enthusiasm, with enthusiasm mastery, with mastery a legacy to future generations.” 📖  Found yourself in the middle of a story? Visit STORIES by Francis Rosenfeld.

Those people who entered our happiness and burned it to the ground never really did anything to us: they didn’t rob us of our vast fortune, they didn’t hurt our bodies, they didn’t force my brother to hate me. All they did was to seep darkness into our lives, and they carry no blame for that in the eyes of the world. The rest of the damage, we volunteered.All you have to do in this life is guard the temple of your mind. While you keep that temple sparkling, with light shining though, there is nothing in this world that is beyond your reach. But when it’s filled with darkness and doubt, nothing has value anymore. 📖  Found yourself in the middle of a story? Visit STORIES by Francis Rosenfeld.

I don't believe in destiny, Lelia, nor do I believe in exceptional circumstances, obstacles impossible to overcome, or other people's power over my life. That is not to say that life is easy: some fights you don't win, but you have to fight them anyway, because this is the guiding principle for all those who have the audacity to chart their own future. The farther you get in achieving your goals, the harder you'll have to fight for them. The harder you fight, the stronger you get. The stronger you get, the more you feel responsible to protect those who aren't as strong as you are, yet. 📖  Found yourself in the middle of a story? Visit STORIES by Francis Rosenfeld.

“What is it exactly that you are trying to accomplish?" sister deAngelis asked one of the children, who had been moving the cookies from a plate to a basket, and then to a wire display, and was now preparing to move them again. "Sister Mary-Francis said we should find a display for these," the little boy replied, with his hair in disarray and a perplexed look in his eyes. He looked so much like Jimmy that sister deAngelis couldn't suppress a smile. The boy couldn't have been more than eight years old and was fidgeting to consume a little of his boundless amounts of energy. "What was wrong with the basket?" sister deAngelis's curiosity got the better of her. "The cookies are bunched together too tight, you can't tell what kinds they are," he expertly explained. "Why are you trying to put them back in it, then?" said deAngelis. "The wire rack doesn't look right, too spread out," he said.” 📖  Found yourself in the middle of a story? Visit STORIES by Francis Rosenfeld.

“Mom, why did you let Ael use my room? She never puts anything away!" Lelia complained to her somewhat distracted mother. Lily looked up. "Oh, this whole house has turned into ceremony headquarters, your room was the only quiet place left, she needed to finish a project," she explained. "What's wrong with her room?" Lelia protested. "Sys commandeered it for manufacturing last minute items," Lily explained. "Why can't she work at the Institute, she's always there anyway," Lelia didn't give up. "Never mind about your sister," Lily remembered. "Did you practice your ceremony steps?" "Yes! Dad made me go over them a million times!" Lelia frowned, annoyed.” 📖  Found yourself in the middle of a story? Visit STORIES by Francis Rosenfeld.