Down the Rabbit Hole

State of Peace & Oma's window

"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
DAY 1750--October 1, 2018
Prompt: On October 1, 959, Edgar I, the Peaceful, became the king of all England.
What do you think about the title of Peaceful, and in which ways are you peaceful?


The title of "Peaceful" evokes images of a cloud-born deity that floats above the chaos, the picture of serenity. I feel like my mind is in constant motion, whirling and bouncing with agitation and anxiety. I feel as if I am rarely, truly at peace. I have to work hard to remember the last time I felt myself in a peaceful state.

The dogs typically wake me up in those dim hours before sunrise. I have a few moments to myself before the bustle of the day takes over and I have to go upstairs and pry my daughter from the bed, into her school uniform and out the door. In those rare moments, I sometimes take pause to look out over our new backyard. This one particular moment, I looked out to find a family of deer standing just inside the tree line at the back of our property. They just stared me with their dark doe eyes, flicking their white tails while my dog keened and whined at them from the window. They looked peaceful, I felt at peace watching them. After a few minutes, they bounded off into the woods.

The closest I come to a sustained feeling of peace would be on our annual vacation to Truro and Provincetown. It is a three hour ride and the closer I get to the national seashore, I can feel the peace start to roll in with each deep breathe of the briny air. Looking out over the sea forest landscape of outer cape, brings me a serenity I don't get anywhere else. If there is a place I am most peaceful, it is there, standing dwarfed by the dunes at the edge of the land, looking out at the wide, blue Atlantic before me.


Blogging Circle of Friends
DAY 2143: October 1, 2018
Prompt: October 1 is the International Day for the Elderly, which was designated by the United Nations General Assembly in 1990. Use this international holiday to inspire your blog post.

Oma sat, clutching her coffee cup and feeling grateful for marginal relief the hot tea inside was giving her arthritic fingers. The backyard was a bustle of activity this afternoon and she was enjoying watching all the drama play out.

The little black bird was flitting between three of the colorful gourd nests hanging at the rear of her fish pond. He had managed to establish a female in each, and he frantically buzzed between his little mistresses as they tended their eggs. He raced from one to the next, delivering twigs and bits of straw to his budding families.

Oma clicked her tongue, "well sir, you have been very busy..." she admonished playfully.

She stood up, the brittle muscles in her thighs protesting, to get a better look at her tabby cat. He had strolled into the yard and was now slowly stalking something in grass to the right of her pond. Oma thought of the bunny rabbit she'd seen earlier that morning. Dismayed by the thought of her hunter capturing a baby bunny, she tapped on the glass with one gnarled finger. The cat looked up sharply in her direction. She waggled the finger at him, adding a stern shake of her head for good measure. The cat took the hint and took off in search of less offensive prey.

Oma was feeling tired. She was about to leave her window seat when a doe stepped from the tree line at the back of her yard. The graceful animal stepped warily, her lithe body weaving around the young trees, making her way to the pond for a drink. She stared, her large brown eyes making contact with Oma's before she bent her long neck and drank. Oma marveled at her quiet beauty and at her grace and agility when moments later, she bounded away from the pond and back across the yard. It had been many years since she could move with such speed. She had been a dancer once. Oma had been able to clear half the stage with leaps and spins that would have rivaled that of even a young doe. Oma had been a prima ballerina who had toe-danced herself into the hearts of many audiences decades upon decades ago. She smiled with the memories of shiny costumes and an orchestra pit full of musicians.

Smiling serenely, Oma set her cup down and reached for the handles of her walker. With once last glance over the yard, she slowly made her back to her sitting room where her rocker and her medications sat waiting for her. It was early afternoon, still time for the visitors she hoped. If not, she'd make her way back to the window eventually.