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    The Tale of a Broken Ballerina #Healing #MentalHealthCare #womensstories #Prose #Trust #spiritualgrowth

    Handwoven lace, spun from a magical spider's web fashioned her posture; veiled were her dreams, old lover's deceptions and all unbridled emotions. Before, as if in another life she has been the lead dancer, the one spinning to the pretty notes, unwinding with the delicacy of her spirit. Poised, she leapt through memories both shiny like sapphire and fragile as opals. Around her was a still, mirroring pond of light. She was a lost feather, floating solo from high above, performing an impromptu pirouette and free falling in the breath of cool northern winds. Her eyes were stained with glassy ice blue tears which solidified as soon as they breeched from their ducts. Snowflakes flew around her and she became cold, landing hard upon the marbled stone beneath her. She lay there and closed her eyes. She wanted to stop the tinkling of a rhetorical melody from her own music box which continued to play beyond her control. She had broken her strongest leg, the one she used to lean on when avoiding painful lyrics that reminded her of her flurrying youth. Her shadow was growing old and her desire to dance began to fade. No hand came to help her up and no one knew that she lay in pain; truth be told she did not long for help. The ballerina knew she was doing all she could to mend her wounds and protect her future from being shattered. From the heavens the moonlight crystalized her beauty, shielding her from surrendering herself all together. Her strength although enervated, would call upon her to rise again. As all folkloric sagas have us to believe "amore-propre" is restored and the beast within is slain or out-witted, the beautiful one's faith is redeemed, and the Prima donna always experiences a reawkening with butterflies swimming around her head and that which was her nemesis is obliterated. The ballerina in this story is glued en-pointe, center stage in a polished oak jewelry box; the golden key is wound and she spins ever so slowly as Lara' s Song resumes. Somewhere my love, within this broken Ballerina her own needs were forsaken without mirth; to see those she love resuscitate their own dreams was a gift for sh#e once again had an honorable purpose.

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    This Window #sweden #Pain #Nature #expatriates #womensstories #Prose

    In this place where I sit I have borrowed my view from thousands before me and yet seen more in a day than some who forget this view is our gift; unlike the two hundred year old cherry tree, or the stone reminders of the cholera plague and the sky heavy and burdened by the clouds so dark, I will be here only for a blink of time. I see no foreign land, despite it not being my home country. The eye knows the impression before me, I am moved when I raise my curtains each day and it has never been the same view in nine years despite my sitting in the same place, at the same time day after day. This lake has showered me with beauty as tears stung my face, as severe physical pain enveloped my last good taste of the day and the reigning cherry tree has never winced once when the storms off the North Sea take the lake's gray, frigid water up and form it into foaming waves. At night he whistle of the feirce winds roll though this old farmhouse and thorugh my dreams. My pain is permanent, part of me both physical and emotional. I long to be part of the strong cherry tree, the lake and the rich ancient soil trodden by decdes of animals, some not so good, some human. My eyes study the changes of the clouds, the barren tree line and reach for the dense green forest across the water. I am part of this view, this moment and although my heart leaks with silent secrets, I choose to share only through my view, my eyes in this second.

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