Beautiful

Way back when we ran without shoes, our tender feet comforted by the sparse moss engulfing the old stone. One that had only known our unbridled shrieks of laughter for a fraction of its existence. Yet it seemed ageless to us, merely a passing thought. Existing much before we wrote on paper with pens and pencils that bruised our fingers. When we took to the wet sand instead, drawing with driftwood by the misty morning water under the watchful eyes of a parent; scolding us when we wandered to far from the house.

Way back when we ran into the forest during recess. To sit on the old stone and eat the honeysuckle flowers that bedded the forest floor with lush greens and golds. Bickering and arguing over whose patch was whose before we even had a true sense of property ourselves. Where I stared in juvenile wonder as I watched a silent winged barn owl perch itself in a nearby cedar. unbothered by the commotion.

That was before I was taught to question the words ‘properly’, in the orderly manner that was easy to read on paper and to compare to the system of grading. How well we could string meaningless words to one another on a page to create something beautiful. But those beautiful words lack emotion in a way we cannot express on paper no matter the punctuation.

It lives without feeling until spoken; until given meaning by the reader however you choose to give it. And what a beautiful meaning you can give that writing, but if only we could speak it though paper. If only I had the words to describe the beautiful thoughts I have. But they cannot be ordered by number or strung into a line. They jump, they soar from one to another, like the barn owl. Rambling on to create such a stunning image in my mind. Natural beauty. So, I leave my thoughts untouched, unscathed by the assignments piled on my desk with words in perfect rows and perfect punctuation.

My own little world to escape to, so I dream of the owl. The forest floor bustling with young life as she glides over our honeysuckle patch, watching us with a similar curiosity to the young girl below.

Her powerful elegance unmatched as she finds a branch to settle, preening her feathers only for a moment. The girl simply sitting below watching eagerly, flowers in hand. She observes her with large round eyes, cocking her head with predatory grace. She thinks as well, though we will never know what, but the proof is there. The simple reaction and pause, as if recalling something. Proof we do not need to be taught how to think, but how to question and find our own answer.

Years later I forget this place. The place where we sat and giggled, not worrying about the money spent at lunch or what the meaning behind the latest lecture was. Taking everything as it was.

Straight forward. Now the road twists and turns where I walk. The trail rough and sometimes steep; I slip and stumble where the gravel comes loose. But the roots hold strong as I cast out a hand for anything to steady myself with. Memories.

I haul myself to the top and rest on the edge, my breath deep and heavy in my throat as I open my eyes. And there she is, or so I'd like to think. Thousands of miles away from where I can first remember seeing such a creature.

She looks down with the same sort of look you give the stars when they're exceptionally bright one night. And I appreciate her in the same way. So, as I sit up, the shifting of stones underneath by raw palms breaking the silence; she takes off.

The pain I feel in my hands a different one than in my heart when she finally disappears, deep into the woods. Beauty at its finest, simply a fleeting moment that cannot be explained by a thousand words or a picture.

Memories are as such, the barn owl the pleasant ones. We mustn't over think or correct them, our emotions. We should not feel a certain way, a correct way, as there is no one correct feeling. They exist in a space too immense to describe on paper, yet we try our best. And so did the owl.