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    BWS Stories - "If I Could Save Time In A Bottle"...Embracing Our Authentic Selves

    "If I Could Save Time In A Bottle"...Embracing Our Authentic Selves - Autumn Tea

    Sandra Gilmore

    Autumn Tea

                I stood on the porch gazing passed the rose bush now resting from a season of blooming. The autumn day was bright yet cool, requiring "just a spot of tea," I mused. I intended to go inside only long enough to draw water from the tap and set the kettle on the stove. The flames of the stove eye danced about like the flickering flames of my dreams, giving off heat that produced some benefit but nonetheless controlled by an outside force. I so longed to turn those dreams loose. I wanted to be thinner, to be married again, to be a less-stressed Mom. I wanted to let those dreams rage and crackle like a bon fire in late autumn. As the laundry beckoned and the bills cried out for attention, I found myself busying my hands with those tasks while my heart remembered.    

                I drifted back to scenes from youth around bon fires where colors were vivid against the dark evening sky. Crimson reds gave way to shades of amber and yet again to pale yellows. Blue and black switched places as shadows mingled fluidly around the fire. Among the crowd, sparks from young hearts rose just like the sparks from the bon fire. The higher the spark rose, the further from the source of heat. I had learned that hearts were similar.  Hearts needed depth, not height, to stay at the source of anything lasting. It was a lesson learned the hard way.       

          Each season since those youthful days has given me hope for the next. Hope to keep looking ahead; even though there were times when that meant only inches ahead. Even in its simplest form, though, it was hope. Hope drove me. After all, it was hope that made me draw the water for tea. It was hope that set the kettle on the stove eye and hope that lit the fire underneath. Hope that all those separate steps would join together for something greater.  And at last, the something greater would give pleasure and comfort. The kettle squealed, bringing my thoughts back to the laundry, the bills and the stove. I poured the hot liquid over the tea leaves. The aroma was deeply fragrant, swirled with mint. I curled my fingers around the warm cup, gazed again passed the rose bush and sipped my cup of freshly brewed hope. 

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