THE INKWELL SOUL

Author: Elizabeth

  • The Chipped Teacup

    The chipped teacup sat on the windowsill, catching the dawn. Not a fine china, nor a masterfully crafted ceramic, just a simple, everyday thing, its glaze faded, a hairline crack snaking down its side. It held no grand purpose, no exquisite beauty. It simply held the morning light.

    Elhani, like the teacup, felt a quiet, persistent ordinariness. She wasn’t a virtuoso, a prodigy, a star. She didn’t paint masterpieces, compose symphonies, or build empires. Her garden, a small patch of unruly wildflowers, was a testament to her lack of structured ambition. The weeds grew alongside the daisies, and the bees buzzed indiscriminately.

    One evening, under a sky painted in hues of bruised purple and soft orange, Elhani sat on her porch swing, the chipped teacup resting on the warm wooden arm. A firefly, a tiny spark of light, danced in the twilight.

    “I feel…unremarkable,” she whispered to the firefly, her voice a soft sigh carried on the evening breeze.

    The firefly, of course, did not reply. It simply flickered, its light a tiny, pulsing beacon in the vast darkness. But Elhani watched it, its fragile glow, its brief, ephemeral dance.

    She thought of the wildflowers, their chaotic beauty, their resilience in the face of neglect. She thought of the chipped teacup, its simple function, its quiet presence in the morning light. She thought of the firefly, it fleeting, yet significant, spark.

    ‘Isn’t it okay to not be great at anything?’ The thought echoed in her mind, a quiet question.

    She looked at her hands, calloused from gardening, stained with earth. They weren’t hands that sculpted marble or played concertos. They were hands that held seeds, that pulled weeds, that stirred tea.

    ‘Isn’t it okay to just be who you are?’

    She closed her eyes, and the sounds of the evening filled her ears: the crickets chirping, the wind rustling through the leaves, the distant hum of a car. It was a symphony of ordinary life, a quiet celebration of the everyday.

    She opened her eyes, and the firefly, still dancing, seemed to wink at her. The chipped teacup, bathed in the soft glow of the porch light, seemed to hold a quiet understanding.

    Elhani smiled, she didn’t need to be a masterpiece. She didn’t need to leave a grand legacy. She was part of the tapestry, a thread woven into the fabric of the ordinary, the beautiful, the simple.

    She was the chipped teacup, holding the morning light. She was the wildflower, growing wild and free. She was the firefly, a tiny spark of light int he vast darkness: And that, she realized, was enough.

  • Memorial Day

    The air hangs heavy with the unspoken stories of a thousand Memorial Weekends, each one etched with the profound weight of sacrifice. For me, a daughter of a Veteran, the granddaughter of a Veteran, and a Daughter of the American Revolution, this weekend is a pilgrimage of the heart. It’s a time when the roots of my family tree, watered by generations of courage, stretch deeper into the hallowed ground of memory.

    I see them, these brave men and women, kissing their loved ones goodbye – a final touch, a whispered promise, before stepping into the unknown. The low pay, the stark conditions, the grueling hours of training – none of it deterred them. They faced down their own fears, not because they were fearless, but because they understood a truth more profound than personal safety: the delicate tapestry of freedom must be defended, thread by precious thread.

    When the mournful strain of “Taps” pierce the silence, and the rifle volleys echo across fields of white crosses, a chill runs through me. It’s heartbreaking, yes, to imagine their final moments, the dreams unfulfilled, the lives cut short. Yet, there’s also a strange comfort, a ghostly embrace from those who will never be forgotten. Their bravery, their unwavering commitment to a nation that sometimes seems to forget the cost of liberty, humbles me.

    And I remember too, the Veterans who came home, carrying the silent weight of their experiences. They lived, but a part of them remained on distant battlefields, forever intertwined with the comrades they lost. My father, my grandfather, and so many others, carried echoes of “Taps” in their own hearts long after the guns fell silent. They never forgot the faces of friends and family who fought alongside them, the ones who didn’t come back. Their memories were a constant, quiet tribute to the fallen, a testament to the bonds forged in the crucible of war. They were courageous, undeniably so, and in their sacrifice, both on the field and in the quiet strength of their years, they gifted us the very air we breathe.

    This Memorial Weekend, let us not just remember, but truly honor them. Let us carry their stories in our hearts, not just as history, but as a living testament to the ultimate act of love for one’s country, for those who made the ultimate sacrifice and for those who carried the weight of that sacrifice for a lifetime.

  • The Traveler: A Poem

    This one is dedicated to the time traveler… may you find your peace.

    A strange detachment settled, light and deep,
    After the letting go, the endless weep.
    The old connections, fraying, snapped, and fell,
    And in that quiet, new perceptions swell.
    Now, when I meet a soul, a curious shift,
    I feel a time traveler, blessed with a rare gift.
    Stepping into moments, brief and undefined,
    With all the past and future left behind.

    Each face a fleeting glimpse, a whispered age,
    A character upon life’s endless stage.
    I see their hopes, their laughter, and their stride,
    As if from centuries, I’ve stepped aside.
    A momentary presence, here and then gone,
    Observing life’s procession, from dusk til dawn.
    A gentle current, through the ages I roam,
    No longer rooted, nor truly far from home.

    Now when I walk, the crowd’s of fleeting show,
    A timeless journey, watching currents flow.
    Each face, a story, briefly intersects,
    A curious glance, the moment it reflects.
    I sip the laughter, touch the casual hand,
    A transient guest within a foreign land.
    Observing nuance, learning silent cues,
    The human drama, with its vibrant hues.

    But there’s a distance, finely, keenly honed,
    A quiet readiness, perfectly owned.
    No rooted branch, no deep, entwining vine,
    Just quick detachment, effortlessly mine.
    I am the traveler, seeing all unfold,
    A story witnessed, gracefully untold.
    An observer always, poised and ever free,
    Never quite of the group, just watching, me.

  • The Woman I’ve Become

    The air crackled with unspoken energy, a silent challenge hanging between us. He thought he was clever, a master of calculated moves and veiled intentions. But I saw through the smoke and mirrors, the practiced charm that masked a hollow core. This wasn’t a game I was willing to play.

    “She’s not the type of woman you play games with,” the words echoed in my mind, a quiet affirmation. I had built walls around my heart, not out of bitterness, but out of self-preservation. I had learned the hard way that vulnerability in the wrong hands was a weapon, a tool to be used and discarded.

    He thought my composure was an invitation, a puzzle to be solved. He didn’t understand that my stillness was my strength, my silence a shield. I thrived on stability, on the solid ground of truth and authenticity. His world of shifting sands and fleeting emotions held no appeal.

    “If you want her, you need to be smarter than that,” the internal voice whispered. I had seen his kind before – men who chased the thrill of the chase, the ego boost of conquest. But I wasn’t a prize to be won. I was a force to be reckoned with.

    He wanted access to my light, the positive energy that radiated from within. But that radiance wasn’t a gift to be bestowed on just anyone. It was earned, nurtured, and fiercely protected. My inner circle was small, populated only by those who valued truth as much as I did.

    “If you want her, you have to do things you’ve never done before.” The gauntlet was thrown, not by him, but by the quiet voice within. It wasn’t about grand gestures or superficial changes. It was about genuine growth, about shedding the layers of pretense and embracing vulnerability. It was bout becoming a man worthy of the space he sought to occupy in my life.

    The thought of ‘luck’ flickered through my mind. It wasn’t luck that determined whether someone gained access to my world. It was consistency, the unwavering commitment to growth and honesty. I was a garden that required constant tending, not a fleeting amusement.

    “She’ll turn your weakness into strengths.” The words resonated with a deep truth. I had the capacity to nurture, to inspire, to ignite the dormant potential within another. But I wouldn’t waste my energy on a barren landscape. He had to bring something to the table, a willingness to learn, to evolve, to become a better version of himself.

    “Her love will enable you to move mountains.” My love was a force, a catalyst for transformation. But it wasn’t freely given. It was a treasure to be earned, a sacred fire to be tended with care.

    “Her integrity doesn’t allow just anyone to get close.” I knew my worth. I understood the power I wielded, the depth of my capacity to love and nurture. But that power was reserved for those who respected it, who understood that intimacy wasn’t a game but a sacred exchange.

    He was still circling, trying to decipher the enigma he thought I was. He didn’t realize that I wasn’t a puzzle to be solved, but a mirror reflecting back his own inadequacies. My walls weren’t impenetrable barriers, but filters, discerning those who were genuine from those who were merely playing a role.

    And as he continued his dance of calculated moves and veiled intentions, I simply smiled, a Mona Lisa smile that held both mystery and unwavering self-possession. I didn’t need to play this game. I was playing my own. And the rules were simple: Truth. Integrity. Growth. Anything less was simply not worth my time. He could chase his fleeting thrills and empty victories. I was waiting for a man who understood that the greatest adventure wasn’t the conquest, but the journey of building something real, something lasting. And until he was ready to embark on that journey, my walls would remain standing. Not as a challenge, but as a testament to the woman I had become.

  • For In Your Eyes

  • Longing For Rest

  • The Silent Watcher

    The cacophony of the mind is a relentless orchestra, a symphony of anxieties, judgments, and echoes of past hurts. It’s a crowded marketplace where every vendor screams for attention, each offering a different version of “you”. And in that clamor, it’s easy to mistake the noise for your very essence.

    Eckhart Tolle’s words, a quiet whisper in the storm, offer a different perspective: “Be the silent watcher of your thoughts and behavior. You are beneath the thinker. You are the stillness beneath the mental noise. You are the love and joy beneath the pain.”

    It’s a radical shift, a call to step outside the swirling vortex of our mental narratives. To become the observer, not the protagonist, of our internal drama. To recognize that the thoughts that parade through our minds, the behaviors we enact, are not us, but rather fleeting phenomena, like clouds drifting across the vast expanse of the sky.

    This “silent watcher” is not a judge, nor a critic. It is the awareness that simply is, the still point in the turning world. It is the space between the thoughts, the pause before the reaction. It is the quiet understanding that beneath the surface turbulence, there lies a deep, unwavering stillness.

    The pain, the heartbreak, the sense of betrayal – these are real, and they demand to be felt. But they are not the totality of your being. They are temporary visitors, storms that rage and then subside, leaving behind a clearer sky. Beneath the pain, like a hidden spring, flows the pure, unadulterated essence of love and joy.

    To live by this is not a passive acceptance of suffering. It is an active practice of dis-identification. It’s the daily, sometimes hourly, reminder that you are not your thoughts, your emotions, your circumstances. You are the vast, silent awareness that holds them all.

    Imagine yourself as a clear, still pond. The thoughts and emotions are ripples on the surface, disturbing the calm. But the pond itself remains unchanged, deep and serene. The practice is to return to that stillness, to anchor yourself in the awareness that underlies the ever-changing surface.

    This is not a quick fix, nor a magic formula. It is a journey of self-discovery, a gradual unveiling of the truth that lies within. It’s a process of learning to recognize the mental noise for what it is – just noise – and to find the quiet strength that resides in the stillness beneath.

    With each moment of conscious awareness, with each breath taken in the present, you reclaim your power. You step out of the illusion of the mind and into the reality of your being. You discover that you are not defined by the pain, but by the love and joy that reside within, waiting to be rediscovered. You are the silent watcher, the stillness, the love, and the joy. And that, is your true enduring self.

  • Dating in Your 50’s: The Struggle is Real

    Dating in your 50’s. It’s not for the faint of heart, is it? It’s like trying to navigate a funhouse maze in the dark, with the added bonus of wondering if the person at the other end is actually a cardboard cutout with surprisingly good grammar. It’s less “meet-cute” and more “meet-cringe”, isn’t it? We’ve traded stolen glances across crowded rooms for swiping left or right on faces that may not belong to the person in the profile.

    Remember the thrill of meeting someone organically? The nervous excitement of a first encounter where you could gauge their vibe, their real vibe, not the curated, filtered version? There was a certain realness to it, a tangible connection before you even exchanged numbers. We met people at concerts, at classes, through friends… there was a tangible, human element to it. Now, we’re navigating a minefield of pixels and promises, trying to decipher if “outdoorsy” means “owns a tent” or “watches nature documentaries on Netflix.” It’s all swipes and super-likes, a digital cattle call where you’re simultaneously the buyer and the questionable merchandise.

    And let’s talk about the profiles, shall we? “Seeking my soulmate” (aren’t we all?), “Adventurous spirit” (translation: once went zip lining on vacation), “Looking for my partner in crime” (which, let’s be honest, could mean anything from one night flings to actual, you know, CRIME). Oh, and the ever-present “Good sense of humor” (which is highly subjective). You read them and think, “Wow, he sounds perfect!” You hit that little heart button, that virtual beacon of hope… and then, crickets. He’s witty, intelligent and his photos aren’t taken in the bathroom mirror. You send a message, a carefully crafted masterpiece of conventional charm. And then… silence. It’s like sending a message into the abyss, only to be met with the deafening silence of unrequited algorithms.

    Then, against all odds, you match with someone who seems promising. He’s kind, funny and seems genuinely interested. The conversation flows, the banter is witty, and you find yourself actually looking forward to checking your phone. It all flows like a well aged Merlot. But then the universe throws you a curve ball: He lives in “Upper Bumblefrack” which is approximately 300 miles and 3 time zones away!

    Ah, yes, the long-distance dilemma. We’re not in our 20’s anymore, ready to pack a bag and chase after infatuation. We’ve got our routines, roots, responsibilities, our homes, and our favorite side of the bed. The thought of packing it all up and starting over is… daunting. Is love worth a new zip code? Sometimes, maybe. The thought of uprooting our lives for a maybe, a what-if, is enough to make anyone reach for a bottle of wine and a good friend.

    It’s a lot. It’s frustrating, it’s funny, it’s occasionally heartbreaking, and it’s definitely an adventure. We’re a generation of strong, vibrant, and fabulous people who know what we want (mostly), and we’re not afraid to go out there and (try to) find it. We’re not going to settle for anything less than we deserve. So, we’ll keep swiping, keep messaging, keep laughing, and keep navigating this crazy, mixed-up world of 50-something dating.

    Keep holding out hope that somewhere out there, amidst the digital chaos, is someone who’s looking for the same thing we are: a real connection, a genuine partnership, and maybe, just maybe, someone who knows the difference between “your” and “you’re”.

  • A Poem: Heartbeat

    Words like fireflies,
    Dancing in the dusk,
    A whispered question,
    “Are you showing up?”

    Ink bleeds a map,
    Across the soul’s terrain,
    “Do you have the energy?”
    Echoes in the rain.

    But a spark ignites,
    “Do something, every day,”
    A seedling’s struggle,
    Reaching for the ray.

    “Don’t force the spirit,
    It’s already within,”
    A wildflower blooming,
    Where the light has been.

    “The land is in you,”
    A mantra, soft and low,
    Mountains of longing,
    Rivers where tears flow.

    “Embrace the wild heart,”
    The wolf’s howl in the night,
    Ancient rhythms beating,
    In the pale moonlight.

    “Home is in your heart,”
    A sanctuary’s embrace,
    Where the weary soul finds,
    A quiet, resting place.

    Turmoil may bury,
    The land’s heartbeat deep,
    But awakening echoes,
    Stirring from its sleep.

    A giant remembers,
    The pulse of the earth,
    The stars ancient rhythm,
    A glorious rebirth.

    No resurrection needed,
    Just a rekindled flame,
    Coming alive, truly,
    Utterly, without shame.

  • Old Film Reels

    The phantom limb of friendship. It’s a strange, aching kind of loss, this severance from people who are still very much alive. Not a death, but a quiet, slow fading. A ghosting without the dramatic exit. They exist, somewhere out there, breathing, laughing, living, but no longer within the orbit of my daily existence.

    I find myself sometimes, unexpectedly, reaching for them in the recesses of my memory. A shared joke, a late-night conversation, a road trip with the windows down and the music blaring – these moments, once vibrant and present, now flicker like old film reels. They hold a warmth, a nostalgia, a bittersweet ache that reminds me of what was.

    The reasons for this drift are varied, a tapestry woven with threads of distance, divergent paths, and slow, insidious erosion of time. Sometimes, it’s the physical distance that stretches between us, making casual connection a logistical challenge. Sometimes, it’s the subtle shifts in our inner landscapes, the widening gulf of differing perspectives, the quiet divergence of political or emotional landscapes that create an unbridgeable chasm.

    There’s a strange kind of grief in knowing that the person I knew, the person I shared those moments with, may no longer exist in the same way. We all change, evolve, reshape ourselves with the passing years. The shared history, the common language we once spoke, becomes a relic of a past version of ourselves.

    I wonder if they think of me too, occasionally. Do they stumble upon a memory, a shared song, a familiar scent, and feel that same pang of recognition? Do they also grapple with the understanding that the “us” we were is now a phantom, a whisper of what once was?

    There’s a temptation to assign blame, to dissect the “what if’s” and “could have beens” to search for the precise moment the thread began to fray. But ultimately, I find more peace in acceptance. Life is a river, constantly flowing, carrying us along its currents. Some people walk alongside us for a stretch, their presence a bright, comforting constant. Others are fleeting glimpses, figures on the riverbank, waving as we pass.

    I choose to hold onto the good, the shared joy, the lessons learned. I choose to honor the space they occupied in my life, even if the space is now filled with the quiet echo of their absence. They remain a part of my story, a chapter written in the vibrant ink of shared experience. And perhaps, in some distant future, our paths might converge again, not to recreate the past, but to acknowledge the shared history, to recognize the echoes of what once was, and to find a new way to connect, if only for a brief, fleeting moment, across the vast expanse of time and change.