Into the Forest


She walked along the edge of the forest, dark and beautiful. Bright green moss covered rocks and fallen logs. Roots of trees snaked out and around and over and beneath. The undergrowth was lush. She followed the road for a distance, but the more time she spent alongside the wood the more she hungered to enter. Despite the darkness therein she was not frightened, rather, at peace as she gazed.

As she stepped within, almost immediately she found a deer trail and followed it. Truly lush and overgrown this forest was. She could not understand how the further she delved the more at ease she felt. She felt as she should, more herself than ever in her life before. She knew that anyone else would feel more and more isolated, surrounded by hostility. She had learned of the stories of this forest. Yet, she did not feel this way. She felt… at home.

Exhilaration filled her; energy, strength, joy. All of a sudden, she ran. Her golden hair streaking back, whipping, a laugh bubbling up from within. She closed her eyes and she could see the trail, in her mind, clearly. She knew this should seem strange to her, rather she felt it was as it should be. The paths and homes of animals shown within her, more easily seen than they would be with her natural sight. She was lighter on her feet, able to almost fly so as not to disturb the life surrounding her. She did not fully understand and for once, for the moment, she did not care. She did not know what her life would consist of after this moment, and for once, she did not mind.

She ran. She did not keep track of the time. At some point she became aware of others with her. She could sense them, though if she opened her eyes she could not see them. She knew they ran with her. She did not know them, though her ease did not shift. She sensed no danger. She had no desire to flee.

Still at ease, she was curious. She slowed. Those with her slowed. She noticed they followed the strides of one. Their movements just a fraction after his, which happened a fraction after hers. At her slower pace she could sense something more. Interest. Fascination. A spark of suspicion.

She slowed to a stop. They moved toward her, one in front of the rest. He moved around her. She could not see him clearly with her mind, not at all with her eyes. He circled her slowly once, then stopped in front of her.

She opened her eyes, and left them open for the first time in what felt like hours. A couple blinks and his eyes were open as well.

*note: unsure of source for the image above, which inspired this post*




Somomé awoke with the feeling of her mother’s arms. But it was just a remnant of a memory, a piece of her childhood.

She’d only ever remember glimpses. Good happy glimpses.

Her mother would sing to her and make up stories to tell her. Her father would make bread and soup and hot drinks that would make your nose tickle and your body all warm. He had a soft laugh. His beard was soft too, and red. His beard was more red than the hair on the top of his head.

He would put Somomé on his lap, no, on his knees, and bounce her and chant a song:

Brave girl, brave girl

Happy girl, sing

Sing with me, be with me

No matter what life brings

Take to wing and fly!

Then they would chant it together, with the bouncing of his knees. Her father would take her mother’s hand and they would take hers. Her father would take her up, under the arms and make her fly through the air of their small home. They were happy.

When the nights were clear they would lay in the tall grass and look up at the stars. Her mother would point out the faces of the moons, how the moons were happy, because they were happy. She said how you could always tell how things were going by the faces on the moons.


Then the one would always come. The memory full of pain. She couldn’t avoid it, with the glimpses.

One night as Somomé looked up at the moons, they didn’t look happy.

The next morning there was confusion and people around that she didn’t know. Screaming. Fire. Crying.

She was taken, in a cart.

Her eyes were blurry as she screamed. Her mother and father were kneeling in front of some men. Her home burning behind them. She was fighting. She had to go back to them!

Then everything was dark.


* image inspiration: hplyrikz *

Highly Sensitive People

wpid-wp-1428179346992.jpegPsychology (n) the scientific study of the human mind and its functions, especially those affecting behavior in a given context

Highly Sensitive Person. Ah.

When I first heard this phrase (actually, first saw it in its abbreviated form of HSP), I thought, “Pphfth. Another thing for people to claim about themselves. Another excuse of behavior.” But, I read on. And on. Slowly, stubbornly, I realized this might be a thing. There’s even scientific evidence! And might even be one of these things! *mini gasp*

Okay, I must admit, I’m a little bit – dare I say – obsessed with psychology. It has been a long-standing relationship between us. I get intense and radical for a while. I realize my intensity and cut myself off. I miss it and slowly become ridiculously hooked again. What are these relationships called? Co-dependency? That’s probably too extreme, but you get the idea.

So, I was browsing in my normal fashion around personality psychology. There it appeared, in [mentally] glowing letters: HSP. “What is this categorization that I am not yet aware of? I must discover!” Those were pretty much my thoughts. Pretty soon the above realization occurred and newfound [obsessive] outlet ensued.

So, what is a Highly Sensitive Person? I could of course enumerate for you all of the lovely details, but honestly there is so much out there on the subject already. So how about I just share some sites I like?

• The original self test by Dr. Elaine Aron is pretty great! I love how fast it is to complete and easy to calculate. Many of the questions do seem to repeat themselves, but there are indeed subtle differences. (Perhaps designed this way just for us HSPs? Probably.)

• Also on the original website for HSPs are facts and research, for those of you interested in the scientific aspect.

• Here are fourteen advantages to being a Highly Sensitive Person (since we tend to get down on ourselves a LOT); found on the wonderful online magazine by introverts for introverts: Introvert, Dear. Also on this website, there are other posts/ articles for HSPs. (One of my favorites is “11 Myths About Being Highly Sensitive”, in which one of the myths is that most highly sensitive people are women. In fact, there are just as many men HSPs as women! Mind blown.)

I really am still collecting so much information on the subject that I don’t feel qualified to state much on my own. If you, though, have known you are an HSP for a long time, are just learning you are, or have a friend or relative who is, I wish you well! And if you, like me, happen to obsess over new-found psychology related information, I hope the above sites are helpful in quenching your thirst.

image credit: Joshua Earle from

I should… (Or not)

I think we’ve all said things like, “I should…. Exercise more, go to sleep earlier, read more, get more accomplished, be more organized, learn a language, devour ridiculous amounts of information on personality types (Oh, is that just me?), etc.” Am I right? Yes. I’ve even occasionally said, “I should learn how to crochet.” But I never did this because I just didn’t want to be known as one of those people.

You know who I’m talking about. Those people who mix all sorts of odd colors together to make it look as if the rainbow got sick and threw up. (No offense intended to those who appreciate this particular style.) Or those people who decide that everything simply looks better swathed in yarn. (Once again, no offense.)

But, it was snowing, you see. There is, of course, only so much browsing of Pinterest and reading of random articles on how we move through the universe that one can handle. And then I saw it. A blanket of beautiful simplicity. It convinced me. I would learn how to crochet.

I found my mother’s crochet hooks (buried in a coat closet), adopted them as my own, looked up crochet tutorials online. I was now well on my way to being a crochet professional.

Three months, 125 crochet related pins (found here, if you’re interested), multiple projects, and gifts to friends and family later, I have finished my blanket. Along the way I think I’ve become something of a crochet monster. (This is something like a Zilla Monster. But, instead of terrorizing cities and leaving mass destruction behind, the Crochet Monster terrorizes the apartment, leaving evidence of her mass crocheting behind. You get the picture.) I have even considered the prospect of selling my handiwork. What think you of that? “Three month’s experience! Mistakes likely! Buy this hat!”

Hm. Maybe not such a good idea?



If you would like to see the blanket that instigated my present obsession, please visit Muita Ihania here (Mind, it’s in Finnish, and google translation of this is not exactly simpatico. But, go anyway.)

I had a Dream

* Hahaha. Sorry. This is no inspirational post. I literally had a dream, vivid and odd. Here’s how it went: *

The planet had settlers many years ago. After the initial drop there were few reports. Then transmissions ended altogether. Explorers/ Scientists recently dispatched. 

Our team crash landed near a city. It should be populated, but we see few signs of life. Few birds. Strangely quiet.

We find a building to camp out in overnight.

We awake to loud, heavy steps.

We’ve been trained for dangers. Not this kind. We know nothing about this.

The next few days we lose one of our team. We are all constantly alert, taking shifts. We move.

We see a native child eaten. We can’t do anything to prevent it. We need to get out of the city. We don’t know if it is worse or better in the countryside, but we cannot hold out much longer here.

We make it to the edge of the city. There is a tall, thick fence appearing to go all the way around. It has been busted out in places.

The people had tried to protect themselves.

We passed through one of the openings.

There are dinosaurs – as we decided to call them for their similarity to the prehistoric renditions – they’re out here too. Many kinds, though, not only predators.

We find a tall tree to climb and sleep in overnight.

We take shifts.

Later we find people. They speak similar enough to us that we manage to communicate our search. They will take us to a peoples, a village.

No sign of the other crashed team.

The people here struggle. Some are nomadic, searching for safer places. This area is maybe more dense with predators than others. There is a whole planet after all. It is difficult to survive.

The village we are taken to is a strange mix of modern and primitive. There are houses on the ground. There are balconies in the tallest trees. People wear a mix of traditional, albeit ragged clothes and shoes, and clothes made of scales and furs and necklaces of bones. They are suspicious.

Many nights the adult males go a little way away and dance and chant. They practice battle.

One of these nights the large predator dinosaurs come suddenly. The watches did not see them. We run with the women and children for the trees. To possible safety.

Many do not make it.

* I woke up here. Possible storyline one day? As a side note, I love the feeling the below art gives to this whole idea. Credit goes to Simon Stålenhag (he did NOT create this beauty for me), whose website is located here. Please visit! *


The Shop Called “Kokosina”

I’ve decided that I must be picky. I like the idea of being “selective” better. But, maybe I’m too selective, hence, picky.

You know how when someone gives you something and you really, really want to like it because they thought of you and were being kind to you, but – well, it’s ugly. You smile, you’re so grateful, you nod, but all you can think is, “Oh… Well… Maybe if I can bear to wear/ use it, it’ll grow on me… Maybe…”

I’d been looking for a bag. The reasonable side of me thought, “It needn’t be TOO cute. It must be inexpensive.” This equates to something either second-hand or on sale. Don’t get me wrong, I love those options as much as the next person, but the “selective” side of me said, “Cost is unimportant. You must like it enough that you will want to use it all the time, always. Stylish. Useful. And just the right size and color. Nothing less.” This battle between my two sides drove me to looking for a bag no less than a year. A year-long search! For a bag! Like I said, “selective” (Ahem… Picky.)

My selective side prevailed.

Thanks to my dear friend, Pinterest, I found my bag on a less trusted friend, but nevertheless a helpful one, Etsy.

The shop is Kokosina. (Check it out!) Based out of Russia and Italy they have the allure of distant lands, with a worldwide style. Their selection is simple, but varied in color choices of Italian leather.

Let me be honest. Buying anything other than in person frightens me a little, and from Etsy perhaps even more so. I read reviews. Four or five stars all around, five being the majority. That was reassuring. I checked out their bio page. Equally reassuring. So! A reputable shop, with adorable bags, from overseas, and even for the reasonable side of me, not exorbitantly priced! I went back and forth with myself for a couple of weeks, and then with the reassurance of my husband, I decided. I was buying a bag!

But, which color?! The outside was easy. I tend to gravitate toward colors like “saddle brown”. I had the option of a contrast color on the inside of the flap. I couldn’t quite decide on that. Green sounded kind of good. After some brief messaging over Etsy with the shop owner, Alexandra (in her cute, slightly broken English), “apple green” was the chosen contrast.

Now, to wait. I could imagine hands carefully fashioning my bag somewhere in Rome. A bag especially made for me. Then putting it in the packaging and sending it off. About this time the US East Coast was experiencing some pretty wretched weather with downed flights, etc. So, I was little worried about this delaying my bag (that sounds selfish when there were actual people delayed because of this aforementioned weather…) But my worries were mostly unwarranted. It arrived before I knew it!

My excitement was just barely contained. I couldn’t stop touching it, smelling it, and making excited little noises over it.

I had read on the reviews that because of a lack of lining itty bits of leather fuzz would get all over their personal items (hence their four stars, instead of five). So, I expected this, but it didn’t stop me from opening it and transferring my items over to it long before getting home from the Post Office, and thus getting little brown fuzzies all over my black skirt. But, I had a plan in place!

I had decided that if my bag had the same fuzz problem that other customers complained about (likely), I would remediate the problem. With tape. You read it. Once I got some I turned my newly acquired bag inside out and as lightly as possible dabbed packaging tape all over. It took a few rips of the stuff. And it worked beautifully! (*Patting self on back*)

It’s been a couple of weeks now since I received it, and I still can’t get over how much I love this bag! It is quite a size change for me given that previously I’d just carried around a clutch/ wallet, but I’m getting used to it with joy. I’m kind of ashamed to say that I’ve found myself a couple of times hugging it much like a child will hug a teddy bear for comfort. I’m not sure what this means in my case.


Regardless, Kokosina, keep up the wonderful leather-working, making people everywhere happy.

Maybe it’s not too bad that I’m picky. Sometimes…

A Book

I have finally read a book. Hahaha. I mean, a specific book. An Agatha Christie book.

As a great lover of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (who is the author of the great Sherlock Holmes, for those who are unfortunate enough to not have known this), I have taken little interest in any other murder mysteries. Or, in mystery novels of any sort. In fact, I cannot remember the last mystery book I have read, excepting of course these two authors I have just mentioned.

So, here I am, a lover of reading, and it strikes me that I have never read one of the best selling authoresses of all time.

I decided to give her a try. I looked for her tops, her bests. (This is, of course, because Christie has written six romances, fourteen short story collections, and sixty-six detective novels. Sixty-six! Besides all that, she also wrote the world’s longest-running play, apparently. Or so my dear Wikipedia has informed me.) I came across a top ten list. I then chose a book off of this list.

“Five Little Pigs”. Also known as, “Murder in Retrospect”. I prefer the first title, personally. A pleasantly crude little ring, don’t you think? Plus, it makes you think of your toes. Little piggies, though, to be precise.

Well, what did I think? I think… That I honestly don’t know what to think.

It overall had a simplicity to it that although making it an easy read, and rather amusing, and easy to picture – well, I simply don’t know. I enjoyed it, yes. It entertained, yes. It is even much like me, with Poirot’s interest in the human personality and all that, yes. But overall there seemed to me to be rather large gaps. Not gaps in the plot necessarily. Rather, in Christie’s overall style. This of course might simply be knocked down to an unfamiliarity on my part. Which, if this is the case, would be overcome by more time spent in reading her style.

In any case, there seems to be something, something I cant quite put my finger on. Something that I wish I knew so that I could enlighten both you, dear reader, and myself. Yet it, at least momentarily, is not to be. Check back with me.

In the meantime, maybe you should decide for yourself.

five little pigs

(As a side note, this doesn’t really feel like a proper review to me… So I’m not sure if it really belongs in the review category. But, it’s there.)

An Idea


She turned her face up to meet the stars.

They twinkled and blurred and streaked and winked.

Her tears made it hard to see who they were.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Who am I?” she sobbed.

The faces of the moons always seemed to know how she was feeling. The brown moon was harder to see, but when you take the time to look long and soft, it is there. The silver moon was always a little happier. Sometimes, though, you could tell, even he felt troubles.

She would make friends of the moons when she lay down at night. Brown and Silver.They would just listen to her, looking on with feeling. She would speak gently to them sometimes, but usually she would just think up to them. She would study their faces.

She would, at night, lay there wondering what was out there among the stars. She would come alive in thoughts, in questions, and in dreams. She relished her time alone at night, where all her troubles could be thought or softly spoke away. She would lay awake staring until her mind would drift, and she would sleep.

She would wake when the sun rising would make her eyelids red.


Forgiveness is the intentional and voluntary process by which a victim undergoes a change in feelings and attitude regarding an offense, lets go of negative emotions such as vengefulness, with an increased ability to wish the offender well.


The pain will be less. You will be happier. You will feel more free. Don’t go about it alone. When you forgive life gets easier. There won’t be guilt over remembering past wrongs, holding them tight against your chest, as if they were a friend.

They aren’t your friend. They are memories. Memories aren’t friends. They are in the past. You can forget memories. You shouldn’t forget true friends. Friends are there for you when times get rough. Friends can pick you up when you’re down. Friends can give you advice and help you do things better. (So maybe only good memories can occasionally be “friends”. But, still they aren’t real flesh and blood.)

False friends laugh at you. False friends push you down. False friends make you feel bad even when you maybe had been feeling good… or they make you feel worse when you’re already down. False friends make you long more, hate more, gossip more, ridicule more, envy more, think more of all the thoughts you try not to think, negative thoughts. False friends bring out your worst. Not forgiving, holding onto those false friends, those memories, it won’t do any good for you.

When you hold onto your false friends over real friends it alienates you. Your real friends will not feel loved, or wanted, so they will leave. You want a false friend over love, and comfort, and real advice, and loyalty?

Just forgive, okay?


Blight = a plant disease, especially one caused by fungi such as mildews, rusts, and smuts ;; disease, canker, infestation, fungus, mold

Humans are a type of plant – of sorts.
We can get blight – in a way.
Blight of the mind – a mind infested, diseased.