" Your beauty should be the unfading beauty of a gentle
and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in the sight of God."
~ 1 Peter 3:3-4
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Behind The Name
March 5, 2025
The river ripped past me as I watched its currents flow. No force of envy could prevent this storm from confronting the path its flood would tread. It was strikingly satisfactory to behold, for even in the muck and mire lay a steady grace to the chaos. The river was truly captivating.
It’s in times like these, during the storm season, that I find life truly exciting. Like a whirlwind of happenings, what was once an inkling stream turns wild and rough by the downfall of droplets from a dark, bold sky. And nothing oh so excites me as the flash of lightning and the crack of thunder soon to follow. Pardon me to jump up on the sofa in pure fascination as the rain comes thrashing across the window pane with fierce rage. Its temperament, frightening, yet all together profound.
Ceraunophile… that’s what I call myself. Sharon Ophelia for short. A pure lover of thunderstorms. And the effects are wildly immense. The river does not discriminate as to what it devours when fed.
Linen + Kettle
I redecorated my bureau today. I decided, since the sun is now cascading down on the dresser, it’d be more fitting to set forth that which delights in sunshine, more so than a piano which I touch only on occasion. Music found me at a time when I had a lot to say and an over abundance of emotions to control. Once that era of my life settled, the lyrics stopped flowing so wildly. It could be a combination of being out of practice, but even when I use intentionality to create a ballad of sorts, I feel nothing. I play a few chords and hope to deliver a melody, but a song does not arise from the mix. Music has taken a back seat. And though that saddens me, I am not heartbroken over it. It was for a season, and could yet return, but as of now, my plants need sunshine. I really enjoy my room. My Father calls it The Gift Shoppe , my Mother calls it a museum. There is so much to look at. Knick-knacks everywhere. Art on the walls. Books galore. Jars upon jars of dried herbs. Antiques, full of character. From my perspective, it’s a bit chaotic, but it’s home to me. My personality flows from each item, liquidating its properties to melt with the others, painting a bigger picture of all that I am. I am the tap shoes I have; to tap dance in the kitchen when no one else is home. I am the books; too many to name, yet each individually important and purposeful. I am the rosemary; curly or common, my idiosyncrasies different, but my aroma - the same. I am the honey jars; tasteful and delicious, touched only by one. I am the florals; from pillow prints to life in pots to wreaths on the wall, I come in different frames of vision, yet I am beautiful to behold. I am the carpet; an old soul who’s felt the footprints of so many and for so long has remained silent. I am the room. I behold so much. Truly chaotic - yet charming all the same.
I am starting to feel my age. At only 24, I’ve thought little about the aging process, but each morning I awake to find my joints clogged up. My knees are swollen. My shoulders, cramped. My elbows are in deep need of a snap. My neck doesn’t roll so easily anymore. It’s like a rod from my shoulder blade to my ear and around to my eye is welded together. I wake up dry. My eyes are crusty. My head aches more. I long to sleep with the windows open. Perhaps I am only in desperate need of the warm air that spring brings. Maybe that will emerge in me– the child I still remember. I’ve thought about it for some time. I understand how men can age; their workload, so much more toilsome than women’s. And I can understand how women age; their emotional stresses are sometimes too heavy to bear. But somewhere along those lines, I’ve lost the perspective that, I too, can age. For all my life, I’ve been known as the one who looks so much younger than I am, and in some ways, I suppose I’ve been gifted that youthful persona in more ways than just looks, but still, this recent physical change has me somewhat alarmed. The realization that I, at almost 25, have not wed, could perhaps at no time in my life be able to bear children, have yet so far to go in the grand scheme of things, and have no concept or clue as to where and when my future home will arrive (or more so when and where I will arrive to it). All of this is a bit overwhelming to behold. But it’s a sunny day. Cold, but sunny. And it’s a day full of possibilities. Maybe a job for my beloved, maybe some extra cash at the scrapyard. Maybe a day to spend with my brother and my parents. A day to do some cleaning up and organizing. Maybe a day to eat some good food and have some good conversations. It can be a day of creativity and imagination, excitement and promise. A day for some to come home and for others, the end of a time - but a promise for a new beginning. And tomorrow may not be the culmination of all days, but it is still a day in the patchwork progress of the quilt of my life.
Sometimes when the morning sun sneaks past the blinds to my bedroom window, I can almost hear its soft whispers to me; gently and prayerfully coaxing me to awaken. Its rays become like arms, the dust particles becoming visible, reaching out to me to caress my face. It wipes back my hair that’s been matted down by the covers. A blissful morning, greeting me with the most delightful, yet peculiar of all invitations. Welcome to the day, for today is the day, and there shall be no other day like it. I pause in that thought and ponder what events may take place, only to find myself in this dreamy state for far too long, that the footsteps on the carpet outside my bedroom door remind me of the demands of the day. The coming and going of each unmarked sigh, I slide down the mattress and plop to the floor unable to mount to my feet. To stand would only allow the day to become real and real is not always what your heart truly desires. Most ache for the companionship of true love and it is in that true love, that reality grows into a sort of delightful substance. But the best kind of “real” is often not real at all. But real enough to take notice and harness it by the wings and set off into the wilds of imagination and allow yourself just to be - in the state of an all-consuming passion of worlds beyond ours. I often think about the worlds beyond our own. Perhaps there is a creature much resembling an older woman, whose name is unearthed and whose hair is quite gray, yet she is energy pulsing through the atmospheres, in one’s breath and out the lungs of others. She glides across the waters of an ocean marked by white caps and froth, turning with the tide. She purifies the moon on the nastiest of nights, polishes him up just right to shine to the best of his ability. She dances in the mud of the forest floor and pools her efforts toward the moans of the lost ambience that once filled the trees. To some who do not know her fully, they title her Mother Earth. A blanket name to cover their avoidance of her true nature. Though it could very well suit her just fine, she is more. More than the Earth, more to Life, more to the Name. But that is very well all within our own world, yet only the truest form of ourselves acknowledge her presence. I believe, we often look past our own world in hopes of a grass greener, but if we search within the simplest of moments of our Earth, we can plainly see the magic of all right here. Worlds beyond our own would be amazing to discover and explore, but what about which we have not known here? For there is plenty! Plenty for the common folk. It is more often than not, in the plain and dandy, that the course of life is more righteous and holy and therefore more beautiful! So then, let her name be Mother Earth and let her warm your heart with all Enchantments. Let her dance across our whitecaps and seas with all elegance and pleasure and allow her to curl her energies through your hair and fingers as she pushes you forward into the steps of your future. And notice her... for that is less than what she deserves, but a step in the right direction for those of us who have neglected her for so long. Bear her name and carry her work out among you, preserving her beauty and sharing it with others! A world beyond my own is much closer than I think. It is your world and his world and all our perceptions and walks of life. So let us share in it together and relish in the true magnificence of it as one.
Every now and then I get into this fantasy phase where my imagination floods and overwhelms. I'm swollen in mystery as I meander through the forest, the sun glimmering beyond the trunks of the beech trees and onto my freckled face. It's always the same dream. I wander and wander, a soft melody of the rush of winds and crackles of twigs beneath my feet, coax me to continue further. What lies beyond, I need to know. I walk a while; twists and turns lead me onward. My pace grows faster as my desire to reach the end becomes stronger. Shapes of animals race me to the finish line. Blurs of brown speed past me, as I cobble along the creek bank, my foothold on each stone a pure step of faith. I have little knowledge about the path I tread, but I know I must keep going. And it is all but in an instant, when all becomes white. The light beyond becomes the light before me and in such a wonderful display, I startle and fall back into the cool of the leaves resting on the forest floor. Moments that span beyond my recollection pass, as I awaken. The towering trees stand before me, reaching high into the sky. I can feel their energies from way down here. They dance a little. I breathe in their strong scent. Spring is in bloom. I sit up slowly. My head aches a little and my back twinges. I must have fallen hard. But to what I owe the pleasure, I don't quite realize, yet all at once I am surrounded by curiosity. Their little faces scrunched up, elder in appearance, yet incredibly tiny in stature. They peer behind rocks and trees, shrubs and leaves. They are everywhere. Too shy to come forward, yet bold enough to stay. Suddenly, none of which I see, I realize is familiar. The sky is glistening in diamonds while the ground around me-- once a cool layer of leaves atop a muddy bed, now provides a blanket of mossy green. I am overwhelmed by this serenity. Such marvels are too great to behold. Yet here I am in the middle of it. And I awake once more. Never to reach the next chapter. Is there more written? I plead with the Master of my dreams to continue his story that I might behold it in his finished, glorious form. What a gift it would be to stand in that enchanting forest, greatly attempting to persuade the little creatures to come out of hiding and sit a spell for a chat. I'd hope they'd take me back to their village or hut where they live together and be invited in for tea and biscuits with honey and jam. Or maybe, they'd introduce me to their friends of various kinds all across the woodland. That deep down, they would know I was not a threat and there I would reside with them. Day after day I would learn the ways of the Mystique and night after night, I would sleep beneath the stars that set forth their pride in the sky that weaved between deep blues and purples. The constellations I'd study and the tides, though hard to recognize, I'd come to know in time. In moments of rest, I'd connect to the earth in the mossy green and let it worm its energies through my spirit; establishing an everlasting connection with this state of pure contentment. But alas, I awake, more aware than ever. I slither back down into the blankets to catch another scene of the best of my dreams, but to no avail does anything ever come from it. So I muddle through my day in search of anything so enchanting. Even fruit flies seem to take on a new persona. Dainty fairies in their infant form, clumsy little flyers aching for approval, they float to and fro across my line of vision, I try my best not to swat at them-- though I do believe they wholeheartedly deserve it for such an interruption. I cling to my library in times like these, books of enchantment that seem to hold me together. I'd just about shatter to pieces and die in sorrow if not for these written reminders of imagination, speculation, observation with all a twist of magic sputtered in. I go to these when I become lonely, saddened by the heavy world around me. There is so much to hide from in the weather of this world, but so much to cling to when essential. And it is from these works that my imagination is renewed and I drift back to sleep in the great slumber of the Mystique.