Needles in the Wind

At the turn of my head I see through the window the bright green needles of the giant pine waving up and down in the breeze as dusk slowly seeps down between the curves of these mountains. My grandmama's little house is nestled across from the river and the highway up in these Idahoan mountains, and the chimes that hang off the porch out front sing merrily, charming and calming my sleepy little heart. I'm craving a walk between those tall pines tonight, but the chill of the coming night drives me inside to snuggle underneath my cozy afghan, with a cup of steaming tea, my staple, in my hand. As I rest my head here, and close my eyes I think of my beating heart, and somehow I realize that I've begun not to expect anything anymore. I don't expect to love or be loved, and I don't expect the best. It stunts my courage and makes my heart shrink in shyness, my eyes drop to the floor, and only a little smile turns up the corners of my lips. But even though I no longer expect anything, deep inside is an all-too-human longing for everything. A longing for true love, unbroken by years, pain, and trials; a longing for beauty to grace the world I live in; a longing for a little hand; a longing for a place stamped and sealed as truly my own. Somehow there is a strange release--a strange freedom in letting go of all my ambitions, and letting my dreams slip away so easily into the world of fiction--the place where stories are spun and woven like the fibers of fine tapestry. In letting go suddenly it seems as if I've gained everything; I have freedom to enjoy the moment I'm breathing in. Let the cool of the night air shock my lungs and bring goosebumps to the surface of my skin; suddenly every sound and movement jumps out and alerts all my senses. The rustle of the dry grass and the chirps and coos of many birds stir my heart, and though the sounds pierce my heart, the overwhelming quietness is enough to make me lie down in the tall grass and watch the clouds slowly move across the sapphire sky. This quietness, these woods, are a part of my soul; they make me who I am, and without them, part of me would die. But it's not just the woods, for even in the midst of bustling populations there are places in which the stillness sings. It may be harder to hear, but it only takes a patient and listening ear. A still heart--quiet. It's so hard to take my own advice, though. I busy myself with picture-taking, and speaking; with too-much tea-drinking, and a heart that doesn't want to stop dreaming and worrying and thinking too many thoughts. So tonight I'll curl up in my bed, in this my grandmama's house, try not to shake the thin paneling of the walls as I turn in my sleep; I'll listen to the moan the trucks make on the highway, and let it rock me into the sweetest slumber. May the morning not come quickly, for I do not have a desire to leave this place. May the night pass oh, sweetly, and my dreams soothe instead of tear me. May the morning bloom fair over these hills and mountains that are ingrained into my soul, and let the God of my life hold me in His hand--ever leading, ever guiding, no matter where this little girl may wander.