Tag: fairytale

Aedaliegh of Arceldör · Short Stories · Songs · Spoken Word

Stomp ( A Folk Song)

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

Okay,y’all. I need your help. Below you will find an excerpt from the (children’s) novel I’m working on. It’s a scene I’ve been playing with for a while, and simply can’t figure out how to make the *stomp* part work in print. So, I would love and appreciate your input and ideas on how to best convey what I see and hear in my head. This is group effort, so y’all chime in.

bonfire-painting
Nikolai Astrup’s Midsummer Eve Bonfire, 1912.

 

Tonight, it was the Gehimni people who were given the honor of entertaining. More than twenty Gehimni men and women ran around the fire, hollering and making noise. It snowed in the Gehimnis for nine months out of the year, and so most of the bed had long beards that covered the majority of their face, and the women wore long skirts made of animal skin with all kinds of braids strung about in their hair. Suddenly, the Gehimini performers stopped running around the fire, and the women took their spots in a circle on the ground. A man began to strum a mandolin, as the others began to stomp their feet to his rhythm. The men threw their knees high up in the air only to bring their smashing back down with the force of a ten horses. Each of the Gehmini men fell in sync with one another until one man threw his head back and howled at the top of his lungs, Ooooooooooooohhhh, and the other men followed his lead.

I’ve seen the mountain tops and I’ve gaped at the sea,

but never has this wanderer beheld a beauty such as thee.

I’d scale the mountains tops and sail across the sea,

if you’d be waiting for me with a white dress and a ring.

 

Yer nose is as pointy as the snowy peaks,

and yer eyes are more emerald than the evergreen.

I know I ain’t much to look at, my darling sweet,

but I got heart a gold somewhere underneath.

 

My heart when it saw you went *stomp stomp stomp*

And my lips started singing this horrid song.

But my dear please know that if you love me so,

I’ll sing this song to you until we’re grey and old.

 

I’ve got a house here in these woods, I bet yer Papa would be proud.

‘Gotta fireplace and a porch that goes all around,

but I’m stilling miss something, perhaps a spritely frau.

So what do ye say, will ye marry me now?

 

The women sitting on the edge of the crowd jumped up and joined arms with the men, and together they danced a polka around the fire. They weren’t the best of singers, but that didn’t stop every single man and woman from singing, or rather yelling, at the top of his or her lungs. If only they would sing on key, they’d be quite good. The entire camp was mesmerized by them, and they joined in with the stomping and clapping with just as much vigor as if they had known the songs their entire lives.

 

Darlin’ let me dance with you until this night ends.

Yes, come a little closer. I don’t mind those hairs on yer chin.

Yer back is strong from plowing and I sure do love yer apple pie.

Oh, you’re the only woman who could ever catch my eye.

 

My heart when it saw you went  *stomp stomp stomp*

And my lips started singing this horrid song

But my dear please know that if you love me so

I’ll sing this song to you until we’re grey and old.

Yes, I’ll sing this song to you until we’re grey and old.

Also, would English speaking children know what a “frau” is? Can I use that word in a “fantasy” novel?  Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions?

Ramblings · Uncategorized

Happy Birthday Little Blog

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

One year ago today, I started a challenge to cut back on my consumption, and spend at least fifteen minutes every day creating. There were no other parameters. I could knit. I could draw. I could write. Yes, I would write.  I didn’t know if I would  make it through a whole year, but I thought I could try. So I spent the last year establishing a habit of creativity.

And let me tell you friend, this is a habit I will cultivate the rest of my life.

In the beginning, there were days where sitting down to write seemed like the hardest thing I could ever to do. There were nights where I would come home, and I just wanted to fall asleep. But I didn’t do that. I pulled out my computer, and I forced my keyboard  to form pictures  out of words.

And it has changed the way I live each day.

Now, I know I’m prone to hyperboles, so some of you may not be believe me when I say this. However, my hope is that by the end of this blog/rant you may grasp the tremendous effect of a small habit. My hope is that you may be encouraged to do the same as I did. To pick up a paintbrush. To put your words down on a page. To do whatever it is your hands have been tingling to create.

So, you want proof, right? How did this silly little habit change my life? I took a long list of twelve, and narrowed it down to two things that this habit of creativity is teaching me. Neither one has anything to do with skill or craft mastery, because that is not what’s important. I’m not asking you to spend time creating so that you can be a better artist (although that will indeed happen), but because I know that along the way you will grow more in love with your Maker, his creation, and -dare I say it- yourself. So, without further ado…

2 things Creativity is teaching me.

1. There is still magic to be found in this broken world. 

I mentioned a few moments ago that when I first began this endeavor, I struggled with what to write about. It would take me an entire month to write a poem. I didn’t know how to generate ideas. My friends will tell you I’m a do-er.  Give me a task and I become a horse with blinders. The end is all I can see, and I’m going to run as fast as I can to get there. But that’s now how Creativity works. You can’t force it. It’s not something you can mark off your to do lists.

Creativity for me is a lot like Pokemon Go. (I bet you never saw that sentence coming.)  You can’t sit in your house on your computer and wait for cute little monsters to show up at your doorstep. You have to go out into the world and walk around a bit. Only instead of searching for Pokemon, you’re searching for beauty – for magic.  You’re searching for something that makes your heart sing. And when you find it, pull out that Poke Ball and capture it (which is easier said than done, I know). Stick  it in iPhone Notes App and let it grow. Collect more, and let them grow. They will evolve and become stronger and more beautiful. And then, that’s when you share them.  Because beauty is a lot like the little boy with two fish and five loaves. When you have something to offer, you may not think it’s enough, but offer it up anyways. And the next thing you know, it’s the hands of One who can take your small offering and feed a crowd of thousands. The more beauty is shared, the more it multiplies.

So when the shopkeeper down the street is laughing loudly with his brother like an unhindered child, catch it. When the sun makes the cobblestone streets glow a dull pink color just before sunset, catch it.

Because YES, in the midst of all the bombings and strife and wars and hate-filled speeches, there is still beauty to be found. I’ve seen it. I’ve experienced it. And I want to share it. I want to bring it out of the background of our photographs and into the forefront of ours minds. When we have long forgotten about our Maker and Savior, it is beauty that can bring us back. It is beauty that can give us hope, that just maybe, things won’t always be this way. Could it be that there’s more to this life than toil and pain?

Yes. And I’ve got Poke balls full of moments to prove it.

My iPhone Notes App is filled with lines of poems I have yet to finish. (It’s kind of a mess, really.) In between grocery lists and to do lists and all sorts of lists, I’ll find these little gems: two or three lines of a poem or a song, or an idea for a short story that I typed out while waiting in line or  walking home from work. I’m learning to channel a simple moment into verse. You don’t have to “catch em all”, but what if you just started just searching for one?

2. There is no such thing as failure. 

Before this year, I had never tried watercolor. I had always loved the feeling of brush stroke swishing across a page, but I was afraid I wouldn’t be good at it. Now is the time when I would very much like want to go off on a philosophical tangent about what “being good at” something even means, but I won’t do that. Because frankly, it doesn’t matter. You see, it doesn’t matter if your flowers look like mud puddles when you draw. Do you enjoy it? Wonderful, then draw. If it is moral and physically/financially possible for you, and you enjoy it -whatever “it” is- then do it. It doesn’t matter if you’re good at it. What matters is that it’s good for you.

That’s what I love about art really. It’s so gracious. Art by very definition is experimental. It molds over time and with each person who handles it. It doesn’t judge but simply submits itself to whatever the artist needs from it. Art doesn’t seek results, it seeks transformation. It seeks communication. Any criticism that we receive comes not from the our creation, but from ourselves. This year, I have learned to accept that I am human. In fact, I’ve learned to enjoy it. This life-long learning curve can be fun if you free yourself from this silly idea of perfection.

I’ve been wanting to write “A Fortress for Aeda” for years. I kept myself from it, because I knew I would never be as good as C.S. Lewis. I’m not kidding; that’s why I didn’t write. I was embarrassed that I would never be the writer that he is. And while I still treasure him as a writer, I’m learning to love myself as a writer as well. I like the way I see things. I like that I’m a cynic who writes fairy tales. And I believe that the stories I’m writing needs to be heard, just as I believe every child everyone should read the Chronicles of Narnia.

I’m going to tell my stories with all the beauty and charm and goodness that I can muster. And that is enough.

In short, this year I realized that being a dreamer was a good thing, because dreamers see the world as it will be. And I am learning how to take those dreams and slowly bring them into being. And yes, I’m probably not going to be the next Lewis. But when we stop defining success as a destination and more of journey, then we don’t have to be afraid of failure because it won’t exist. But if we simply strive to call beauty out from it’s hiding place, then every day we can work with joy knowing that what we have to offer matters.

Oh, and my big announcement?

A Fortress for Aeda is currently going through (and has been for several months) some very intensive rewriting and editing sessions. She’s getting new chapters and her old ones are getting reworked because, well, I’m going to publish her.

The goal is to have “A Fortress for Aeda” out by Thanksgiving. (Okay, Christmas at the very latest).

A year ago, I’d barely written anything. I just had this dream of one day writing a novel. Maybe. And I’ve still got so far to go. But I’m taking hold of my dream. I’m working towards it. And it started with 15 minutes.

So, please friend. Start today. Right now. Pull out those pencils, go buy that new watercolor pallet, start that story you’ve been writing in your head. Get your hands dirty with beauty.

You have the time. You have the creativity (I promise you). And you can not fail.

 

Spoken Word

Today I Wandered

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

Yesterday, I had an introvert day. I painted and colored and cleaned and baked, all sorts of magical things. And I decided that I should take a break from all things good and go for a quick run. I begrudging put my aesics on and gave myself the usual peptalk. “Just do 20 minutes and you can be lazy and sit in your pajamas the rest of the day. Here, put on audiobook. This could be fun.”

Instead of taking my normal route to the nearest park and back, I decided to roam up and down the streets of Lichtenberg. I quickly found a new park, and with no google maps to tell how big it was, I just decided to wander in and see what I could find. “It couldn’t be that big,” I thought. “And it looks like it heads back toward home.” I should’ve known better.  Twenty minutes in and I was so lost, but I had never been more happy to be that way. I found a castle, old graves, a pasture full of sheep. Yes, in the middle of Berlin, I found a pasture of sheep. There were vines growing over old buildings and little summer shacks where women were out pruning their gardens. I was about 50 minutes into my run at this point (it should be noted that I am not actually in shape, and my body hurts like mad today) and I still had no idea where I was. But it was glorious. As a super planner control freak, I don’t just wander like this. Most of my days are calculated, each activity has a beginning and end time. I pride myself on being efficient, but make fun of how inobservant I can be. And after yesterday, I realized the two might go hand in hand.What do I give up when I cram more things into my day? What beauties do I miss out on? What precious moments?

So, as my year of learning creativity comes to a close (look for my 1 year birthday post on AUGUST 12th!) I’m wondering if this next year needs to include less doing and more dwelling.

But these are just silly ramblings that come before I present a poem. I’m just stalling to press to publish button. I really need to work on that. 🙂 But with nothing else to say, I think I’ll let you read my poem now. Read it, and then go out a wander some.

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Today I wandered for I had else nothing do,

so I humbled myself to walk underneath the sky’s hues.

My feet followed paths I knew not where they lead,

and I listed to my heart instead of a plan.

Secret passages laid undiscovered for I had not the time,

but perhaps if I had known, I would have sooner changed my mind.

For when I took the time to finally look around,

I saw magic in the making, just waiting to be found.

 

Shrub and vine held up buildings on the verge on collapse.

Wildflowers sprung from gravestones, bringing life from the ash.

The women tended their gardens, calling color from the dirt,

And I mourned that it has taken me this long to finally see the earth.

But now I call forth: “You are good, beautiful and true.”

You have revived my soul, like water seeping into roots.

As if only by beholding, there is beauty now in me.

As if by seeing you, I have seen what is holy.

 

Though I ran for hours, I did not once grow weary

For how could my legs stop when my eyes saw such beauty

I threw my head back and laughed as I turned round a bend,

I giggled as a school girl for all the glory flowing in.

And as I ran through the forest, the trees reached down to me.

So that I could touch their branches, and from their spirit glean.

Though my journey shortly ended, I returned home not the same

For there was wonder in my heart and peace running through my veins.

 

Aedaliegh of Arceldör · Short Stories · Uncategorized

A Fortress for Aeda

Rebekah Eckard8 Comments

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This is the beginning of a story that’s been forming (consciously) in my heart for over four  years, but I like to think it’s been writing itself for much longer. I didn’t intend to start Aeda’s story at this point in my life. This story deserves a better writer- a kinder one-  a more clever one than myself. So, my plan was to obviously wait until I was older and wiser (so, like 27?) but I can’t really keep it quietly sitting in my heart any longer. But instead of giving you the ever growing 17 page document that currently saved to my desktop, I’ve decided to edit and “publish” it a few pages at a time. For the next 6 (ish) Saturdays, I’ll be posting the next installments of Aeda’s story.

So, today, with much anticipation and excitement in my heart, I bring you…

A Fortress for Aeda, Part 1.

Update: A Fortress for Aeda is currently under construction, but you may find an exert from the story below.

She was sitting on the floor lacing her boots when she heard it: the crack of a tree limb. Her hands stilled as she listened to surrounding forest. Leaves crunched beneath footsteps like war drums growing louder with each new beat. Careful not to make a sound, she stood up and slipped silently across the dirt floor.

Someone was in the forest.

She was found.

She peered out the window and waited for the noisemaker to appear, squatting down low so that only her eyes peered out through the small slits in the wooden shutters. Her fingers brushed against the smooth wood of her bow as she loaded it with an arrow. She took a deep breath in through her nose and exhaled through her mouth.

“Animals know when there is danger around,” he father had told  her the first time he took her hunting. “But if you can control your breathing, they won’t sense anything is wrong.”

A tree branch filled with bright yellow leaves pulled back and a man emerged from the thicket. His deep brown cloak and hunter green tunic made it seem as if he were one with the forest, a small tree who had just decided it would rather stand in the clearing. He crossed his arms and studied the dilapidated cottage, as if considering what might be inside.

This was not the first traveler who had passed by her cottage in the last three years she had lived there. Perhaps if she had met him earlier, she would have thought twice about the signet ring he wore on his right hand or the golden crest pinned on his cloak. But now she only concerned herself with details she thought were necessary: Was he armed? And how could she overcome him? Nothing else mattered.

He wasn’t a particular well built man, rather average. His soft brown beard was well trimmed, and his hair, though well combed, contained spots of grey. This knowledge brought the smallest grin to Aeda’s face. A well groomed beard meant that this man was no woodsman or farmer, but rather a comfortable gentleman. She had defended her cottage against men far bigger and rougher than this man.

He took a step towards her, and she snarled. He could not have come at a more inconvenient time. She had made a rather fine plan to go hunting and chop wood today. She didn’t have the time to be bothered with this stranger. She would scare him off quickly and then she could resume her plans.

“You’ll find no hospitality here,” she called out. “It’d be best if you kept walking to the next village. If you hurry, you can make it there before dark and I won’t have to waste an arrow on you.”

The man halted in the middle of his step and held his hands up in the air.

“You must be Aeda.”