The Blank Page

The Blank Page                                 3-7-2012

 

Troubled I face the blank page, my palette yearning to be filled.  The very emptiness a barrier.  For I must fill not with colors of water’s pigment or brush marks in oil, but with letters linked carefully…words.  Times when mind driven, the words come quickly riding the passion of thoughts clear.  Other times slowly they flow as the feelings must grow…mature…clarity not yet fully realized.  The words themselves adding to the life and the concepts.  Too often the words escape from the dark places where pain hides.  Places of past hurts and future fears.  Those words better saved for another page…that blankness would soon disappear as letters tripping and stumbling race for light and life.  Now I face the blank page wishing to cover with words of puppy dogs and sunny afternoons…of joys and victories…of laughter and best times.  Lifting myself, not easily done, yet a task worthy.  The beginning most difficult, courage and determination required.    Having something to say would make the page grow smaller.  But what value can I share on this blank page.  What bit of sunshine, have I to give…taught perhaps by life’s professors…which may brighten another.  I face a blank page…and wonder.  Out of the fog a single word forms, a title perhaps…but more…an idea.  One line complete…others will follow.  Soon fingers knead language as the idea springs forth with its own life.  The lines, brother after brother, march downward, the blankness slowly replaced.  Words, the seeds, shape a notion as slowly it grows.  Finished, not certain of satisfaction.  It will for others to determine whether what is finished is better than just another blank page.

 

(271 Words)

 

"E"

“E”                       3-19-2013

By John W. Vander Velden

The wind bit Paul’s exposed flesh.  His face took the brunt, as he walked with his hands thrust deep within his jacket’s pocket.  Turning up his collar had not helped much.  A stocking hat would have been nice, but for crying out loud it was supposed to be spring.  And for that matter the car should have taken him home.  How could he know that the fuel would run out the instant the needle touched the “E”.  Paul had heard so many stories of people driving hundreds…well maybe twenty miles all while they watched the gauge plummet so far beneath the lowest dot, resting upon the peg until their car reached a station selling cheap gas.  No one ever ran out of gas.  It just didn’t happen.  But knowing his luck, Paul shouldn’t have been surprised.  To make matters worse…if they could be worse…he had found himself at the side of some country road in the middle of nowhere…if nowhere had a middle.  Paul had politely knocked on the door of the first house he reached.  The lady there was no help what-so-ever.  She wouldn’t even open the door.  What was this world coming to?  Her voice wasn’t too clear as he listened at the door.  Something about “go way” or “not today”.  When Paul, certain the lady of the house had been unable to hear of his problems, began shouting.  That resulted in “please don’t hurt me” and “If you don’t leave I’ll call the police.”  Sheesh, who calls them police these days.  That was nearly forty minutes ago.  It was still light then…well sorta’.  Maybe he should have let her call the police.  Paul felt certain that cop cars had heaters and right now he could use some heat. 

So Paul walked on certain he was the unluckiest kid in Donner County.  Just as he decided the situation could be worse…after all it could be raining…it began raining…hard.  Now this was ridiculous.  Shortly after turning onto his own road, only two miles remained, more or less, headlights came from behind.  The old dark colored pickup pulled alongside.  Paul looked down as the man rolled down the window and shouted. “Get in.”  Paul didn’t argue.  “What happened?”  His father asked. 

“Car trouble.”  Paul’s answer.

“What broke?”

“The gas gauge….”

(388 Words)  

The Old Church

The Old Church

By John W. Vander Velden                          

 

 

Once proud on the corner, the monument of gray stone stands abandoned.  Now silent, how many years its great bell called, echoing throughout the town.  Long ago built with sweat and pride…long ago the center of many lives…long ago a sign of God’s presence…long ago….  Only the old remember; their eyes tear at the sight.  Scrappers have stolen the brass from her doors.  Vandals have broken the stately window of glass stained.  Stone has fallen from high up her walls.  Surely the roof no longer seals storms pounding rains.  Yet within perhaps something remains…something of the dignity…of the honor…of the truth.  Perhaps the scent of wax yet can be found among the dust and cobwebs in that place where so many lives began and others sent homeward.  The empty shell stands lonely, crumbling; the end of old dreams for God’s glory now in slow decay.  Most scarcely notice, moving past in life’s crush.  Many do not care…an eyesore, nothing more.  But to others there is nothing sadder than the old church.

 

(179 Words)

Pale Light

Pale Light

By John W. Vander Velden                             

The cold night air stings nose and lungs as I walk over the rolling snow covered field.  Only the brightest stars, those that dare confront the brilliance of the full moon, dot the dark overhead.  The land lays painted beneath the pale light, the moon illuminating the snowy landscape, reflecting various shades of gray, in the pristine night.  The way I chose leads across the rolling land made more so by ocean like waves, drifts piled and driven firm by winds past, my steps at times labored.  Now air calm, my breath’s steam hanging before me, freezing ice drops in my moustache, carries no sound other than my own.  With eyes sweeping the frozen world, enjoying a different beauty of light and shadow of open spaces shared by none.  Here alone beneath the stars and moon…here alone as I trudge through knee deep drifts…here alone in a world illuminated by pale light…I find myself once more.  As I pause, as I study the night world lit by pale light, as I look in each compass point, seeing no other, a place most solitary I have found.  Yet even here, I know…I am not truly alone…not here in the mid of open land…not here, far from home and hearth, far from those wiser within warm walls.  No, the stars and moon remind me with their pale light…I am never alone!!!

(234 Words)

Pioneers

Pioneers 

 By  John W. Vander Velden 

It seems to me that my parents were very much like pioneers.  They crossed the sea…though never had they been more than a short distance from the place of their birth.  They came to a strange place…a land where they knew few people…a land where people were very different…spoke strangely.  They went boldly filled with dreams and ambitions.  They made a new life.  They did not turn back.

Each of us is a pioneer.  And we, each of us, are bound for a new country.  A place we have never been.  A place we may not be prepared to face.   Yet we are going, perhaps vigorously onward or pushed forward.  The mists hide what lies ahead.  There are those things we can expect, but there are also so many things before us in the unknown.  And so as pioneers we tread onward…onward to a new country…a country filled with challenges, rewards, and disappointments as well. 

What lies ahead of you?  What lies ahead of me?  Only by going onward will that be revealed.  For we tread on a road not taken before…leading at last to an end we know, but the travel…the between the where we are and where we are certain we will reach…that is the unknown land.  Pray for patience, we all shall need it; for a sense of humor, it can only help; for love, it is the only mortar that holds lives together; for boldness, it keeps us upright on our journey.  But most of all pray for courage…for the way is not easy.

So go boldly fellow pioneers…go with dreams and ambitions…face your fears…they, in the end, will not overcome you.  For we each travel to a place we have not been…a place we are unable to see clearly…a place that awaits us.  Pioneers, we travel to tomorrow and the days that follow…to our own personal future…whatever that may be.  Do not be hustled along by that herdsman called time.  Stand tall…face each day…know you do not walk alone…laugh…make music…joyful music…cry when you must…smile when you can…laugh loudly and often… and love…love those that love you…and love those that do not.  And each day when you reach that new place stand firm to what is true, yet learn all it has to teach.  Each day is about growth…growth in ways obvious… and in so many ways that are not.

So pioneers do not fear this new land…have courage…walk boldly into the future!

On the Beach

On the Beach                          

By John W. Vander Velden

The wind blew firmly, cool on his cheeks.   Jacob, deep in thought, walking, the sea on his right, waves breakers crashing on wide white sand beneath the mid-morning sun.  A scent familiar, with the taste of salt, carried by the wind.  Damp sand firm beneath casual steps.  No need for haste, for none shared this beach.  No others sought comfort beneath winter sun or the crescendo of tumbling water and seabirds call.  The plovers racing incoming surf went unnoticed, as the line of pelicans their race above the waves.  Jacob did not see the gulls watching as he passed.  On days when much filled his mind Jacob would escape, seeking solitude.  This day began before sun escaped its watery prison.  The car parked unknown miles behind as hours had past, the only constant wind, sand, waves, and a man walking…alone.  The news given in early morning hours…painful…last hope abandoned.  The words flowed past him…Jacob unwilling to hear.  Yet their seed had found fertile soil…soil deep within.  The seed of those words grew and with that growth shattered what remained of his heart.  Soon he must face her, knowing what he could not accept.  A brave face needed, certainly beyond his ability.  Falling to his knees, beneath the sun, the thunder of surf filling his ears, as sea wind blew his tears away.  Waves washing, splashing thighs, cold yet unfelt as with heart broken Jacob prayed.  There through gasping breaths he pleaded…begging…bargained…willing to give himself…if only…  Through his sobs, unheard among the ocean’s thunder, heart’s questions raised, waiting impatient for any other answer…anything other than doctor’s prognosis.  Fear and pain mixed, the truth’s seed now full grown.  Weak, at last to his feet rising, no answer acceptable found…and yet a feeble beginnings of understanding.  Trembling unsteadily Jacob stood turning, eyes scanning steps behind.  Step prints in wet sand…in places clear…in others waves erased…his tracks lost.  Yet Jacob knew from where he had come…understood destination awaiting…the tracks themselves irrelevant.  As the man drew breaths deep, in the place most solitude, strangely felt not alone.  There on the beach…there where wind blew and waves rushed to shore…there beneath pale sky Jacob understood that pain was shared.  Another closer than his next breath, understood.  The sharing did not take the pain from him.  Yet Jacob knew, from this companion, strength sufficient would come for the darkest days ahead.  A strength…found…on the beach.    

(410 Words) 

Three Little Words 

By John W. Vander Velden

A box clumsily wrapped with wrinkled paper.  The bow had fallen off.  It seemed so out of place among the many brightly wrapped packages.  But on Christmas day when the gifts were opened it was found to contain a few pieces of red and green construction paper glued together in what might seem a haphazard thoughtless manner.  Written with glue and glitter, on this conglomerate of cut bits and pieces, were only three little words…I love you…

As time passed and the other gifts, the ones in perfectly wrapped fancy packages, had been lost, broken, or stored away in some forgotten corner of a closet or attic.  That piece of glued scraps of red and green…that piece of paper with those three little words was stored in a box with other treasures.  No, that box did not contain gold or precious gems.  It was not a box filled with stock certificates or bonds.  Yet it contained the things most valuable, the most priceless things in that home.  A baby’s first picture…a lock of golden hair…a small tooth…and some read and green paper with three little words!