These Things Are Refuge


Little Frida Mae and her dense forest coat, a belly soft as down and reminiscent of a bunny pelt. Her snowy fur contrasted with striped tabby patches, two shaped like wings perfectly positioned where wings would be. Holding her like a baby, the vibration of her purr against my heart, pure love looks up at me through bright eyes lined in umber. She touches my hand with her pink bunny nose and curls her paws as her eyes slowly close. Refuge.

My yard with golden pebbled paths and dried sunflower stalks propped against the cedar fence— lasting reminders of summer. A frozen patch where wildflowers once bloomed and a nook of lilac bushes that house a nest. Patches of snow covering remnants of this year's garden, now put to rest for winter. St. Francis and Mina keep sacred watch, along with the chickadees, starlings and doves— gathered at the feeders, their songs crack the quiet.  In the stillness of morning with coffee cup in hand, I meander the paths and breath in the sunrise— refuge.

Watching generous snowflakes fall past my studio window, inside I'm warmed by herbal tea and slippered feet. The steady pulse of Alicia Key's on repeat as I work vibrant yarn into an imperfect flower. Around me are collections of nests and feathers, a tea bowl of stamps, some dried sticks and seed pods. Bundles of yarn and piles of fabric unravel and spill from their overstuffed basket. Drawers stashed with paper and tools for making. Walls lined with books and inspiration. Creative opportunity space. Refuge.

My beloved's voice calling me Beautiful and Sunshine. The misty-eyed way he looks into me, heart-touched and honest. His love for me, deep and true and abiding. The warmth of his hugs, sturdy and gentle. The way he is in the world— steady, generous and tender. Refuge.

Zoli's silky soft fur and puppy-like charms, fetching and rolling and flopping at my feet. Resting on my lap, his weighty presence soothes me. Kneading his giant paws into the plush kitty bed slays me. His trusting innocence and calm demeanor— refuge.

Homemade spaghetti with roasted artichokes and briny olives. Crusty rustic bread and thick parmesan shavings. Evening baths with Epson salts and lavender oil. Watching "The Voice" while singing and cheering aloud. Dancing in the living room to Alabama Shakes. Easy morning walks before the world is awake. The smell of freshly brewed coffee— hints of dark chocolate and toasted nuts. Motherpeace cards and elevensies, music and Flow Magazine.  Warm sheets straight from the dryer and sleeping under a cloud of down. Laughing with a friend who truly gets me. Crying without holding back. Listening to rain dance across the window. The sacred quiet of the season's first snowfall. Sitting with the rhythm of ocean waves. A river of words moving from my heart to the page. Refuge.

Wrenna Rose1 Comment