Week 3: The Purity of Hope.

Amongst the splendid spatulas, the portly pots and peculiar pans, in the clumsy cupboard just below the shallow shelf that displays a perceptible disarray of tea cups, assorted glass hope bottles, disorganized plates of all shapes and sizes, and Mémêre's favorite tarnished silver salt and pepper shakers, the spoon that stirs hope lies inside the lower cupboard in a quarky uprooted position, discarded a top the simple array of kitchenware. Mémêre deposited it there just after the very last day of hope bottling season, and quickly forgot about it.

But her daughter could not forget the intriguing spoon. Every morning she would rise early, hopping out of bed in her little night gown to check the cupboard for the spoon. Some mornings, if Mémêre was still asleep in her room at the top of the windy stairs, she would stand in the cozy kitchen, a tiny silhouette carved across the floor with the light of early morning, and hold the spoon in her vulnerable hands, slowly twirling it about as her curious little finger tips traced the grooves and notches of the magnificent ancient mystery locked inside the marvelously detailed wood.

She had asked Mémêre once where the spoon had come from, and her inquisitive question was quickly brushed aside amongst the busy bustling in the cozy kitchen.
One day, while sitting by the watching window, she asked Mémêre again.

"Questions like that are almost entirely unanswerable, but you will understand what I mean by this in time." Mémêre began.

"My little Enme, there are some things that just cannot be explained. For if someone or something created the spoon, and they were able to give it such great powers, then who is this person and where did they get the power to create the spoon?" she asked her daughter. "It is questions like these that will arise in your mind if you chose to ask yourself how the spoon came about." Mémêre warned.

Enme blinked slowly as she took this new information in, sitting quietly on Mémêre's lap facing her with wide eyes of innocence and voracious curiosity. She was barely six years old, but wise beyond her years and for the most part she understood what Mémêre was trying to tell her. And despite the warning, she still wanted to know.

"There is an explanation for this spoon, but it is one that will only open many more doors filled with questions and lead you down many winding paths of truth seeking." As she finishes this next bit, she pats Enme gently on the head and kisses her softly on the wisps of downy hair that cover the top of her little forehead. Then she settles back into the chair so that she can stare out the watching window while she passes on the story of the spoon to its next user.

"Before there were towns and villages and neighbors and walking paths, before many of our ancestors were born on this land, there lived a small group of people very close to where this house now rests. They lived a simple, loving life and never knew the fire of violence, the sting of hunger, or the pangs of hatred, greed, want, or envy."

"The graceful ones lived for many years in peace and happiness. One day, while wandering through the woods that surrounded their settlement, a little girl much like you tripped over something firm sticking out of the ground. After righting herself, she checked to see what had blocked her usual path to the blunderberry bushes. Tugging wildly at the oddly shaped piece of wood that protruded from the path, the little girl unearthed a large piece of wood that looked much like a the spoons her mother used to make their meals in the evenings. Thinking she had found a wonderful gift for her mother, she ran quickly home to give it to her." With this Mémêre pauses to think for a moment, staring further out the watching window as if staring directly into a time long ago.

"Her mother, wanting to appease the thoughtful little one, made their evening meal with the newly acquired spoon. The family ate as normal and went to sleep just as they did every other night when it grew too dark to see by the flecks of candle light."

"As time passed, bad things began to happen to the family." Mémêre sighed heavily as she revealed this part of the story, then continued.

"The little girl's mother had an accident while gathering vegetables for the evening's stew. She lived through the accident but was not able to see or hear, therefore she was not able to communicate, so she could not tell anyone what had happened to her. Then one day her father disappeared while foraging in the forest. No one from the tiny settlement had ever gone missing, so no one quite knew what to do or what to make of his absence. The very next day, the little girl's brother was cutting wood for the family's cooking fire and had a very bad accident. He was the first person in the village to pass from this world before his time, everyone else who had come before him lived until their bodies wore out and when the time came, they stopped, and that was that."

Enme sat listening intently. The story she had longed for was unfolding itself right before her, and she was completely mesmerized.

"When news of this spread, the tiny settlement went in to a state of panic and despair, for they had never known loss or sadness, and did not know what to do. They gathered together to discuss what had occurred, and decided that it would be best to visit the family, and help take care of the remaining children."

"As visitors came and went, food was prepared and eaten. The spoon was shared amongst the people of the settlement as they prepared food for the family and ate with them over their hearth. No one paid much attention to the spoon, for it was a gangly odd looking spoon and looked as though it had grown out of the side of a tree, not as though it had been carved by the hands of a human like the other spoons in the settlement."

"As the good people of the settlement passed through the house of the stricken, their hope and their kindness warmed the house of loss and despair. With each new hand that touched the spoon, a new energy was passed to it that became locked in the grooves and notches forever. From the pure spirit of these people, the spoon emerged as a positive center in the lives of the stricken family. When the first person prepared the first meal and ate at the hearth with the family, the accidents stopped and never returned."

"Do you understand what I am trying to tell you, my little Enme?" Mémêre paused briefly to see if her daughter could figure out why the family had so many bad things happen to them.

Enme nodded slowly but looked a bit unsure, wrinkling her nose as she sat with her hands clasped loosely on her lap as she waited for Mémêre to continue.

"No one in the tiny settlement knew the wonderful gift that the spoon held secretly locked inside its notches and grooves. It was only through the genuine goodwill of the graceful people in the settlement that the curse of the spoon was broken. They are lucky they were pure and generous kindly people. For the spoon holds great power. If this power is not shared and used for the good of many, it builds up and has no where to go. And just like trying to put lighting in a jar, the power in the spoon is unable to be contained, and will misfire and harm those around it if its powers are not shared."

With this Mémêre looked at Enme with tired eyes, and a weary heart.

"There is more to tell you, my little one, but I shall have to save it for another day. This season of hope bottling has taken a great toll on me, and I must rest now."

Week 2: The Frivolity of Hope.

The girl who bottled hope was once a young girl - innocent and new and quite the opposite of the wise and weathered woman who answered the door to face the old man in need of her gift.

As a little girl, her favorite memories are of the times she played in the kitchen, watching as her mother stood in the very same spot on the very same floor in the very same house that she now lives. Her mother stood much like her - leaning heavily on her left foot as though it were attempting to become part of the floor, pressing out her right hip to one side for balance, staring at the pot full of hope whimsically -- almost always completely lost in deep thought.

But today her mother was acting strange, and she wore a sad expression as she toiled and boiled. The girl who bottled hope had no idea what this meant, her mother was usually brimming with joy and smiling constantly being that she was bearer of hope and good will.

"Mémere, what is it that bothers you today?" the little girl asked with wide indigo eyes.

"Well my darling, it seems that someone has taken advantage of the gift that I have given them" her mother began, looking back into her daughter's shining youthful eyes with her own worn out tearful eyes.

"The bottles that I give out are meant for the people who need them the most, as there is only so much that I can make in one harvest. And you know how I sometimes have to turn away people who come for hope but do not really need it?"

"Yes, mémere, I remember" replied the little girl, bobbing her head up and down happily because she knew the answer. "I remember the ones who ask you over and over, and how you have to tell them to go away, again and again and again until they finally leave you alone" the memories of these moments bring a glimpse of a frown to her tiny lips.

"Exactly my darling, those are the people I speak of. But there is something worse that can happen. Yesterday, a man came to see me and I could sense with my gift that he truly needed hope. He has never been to see me before and I did not know him, but I decided that - even though I have many orders of hope to fulfill, I would give him some anyway" replied her mother, letting out a huge sigh and sinking deeper into the floor boards, left foot planted even more firmly against the ancient wood.

"But what about the people who were counting on their hope?" asks the little girl, who begins to nibble the corner of her bottom lip, something she does when she is really concentrating on something that interests her.

"You see, that is the problem, I had to tell Mrs. Lillipi from the next village that she would have to do without her share of hope this year, and that is a terribly sad thing to do"

"But mémere, Mrs. Lillipi needs her hope very badly, and she has come to you for years!"
the frown has now completely taken over the little girls face, furrowing her brow and crinkling her nose.

"Yes, love, this is true. But Mrs. Lillipi has gone without before, and knows how to make do. What really upsets me is the man who came to see me" her mother says, pausing to stir the thick stew with the special spoon.

"The hope was not for him, it was for someone else who has already had their share. This person thought they deserved more, so they hired him to come to me and try to get some more" with this revelation, her mother releases the handle of the spoon and plods heavily across the kitchen, plopping herself down on the chair by the watching window.

"Come, love, sit on my lap" she attempts to smile at her daughter. The corners of her mouth are turned up out of duty but her eyes remain sad, dull, listless.

Hopping across the cozy kitchen to follow her mother, the little girl grasps the curvy arms of the chair to climb up on to her mother's lap, easing herself into the apron spread across her mother's legs. As she rests her head against her mother's soft body, she tucks her delicate little girl feet underneath her, nuzzling them just so, and tries to wrap her dainty arms around her mother. Maybe if she squeezes her tightly, she can help make her mother's sorrow all better as she waits for the rest of the story.

"The gift that we have is special, and does not come without consequences" her mother begins. "You know what consequences are, right?"

"Yes, mémere, yes!" she nods ardently.

"Well, every morsel of hope that I give out to help someone else, takes a piece of my own hope in the world, a piece of myself. When the person truly needs the hope that I give them, only a very tiny piece is taken, and I hardly notice the piece of me that is missing. But, when I make a mistake and give out hope to the wrong person, it is as though a very big part of me has been taken away and that part can never return" her mother explains "Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do mémere, but what happens then?" the little girl unwraps her arms from around her mother and snuggles in closer.

"That's the problem, even with my keen intuition, I have made many mistakes over the years, and each mistake chips away such a large piece of me. There is only so much of me to give and so much hope to share. A few more mistakes, and I may have nothing left to give" her mother pauses to look out the watching window, then continues in a softer voice, holding her daughter tightly while she explains:

"With great power comes great responsibility, and I fear that one day I will not have the ability to fulfill my responsibilities" her eyes move and affix themselves firmly on the floor. The little girl is very worried about her mother. "You are so young and innocent, but I have to tell you this story because one day you will have this responsibility"

"I know mémere, I want it! I can't wait to give people hope!"

Her mothers face darkens and she looks back at her daughter's deep innocent eyes.
"One day love, you will understand. You are young now and have not had enough experience to completely understand. But I will still teach you as much as I can while I am here, because you will need to know this, to serve the world, and to survive"

Gazing up at her mother, the little girl cannot understand why she seems so sad. If only she could make it all better, if only her mother could just forget this sad story, she thinks, then they could go back to their usual routine of playful stirring and aimless chattering. And then she wonders...

"But mémere! What happens when there is no more of you left?"

Week 1: The Girl Who Bottled Hope

there once was a girl who could bottle hope.
she stewed it in battered bulbous pots day and night until after the autumn harvest
when it was ready to be cultivated.
She toiled over the boiled liquid, staring at it with wide muddy eyes, languid
and lost in the murky pool of hope that was about to be ready for packaging.
In her kitchen she stood, starchy apron pressed firmly against her bosom like
a hopeless lover, leaning lackadaisically against the tilted edge of the ageless cobblestone counter, knowing hands firmly gripping the large old wooden spoon that had been passed to her through generations of hope bottlers, moving the spoon in circles- realizing that over the years the wood of the spoon sucked up pieces of hope from each and every batch, liquid morsels of every specially concocted batch became as much a part of the wood spoon as the maple that was once hand turned on a lathe to form it into the hope twirler that it is today.
People from far and wide would come to her every season for a chance to have a bottle of their own, knowing that the girl had a special gift and that within the round, muddled ruby liquid lay
what they had been longing for.
Through the years demand grew high, for hope was needed far and wide in times of trouble
and worry. With so many people in need of her gift, the girl who knew the recipe that had been passed from sister to mother to daughter to cousin could not give up the only thing that she knew, so she toiled and boiled and bottled and coddled.
One day, when the girl had grown into a tired, withered old woman who had seen many years of hope distributed, a man came to see her.
It was well past the season for hope to be shared, and she had given out her last bottle a month or two before. Cane in hand, wiry white wisps of hair brushing his forehead, he made his way to her doorstep. One by one he painfully climbed each step (as though he were climbing Mount Everest itself! he thought, wearily) until he reached the lopsided old porch that lead to the front door. With a creaky hope-filled knock, he awaited the answer of the one person who could save him from his dilemma . Moments later, a hobbling old woman answered the door and was shocked by the look of loss and pain inscribed on the face of the man standing before her. "I've come for a bottle of hope" he said, painfully aware that his wish was not an easy one to grant. "I stopped making it", she replied, "I'm fresh out of bottles and there are none to be found for miles around, and since no one wants hope that isn't packaged all pretty, neat, and nicely, everyone that used to come for it...just stopped, and so did I".
His mouth agape yet not allowing the tiniest sound to escape, the old man turned slowly, creaked painfully back down the steps, and continued on his path.