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Of Being and Essence

 The sun streamed, as sun has a tendency to do, through the cottage window. The witch sat down in one of the rays and watched it. She stared at the sunbeam until her eyes hurt. Then, naturally, she blinked.

    At this very moment, she had a choice.

    The potions were made, the stock completely full to bursting, the bandages wrapped and clean, the herbs harvested, the cottage freshly cleaned. Even her darning basket was empty, all threads having been deposited through all holes last evening.

    The whole of everything was set to move seamlessly—a perfectly conducted pattern that could repeat itself mostly without thought.

    Mostly.

    The people, though. The people who came for her help could not be set in a seamless pattern. They were all kinds, with all kinds of messes, sorrows, joys, trials. They made life interesting—and kept her from thoughts of life's futility. People, she knew, were futile in being, never in essence.

    She stared at the sunbeam, and made her choice.

    No, she wasn't bored. She was merely resting. 

Soluble Views from the Mind-Body Problem (or The Pot of Tea, if you'd rather...)

 Once upon a time a mind felt weighted, pressed, pain, growing cloudy, and seeing nothing but shapes in grey.       The body of the mind put on a kettle, then brewed a pot of tea.       The cup that held the tea held no form in the mind, though it gave a sense — the kind of sense that warmth can give from time to time. The pot, too, had it's place in soothing what it could. It was a pleasant pot, the body knew.      The body drank. Shapes in the mind took on color. Then form.      Gently, the mind saw a whole world. For the moment, this was no bad thing. For the moment, the mind could work. Until it's next weighting.       
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Bedtime

 The screaming was more than anyone could bear. The crying as bad. The wails like splinters burying in limbs.  On and on, as though it would never end. The chaos of humble clinging. Pain shot through with desperation, guilt, longing. All at once, silence. A magic spell cast suddenly. And almost relief. But, that their mouths upturned at the corners while their feet danced below the quilt, said that somewhere, in their dreams, they partied with fairies. As children are wont to do while they sleep.  It was not quite peace. But close enough. Enough for a mother to sleep. Her feet danced under the quilt, too.   
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Mothering

 The mother screamed. This surprised exactly no one. It was a thing mothers did, from time to time. As long as it was at the sky, particularly if the sky was midnight black, there was no harm done.      'Oh God,' she cried.      This was acceptable, too. Who else was there to cry to? Who else might listen?       She shouted at the sky. There was nothing shrill about it; the sound was dark and deep and haunting.      Nothing unexpected there. It was the kind of call that was built on trials of the soul. What else did a mother have? It was an offering people could relate to.      Then she laid down on the ground and stared at the stars. Sometimes she traced them with her finger. Sometimes she sat in silence. Sometimes her eyes were opened as wide as they could go. Sometimes her eyes were closed. Always, her heartbeat slowed. Always, her body rooted in the deep ground. Always, her mind rested.   ...
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A Life

 The knife twists slowly. She sees beautiful things under it's pain. She doesn't stop it. And she is not surprised; it twists because it must.      She knows that to stop it would be a fool's errand.      To hurry it up would be to miss its beauty.      It is a knife, nothing more and nothing less. The twist is what makes it interesting.      She is interested. Absorbingly so. Yet, from time to time, she stops, takes a moment to watch. Those moments are agony — unbearable and wretched. Best to ignore; best to take the pain and live.      All too soon the twist halts. The pain is over. And so, she thinks, is the beauty.       But she has had beauty enough; she can give it up.     Save,  something beautiful comes. That is indeed a surprise. She smiles.      She goes on then, as though she never was.       Except... except, the scar show...
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