It’s funny how life never turns out how you envisioned it would as a child.
I am at an age where I recognize this, accept it, and can laugh at how this unpredictable world likes to keep me on my toes.
Growing up, I was not always so understanding of this unruly world.
“There’s beauty in ordinary life, pages full of stories that turn ordinary into magical moments… Bits of magic everywhere you look from page to page. When reading Bella Grace you know there are still women who live authentically… and take the time to stop and pause to wonder and dream.”
— Lisa RedWillow
If you believe that there is beauty and magic to be found everywhere in life and want to see your name in print in the pages of Bella Grace, we want you to share your stories with us! If you are a writer, blogger, photographer, or listicle extraordinaire, submit your work for publishing consideration for our Winter Issue, now accepting submissions through July 15th, 2016.
He carried a floral gift bag bigger than any purse I owned into my kitchen. My birthday present. I wore a dress the colors of the ocean, my hair curled, my makeup done for our night at the philharmonic. I couldn’t wait for the night to start, but lingering excitement came over me as I suspected what might just be in that floral bag.
The tissue paper susurrated as I swept it aside and withdrew a wrapping paper-covered box. It was a carrying case, and inside was my 1948 Remington Rand typewriter. The tiny metal arms stamped with letters and numbers fanned around the green-gray shell and the black ribbon that transfers the ink to the creamy linen pages. The silver lever that moved the type to the next line gleamed. A tiny part of me suspected, but I didn’t let myself believe, that this glittering slice of magic was in that bag. It was the most romantic gift I’ve ever received.
“It is in the unraveling of this world that we are reminded where our true gift is found.”
— Melissa Michaels
Eyes barely open I touch the switch for coffee and listen to the machine slowly come to life, imitating its start I leisurely make my way across the room. With my journal in hand, I ease into the soft chair and begin to write. The darkness shelters the calm morning like a new friend in the space where I unravel the residue lingering in my heart.
The swirl of the pen and the ritual it creates fills the page with all the rumbles that occupy my thoughts. Occasionally they arrive as a revelation; a way of letting go of the things I have been holding for too long, welcoming discovery as my hand magically floats across the page, flooding the paper with serenity. Like the fog that gathers in the mountains, these reflections collide, imploring a space of their own while I untangle the message they deliver.