Be the change you want to see.

it's the dark of the moon. Time to release what we don't need in our lives.

I release fear of making others angry/unhappy/dissatisfied
I release fear of what happens if I try something new and scary
I release fear of feeling alone, feeling useless
I release fear of risking and failing
I release fear of not-enough, of lack, of scarcity
I release my attachment to four full BOXES of paperwork that are just taking up space in my life
I release my attachment to dozens of books I don't read and I give myself permission to let those go out into the world
I release my attachment to old roles I used to play, old scripts I used to follow, old masks I used to wear
I release my worry of not being good enough to even TRY
I release my worry about my future and welcome in hope
I release my sorrow at all those old paths-not-taken, the old regrets and splinters-of-the-soul.

You are obstacles. You impede my footsteps. You are hurdles to be removed. You do not serve me, I put you in the fire with the other things that are in my way. Ashes to ashes. Feed the soil with the ashes, and grow something new.

Pavel stamps his feet into the too-large snow boots and wraps the warm muffler tightly around his neck. Even at seven, and small for his age, he knows better than to forget anything that will help conserve body heat out in the deep taiga forest.

Papa is waiting.

Pavel buttons up his coat (also too large) and checks for his mittens and hat in the coat pocket, taking a last deep breath of the warm air in the cabin as he fumbles for the door latch, hands eager and his heart in his throat.

Papa is taking him hunting.

The snow is crisp, crunching beneath his boots, the air sharp in his nose and throat, the light reddish and dim through the thick branches. Pavel is proud to finally be big enough for Papa to bring him here, to the family cabin, to learn what Chekovs for generations have come to the forest to learn.

Papa is huge and dark in the dim light of dawn, the old fashioned projectile rifle held loosely at his elbow, barrel pointed down.

"Always pointed down, my Pavel, always down and away from other people, until it is time to take aim at your target," rumbles Papa's deep voice in Pavel's memories.

Papa this morning is silent, but his white teeth flash bright in the dark bushy beard. Papa always grows his beard out strong and thick to be ready for the long Siberian winters. There is no ice in his beard yet, but it is only October, after all.

Papa tips his head, a glint in his eyes, and Pavel grins. Though Papa cannot see his mouth behind the warm thick muffler, eyes smile as brightly as mouths do.

Ivan and Stepan have hinted that today, words will not be necessary. Today, all day, he and Papa will watch, will walk, will eat in silence.

If the right moment comes, Papa will pass the rifle to Pavel, will help steady his aim, will brace his shoulder against the recoil of the antique weapon.

This is his most important birthday ever. Pavel is eager to do well, to make his Papa proud.

He and his Papa turn and walk toward the sun, into the deep forest. Chekovs together, silent, focused, and determined.





This is my entry for Week 15 of therealljidol. The week's prompt was "Chekov's Gun" and yes, I went there. Sue me. =)
Link to the poll for voting will be IS HERE, please feel free to explore other entries for the week at the elegant and finely-crafted link HERE.