-Frozen Tears of Hope

[Words to Image. I stare at my chosen image folder and allow one to choose me. It grabs my attention and screams, "Write my story!" I then do. This is what my imagination came up with. Enjoy]

As the story is told, hundreds of years ago there was a Welsh child born with an obvious birth defect. Her ears were as pointed as was her grandmother's shoes. Early on, it was nothing that ever concerned her but as time passed by, it did. When boys entered the picture and the others were being entertained, Moriah sat alone on the long empty bench. She pleaded with her parents. She pleaded with her grandparents. But Moriah was born of a poor family and all the money they could even think about scrounging together would not have been enough for the doctors to make her normal, like all of the others.

One day, she visited an antique store and fell in love with a vintage cello. It was rough, but sound in its ability to play. She quickly bought it but was stopped at the door by the shop's owner.

"Child, folklore has it that if you play the number 6, Hurrian hymn perfectly, the goddess of orchards, Nikkal, will hear with delight and grant you a wish. When the skies drop frozen tears, that is when she is listening."

The old lady said nothing more but reached to her own ear and pinched it with thumb and index finger. Her subtle message was understood. Moriah rushed home and began learning the ancient hymn. She practiced it every day, earnestly.

And then one very cold February morning, she witnessed the sky crying frozen tears. She ran and fetched her beloved cello and darted out of the door. End pin stabbed into the dirt, body leaned toward her chest, left hand on neck, knuckle whitened right grasping the bow ... and then she relaxed and began to play. She played it flawlessly. Three years of tireless practicing unleashing a single song with perfect notes, playing to the white sky, sounding for the goddess of orchards, hoping for her wish. She finished, wished, and waited. Nothing. Perhaps a note was off. She played it again, perfectly. Still nothing. Perhaps the old lady's folklore was merely hogwash. But she played it once more, just in case. And then it stopped snowing. Still nothing. Moriah tucked the useless cello under her arm and walked home.

The next day there was a hearty knock on her door.

"Moriah! There is someone here who wishes to speak with you!"

She entered the room and saw a very well-dressed gentleman standing beside her mother.

"This is Lord Barouque. He was traveling by and heard your playing. He proposes to hire you to play in his court during events."

The gentleman spoke.

"Miss, what I heard was the most magnificent rendition of that particular hymn. The skill, perfect timing, the passion you put into it. Absolutely, magnificent. My events are outstanding, yes, but they do miss a certain something to make the truly remarkable. Memorable. I believe that something is you, my dear."

Moriah was speechless. The Lord glanced at the hopeful face of her mother and declared, "Very well, then. I will send notice, prior to, and a ride the day of. I do look forward to our next encounter."

With that, he bid farewell. Moriah spent the next decade entertaining many people of great wealth and power. Ever time she played it captivated the room. Conversations were silenced. All eyes fell upon her and she never noticed a soul staring at her ears. She played for theirs and nothing else mattered. Moriah was paid very handsomely. She pursed enough to not only pull her entire family out of poverty but still had enough to pay for her own reconstructive surgery, one hundred times over. But she never did. It was her discontent for the way she looked that ushered in this success. Her dedication to take measures into her own hands brought forth the opportunity that would change her life. And in this, her wish was granted.

[The next time you see the white sky crying her frozen tears, think of Moriah. Ask yourself, "What is it that I possess within me that mimics her passion and dedication?" And whatever that is ... let it sound out. Play on!]