http://slow.writerscafe.org/francisrosenfeld The original writings of author Francis Rosenfeld en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776021566 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 “Hurry up, granddaughter, we wouldn’t want our guests to find us unprepared,” Aifa’s grandmother commented, more to assuage her own tension than anything else. Everything had been prepared, cleaned, shined to a blinding polish, planned to the last detail. “Today is a bi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3131648/ “Knead joyfully, granddaughter, you don’t want that bread to be heavier than a rock,” grandmother teased.All the Caretakers were gathered at their house to bake together for the Day of Abundance. They had started early in the morning and the aroma of fresh bread, right out of the o.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3130010/ The middle of July brought with it an abundance of early harvest, but the Caretakers were so busy, they didn’t even notice the buoyant unfolding of life around them. They spent day after day, gathered around the Twins, listening to the wisdom the two poured forth, wisdom whose source nobody re.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3129305/ For the second time that year, the community took their trip down the side of the mountain, down to the sea. It was the middle of June, and it seemed like the whole world was covered in flowers, especially the tall, bright yellow flowers of the meadow, which some still believed were faeries in disgu.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3128660/ “Are you nervous, granddaughter?” grandmother asked. It was Aifa’s first public speaking assignment, one for which she had prepared the entire week, and she was, of course, all nerves. “Don’t fret over it, you will do just fine.”“What if I don’t?&rdquo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3128165/ The Great Hall was filled with light and flowers, there were so many flowers, so many candles, the whole floor was covered in them. It felt strange for Aifa to watch the Twins, who were dressed up in their simple white garments and had flowers woven in their elaborately braided hair, sit donning une.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3127537/ “Aifa,” grandmother whispered, although nobody in the house was sleeping. “Are you ready, granddaughter? It is time to go to the Hearth.” Aifa wrapped her garment a little tighter around her waist and washed her face with the rose water her mother had made, put on her shoes a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3126669/ There had never been a more beautiful spring. The forests and the valleys were bursting with flowers, with all the enthusiasm of nature returning to life, as if nature itself was rejoicing at the sight of the Twins, and they returned its affection by not wanting to be away from its midst for even a .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3125454/ From the moment the Twins arrived, poor Aifa hadn't experienced a moment’s rest. They were five year old now, constantly moving around and getting into everything, and last, but not least, they never stopped talking. They seemed to have reached that glorious age when everything aroused their c.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3124429/ The closer it got to the spring equinox, the more animated the Grand Hall of the Hearth became, engulfed in a flurry of activities related to sprucing up, clearing and decorating it for the arrival of the Twins. Every now and then one of the Caretakers went out into the yard, to check if the ice on .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3124063/ The Day of the Blessings usually started early in Aifa’s household. Aifa and her siblings were already dressed up in their costumes by the time the sun was high up in the sky, and were crowding each other in the kitchen, where they were all gathered to stuff their goody baskets with filled pas.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3123512/ Towards the end of February winter started easing its grasp on the mountain springs, allowing them to come back to life, almost suddenly, in bubbling expressions of movement and sound. The tiny brooks searched for each other down the mountain, forming tiny pools and waterfalls, and when they could, .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3122598/  If you were born in Cré at the beginning of February, you would be among the youngest people to enter the Hearth. It was the yearly tradition that new mothers should bring the babies who have been born over the course of the previous year to receive a blessing. Aifa was born in the summ.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3121975/ “Wake up, granddaughter,” Aifa’s grandmother shook her gently, so she wouldn’t be startled out of her deep sleep. “We need to go to the Hearth soon, we don’t want to keep people waiting."Aifa got up quickly, washed her face and hands and put on the clothes that sh.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3121393/ Aifa had always asked herself, ever since she was a little child, why would a community decide to perform a ceremony that featured water during the time of year when it was almost guaranteed to be frozen. Of course if she asked her mother, she would have gotten hours of cross-referenced instruction .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3120693/ It was the week before the feast of the Birth of Life, a time when the city of Cré was usually bustling with activity. Everybody rushed to finish the preparations for the feast, get the gifts wrapped, and most importantly, get ready for the big social gathering that happened at the Hearth eac.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3120052/ On the longest night of the year, the women of Cré gather quietly, dressed in their festive garments, whiter than snow, to walk the gentle hill towards the Hearth of the Gemini, whose limestone walls glow ghostly in the distance. They have no lights to guide them, other than those of the star.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3119734/ Over the course of a symbolic apprenticeship of a year and a day, guided by her grandmother, Aifa navigates the ceremonies of life, mystical traditions, and the subtle growth of self-awareness. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3119733/ What a strange gift, she thought. What a strange gift it was to be able to touch the heartbeat of existence with her hands. She grabbed a handful of soil, warm and fragrant in the afternoon sunshine. It was dark and shiny, it smelled of mushrooms and forests and clumped loosely in her fist: the crow.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/3118761/ That night she dreamed she was walking on a long bridge. It was made of gossamer and glowed with the strange shimmery dust that was still stuck on Claire’s fingers. It crossed a deep chasm, high up in the clouds, and stretched so far in both directions that she couldn’t see the en.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2987307/ The newborn sounds and scents of summer filled Claire’s heart with an indescribable longing, with the mottled memory of something long gone, very precious and almost forgotten. She panicked like she had suddenly been made aware of its absence. She searched for this something for days, inside h.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2963920/ Throughout her entire life light and shadow had been facing each other on Claire’s inner battlefield, her soul, equally favored and equally strong. Since the outcome of this constant battle showed up in her day to day life in the form of indecisiveness, she had moved the struggle to the canvas.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2962308/ Claire was awakened in the middle of the night by the scent of tree blossoms carried in the breeze. She had left the windows open before she went to sleep to let in the fresh air of spring.Outside the window the ghostly shapes of the flowering trees, all shrouded in white, kept sentry to guard her.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2961452/ The songs of nature had returned - cheerful birdsong, leaves rustled by the wind, and if one listened carefully, the sounds plants made when they grew, sounds usually unheard by human ears. Claire had brought out a blanket and spread it out on the grass of the front lawn to sit on, just like .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2961054/ The Otherworld had revealed its wondrous strangeness to Claire and she was taken by its beauty. She was eager to find out more about it, but there was one thing that irked her: the fact that she could be snatched from whatever activity she was involved in at any time and dragged down the guts of cre.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2959513/ “Careful with the wires!” the interviewer cautioned one of the movers who was carrying a box so big he couldn’t see anything in front of his face and was about to trip on a cable. “This goes in the other room. Claire?” she turned to the host who was standing in the midd.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2957422/ It was cold but Claire decided to go out anyway, drawn by the mysterious mist which softened the contours of the naked trees and lingered close to the ground, pooling in low laying spots like water.Here and there the oak moss had already started growing and it streaked lime green accents on the da.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2955956/ “There is one thing I don’t understand,” Claire frowned while she sipped her tea. “Lucky you! Most of us have quite a few of them,” Grandmother teased.“Remember what I saw in that dream? That reality is made of light?” “Vividly,” .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2955439/ When the warmth and fragrance of summer welcomed her again Claire instantly knew she was dreaming. Purple clouds were gathering on the horizon and a few gusts of wind whipped the heads of the cattails announcing the thunderstorm in the distance. The whole world looked like a patchwork of brig.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2954423/ The week passed and the week after that, and no word from Jane.“Her father probably found out she was here, I don’t think she’ll be back any time soon,” Grandmother tried to soothe Claire’s worry. “It’s not that, it’s just…I’m not.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2953378/ “You have a visitor,” Grandfather raised his voice as he passed the attic ladder.Claire had been in the attic the whole morning, looking for a favorite set of brushes she distinctly remembered having seen there the last time she and Grandmother were poking around. She’d be.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2952344/ “Well, that was quite a party!” Grandfather engaged Claire in conversation over a flavorful cup of coffee; the clock had just struck four. Grandmother had decided to surprise them and make the coffee Turkish style in a hammered copper ibrik over a low flame; the brew had a thick smooth t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2951265/ There were so many people in the room! The warmth of the fireplace, the large gathering and the champagne rushed the blood to Claire’s cheeks, making her look a little less poised than her professional Claire persona would usually allow, and a lot more human. The crew had brought additional li.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2949333/ She dreamed of summer again that night. In her dreams it was always summer in her grandparents’ garden, warm and fragrant and buzzing with bees. The cattails around the pond swung gently in the breeze, catching the sunshine every now and then and turning from tan to gold. Here and there.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2948350/ “This is going to be perfect!” the museum curator swooned when Claire opened the door to reveal the impressive decor of the old mansion. The latter was so used to it she didn’t realize the impression it would make on a person who was seeing it for the first time. “You really .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2947350/ “Is this right?” The lighting technician was waiting for her agreement on the final placement of the spotlights. “Yes,” Claire replied, awkward. She wasn’t used to being the project of an entire team and this level of attention overwhelmed her; the art gal.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2946368/ Weather soured quickly, eager to catch up with the calendar. The sudden chill drained all the color from the golden landscape and left behind an austere structure of bare branches, the bones of the garden. Their slender limbs the shade of fresh cement melted in the cold rain and dripped on the groun.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2945748/ The garden slept soundly under a mountain of leaves in the unseasonably warm air of late November.“You never painted this beautiful landscape,” Grandmother commented in a reproachful tone.“Maman, you know that’s not what I do,” Claire tried to defend herself.The c.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2944692/ “Who left the door open?” Claire asked herself. Both panes hung flush against the walls, almost touching the mirrors. She’d never realized before how close the doors got to their beveled edges and wondered how come in the long years the house had seen they had never been chipped by.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2943752/ There comes a point in one’s life when one simply gets bored with one’s own misery, no matter how justified. One just can’t afford the amount of energy it takes to keep it going anymore.Despite the tribulations, the sorrows and the betrayals of her dysfunctional existence Claire .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2942760/ The end of fall had always been a wonderful time in Claire’s household. It was the time of harvest when fruits, vegetables and herbs were processed, stored and preserved for the winter. It was the time for planting carrots in the root cellar, next to the large demijohns of fermenting gr.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2941932/ The problem with the familiar is that it lulls you into a deluded sense of certainty and veils your sight from the fact that you don’t know the world at all, not in any meaningful way. Claire could walk anywhere in the old mansion with her eyes closed, without stumbling on a threshold o.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2941060/ Like all of us Claire had many selves: there was the granddaughter Claire, the artist Claire, the practical Claire, the Claire at life’s crossroads, the friend Claire. One could try and peel off one layer after another in order to find her real self and keep at it until there was nothing left:.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2938490/ “Close the door! Good grief!” Grandfather shouted behind her. Claire turned on her heels and obliged, dragging the heavy door closed and wondering why that made her feel uncomfortable. Much like cats, and if he admitted it to himself, her grandfather, she didn’t like closed doors. .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2937591/ The role of emotions is to push the mind in the direction it needs to go. Emotions are catalysts for the thinking process, they don’t do anything in and of themselves, they don’t get consumed in the process, but they make an idea possible when, under normal circumstances, it wouldn&rsquo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2936862/ Rumbling thunderbolts ripped through the sky, giant ropes of electricity dancing their wild dances, guided by celestial rhythms unknown to mortal souls. The storm had started suddenly, as they often did around here, fired up by the hot air which could no longer hold its burden of water. In the middl.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2935882/ Our muddled mess of emotions is there to remind us that we are not singular beings, we are collections of selves, as different from each other as we are from other people. The job of these impartial judges who dwell right below the surface of our consciousness is to arbitrate the arguments between o.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2934991/ Context fills in the voids in our understanding, so we have no conscious perception of the things we don’t know, but the instinctive, deeper portion of our psyche can feel the gaps in reality, in ways it finds difficult to express, the gaps which reveal themselves to physical perception when d.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2933976/ “Claire, when are you going to put yourself together and go back to your life? I can’t think of any other thirty year olds who live with their grandparents,” her grandfather started abruptly, right in the middle of breakfast. His unexpected rebuke made the young woman, who was stil.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2931794/ As Claire sat on the little stone bench by the pond, listening to the song of the frogs late in the afternoon, she was suddenly struck by the realization that she could smell the shrill scent of violet. Not the scent of purple violets, or that of the humid air filtered through the purple rain clouds.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/francisrosenfeld/2930924/