This is an aggregation of vignettes, poems, and essays centered around being centered.

It is also a NaNoWriMo 2014 entry.

It was a dark and stormy night. It was a mild aquatic fire-fight amid the cool moonlight. It was a bad metaphor and a worse simile.

Jack stopped typing and looked out the window.  The crisp rat-a-tat of rain on the window was a source of calm; the semi-repetitive bullets fell like laughter on Jack's ears.

"This weather is so distracting," thought Jack, as he continued staring into the darkness. "And capturing the essence of the storm is ... challenging."

On the other side of the glass trees danced, swaying like cheerleaders stapled to a forest floor.

"If I just had the right words," continued Jack to himself, as gusts of wind gently shook his small cabin, "perhaps I could finish this assignment.  I owe seven chapters ... and the Landslide is in the midst of an actual fire-fight; but, I need something to draw out the details, to properly capture Jake's voice."

A crescendo of darkness and thunder boomed; the rattle of windows on the North ... on the East heralded lightning and for a brief moment the converted dining room was brilliantly lit.

"Wow," said Jake as he raised his arm and closed his eyes too late. "That was a little too close for comfort. Maybe I can capture at least this on paper!"

Jack dropped down, stared at the screen and began typing.

Darkest night explodes

brilliant possibilities

and fallow shadows

"Perhaps," considered Jack, as his mind began brimming with ideas, "these could be chapter titles; 'darkest' is one of those words that gets thrown around - perhaps it could lead into a particularly horrible challenge or dilemma." thought Jack, as he leaned into his keyboard.

Outside, the thunder hit upon several windows in unison like the wind typing on a key-less keyboard.

"Certainly the idea of a shadow which functions both as oracle as well as maguffin would be powerful," thought Jack excitedly. "This rain truly contains the inspiration I've been seeking!"

Sitting up straight, Jack's fingers began ticking away and his attention lay solely on the screen. As his story finally moved forward, he noticed the storm less - and on the other side of the room, his answering machine quietly recorded the message.

"Jack? It's me, Melinda. I have been trying to get in touch with you!  The publisher changed their mind about the book.  They didn't like the few chapters you provided and they cancelled your provisional contract.  I tried arguing with them - but they didn't listen.  I'm so, so sorry!"

Jack took a breath. Several bursts of lightning in the distance back-lit the hill in the North West corner of his window.  Soon after, thunder from the same direction quietly heralded the movement of the storm.

"I'm so close!" declared Jack, as his attention drew back to the story. "I finally understand how the story will end!"

A burst of keys being pressed put the cursor at the bottom right of the screen.

Stretching, Jack said to himself, "Wow, and to think these chapters have been hard to begin!  I can't wait to see my publisher's face!"

And the thunder quietly walked away.

Footfalls are a set of heavily-loaded indicators.

Visually, footfalls reveal a set of objective particulars that can often identify health and wellness, clothing, age, and perhaps purpose. Prints far apart from some mammal in a forest can reveal if they are hunting or hunted.  Particularly perceptive view of the prints of a bee can reveal which flowers were pollinated as well as which areas of a floral region will evidence further generations.  And prints of a human can reveal quite a bit more.

Audibly, footfalls convey information as well. Softly, regularly paced steps on soil capture a radically different context from quickly, bounding paces on concrete.  Feet which drop through foliage and rub against flora implies a different environment from digits which displace sand or water or gravel.  And toes which pound on linoleum at a marked tempo suggest something far different from the squishy, playful sounds of toenails on the same.

How we walk, then, can speak to how safe and stable we feel, how enduring we trust our home, and where our faith lies.  Being able to walk on clean carpets and clean floors suggests a disciplined, stable environment where long-standing decisions can be made.  Growing up in a home where shots-fired-in-the-night is norm, theft is the rule, and the strongest survive implies that one's steps are not safe, that there are no guarantees, and the idea of personal investment may never be worth the effort.  And establishing a structure with an expectation of safety, a presumption of cleanliness, and a sense of order can lay the ground work for peace.

The fall of feet is also one of the earliest and simplest methods by which we communicate with others: parents listening for the steps of their children (and stretching to hear when they do not); enemies in camouflage intently focused on enemy steps for defensive or offensive purpose; a lover hearkening intently for the arrival of her heart's companion.  In some ways, we have learned to define our sense of safety, our sense of purpose, and our understanding of others on their footsteps.  It is often through footsteps that children learn as well; from the vibrant approach of a playmate, the quiet and measured approach of the family pet, or the heavy and foreboding walk of a distrusted relative - footfall experiences are often a microcosm ones relationship to others.  Likewise, any number of campfire-stories and movies make use of footsteps to convey menace, hope, loyalty, and happiness; too, emotionally-evocative tales which use sound to enrapture the audience simply feel "less" when an expectation of footfall is not met.  In a way, we expect to be led to a contextually-relevant conclusion one step at a time.

Footsteps are a leading indicator of purpose, of hope, of earnest resolve; they can convey who we are as individuals as well as families.  They are one of the first tools we learn to communicate our actions, our intent, and our character.  They are one of our earliest, most visceral descriptors of our life.