TaunaLen's Journal

A Centenary Celebration!

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 18:08:00 +0000

Today is day 100!

I had no idea, when I began London Word Festival's One Hundred Days challenge, how much I would enjoy writing a 140 character mini poem on Twitter every day. (In fact, when you take into account the #100days and #twitpoem hash tags, and the day number designation, I was left with between 114 and 117 characters. That's not much.)

I feel great about accomplishing this small task, and looking back over the work as a whole, I'm pretty proud of some of the results, which you can see by clicking the link to "TaunaLen's Poetry" above. So, because I feel so great about having completed this challenge, I've decided two things.

First, I'm going to continue.

Though the One Hundred Days challenge is over, I plan to continue writing at least one mini poem or haiku each day for the next 265 days. This will leave me with a year's worth by December 10, 2010. I may be sick of them by then, or I may just have developed the habit of writing one, daily, tiny poem that I will carry with me for years to come. Who knows?

I'll also be participating next month in Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides National Poetry Month Poem-A-Day Challenge, writing one poem each day for the month of April, from prompts provided by Robert himself--one of my favorite poets. These will be separate from the mini poems, and unlike them, will be unpublished on Twitter, or Facebook, or my website. These full length poems will hopefully provide the fodder from which will come future submissions to poetry journals. Submitting work to poetry journals is also part of my 2010 goals. I hope to be published sometime this year.

Winter and spring seem to be good seasons for poetry and me.

I've also made a second decision.

Feedback on my first hundred mini poems was interesting. I didn't expect to hear much from my friends or family. People tend to smile and nod, and allow me the idiosyncrasy of being a poet, without much response. I don't mind. However, over the last 100 days, I've had lots of great comments from many of you. So, I plan to take the best of the last 100 days and put them into a chapbook, a poetry collection, to mark this achievement. It will be something small. Something self-published, available one copy at a time to those who want one.

So I'm sure I'll print at least two copies... one for my mother, one for myself. On the off chance that anyone else would like a copy, I'll post the information here as soon as the book is ready.

Thanks to everyone for the encouragement, the questions, ("Did you remember to write your poem today? It's almost midnight!" and "When does that Hundred days of poetry thing stop?") and the tolerance for my tiny verses popping up on in the Twitter stream and on the Facebook page.

You're a great bunch of friends and family!

A Beautiful Day to Fly

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 17:14:00 +0000

February 23, 2010

Jericho,

My baby girl, I’ve put off writing this letter for as long as I can. I can’t believe you’re really leaving the nest. I want you to know how proud I am of you, how happy I am that you’re braving the world, and forging your own path. Jericho, you’ve always been the one to go it your own way. I envy you that boldness, and creativity. Your confidence inspires me, and I’m glad you’ve got it in spades.

I have been thinking a lot this week about the first day I met you. I can still close my eyes and hear the doctor saying “It’s a girl.” I cried, tears of joy, like the tears I’m crying now. I wonder if I have the right words to say to you… to tell you how much you are loved, how amazing and beautiful you are, inside and out. I wonder if I did enough, if I taught you everything I could, if I wasted time. I would give anything for one afternoon to see your three-year-old smile---to hear you sing the Barney song, in your sweet little voice—to watch you twirling in the back yard, splashing in the bathroom sink, making a mess in the kitchen. I can’t count how many times I wanted to cry over missing eyeglasses and shoes, and how I miss those days.

I wouldn’t go back forever, you know--only for a couple of hours. I wouldn’t trade a moment of the past twenty years… you’ve made being a mother the most amazing thing. And I’m learning as I go--that today you’ve not learned everything there is to learn. You are not ready to face the world on your own. You will keep making mistakes, keep learning, keep living without my guiding hand. And at the same time… you are ready, and so am I – ready to see you take on this new challenge, and succeed.

You know, I’ll stand in your empty room tonight… or tomorrow night… or whenever you get around to moving ALL of your stuff into the apartment… and cry, for the change that comes today. Today you are no longer living under my roof… today you have your own roof to decorate, to pay for, to live under, to make messes in. It’s a very good day for you. Don’t forget to remember how this feels, and enjoy the little things.

Fill your first place with memories, with friends, with family. Take photos, write poems, sketch and paint pictures. Cook delicious meals and listen to amazing music, fill your life with good things, and don’t hurry too much. This is your time. Make the most of it. It will disappear all too fast, just like the past twenty years have for me. Women sometimes forget to slow down and live. I hope you’ll remember, today. Now spread your wings and fly, my baby girl… with my blessing, with all my hopes and faith that you are strong and smart and beautiful and ready to take on the world. It's a beautiful sky.

You know the way home,

Love, Mommie

Putting Myself Out There

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 20:28:00 +0000

I've been planning for several weeks now, how I would resolve to push myself where my poetry and fiction are concerned in Twenty-Ten. I hate to admit that I've never really submitted my best work, for fear that I'd learn it's not nearly as good as those nice twitter followers and the friends in my writer's group say it is.

Do all writers feel like they're the only ones in any given group of writers who are kidding themselves?

I spent the morning combing through Duotrope's list browsing online journals, reading some amazing poetry, and some poetry I didn't really like much. It's hard work, this submission process. Not because it requires reading and getting acquainted with the type of work certain journals seem to like, but because it forces me to examine my own work closely, to compare, to weigh and measure. All this without getting discouraged and throwing in the towel.

If you follow or read, and you feel so inclined, please share your thoughts.

How do you face the submission process, and how would you encourage others to do so? I could use some encouragement today before I dive back in and force myself to stretch and grow and risk.

I appreciate any response.

Keep writing, keep reading, keep reaching.

How a Poem Takes Me by Surprise

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 17:38:00 +0000

I've been doing 100 days of twitter-poems on my poetry blog, since December first. It's a great way to keep my creativity flowing, and my mind on poetic possibilities, while disciplining myself to write creatively every day.

We had some news this week that shook my family, and challenged our faith. My new sister-in-law, Julie, is pregnant with my baby brother's first child. She learned Thursday that she has a tumor that will require surgery to remove part of her jaw and many of her teeth. They will reconstruct with hip bone. This is doubly scary knowing the threats such a surgery could pose for the tiny baby she carries in her womb. She is being advised not to delay the surgery until the baby is born in May, because of the risk of very aggressive cancer.

With these thoughts in the back of my head, I set out to spend Saturday afternoon with Larry. As we drove about town, several images, and sensory experiences caught my attention, so I jotted them down on a scrap of paper in my purse. If you'll indulge me, and keep reading, I'd like to share some of them with you, and how they came together as a very short, very powerful poem. (At least it feels very powerful for me.)

Larry shot a U-turn on 51st street about four o'clock Saturday, and across the street, an apartment complex caught my eye. The walls were pale yellow, and because of the angle of the sun, two bare trees were silhouetted against the walls. It was a striking image. I found it difficult to discern where the tree ended and the shadows began. I jotted down the phrase, "tree shadows climbing walls."

As we turned the corner and headed to pick up some things at Hobby Lobby, I heard Rod Stewart on the radio, singing "Wake up Maggie, there's something I'm trying to say to you..." I imagined a sleepy headed girl, and wrote down the phrase, "Maggie sleeps on the radio."

After lunch we decided to go to a movie, and were moved and inspired by "Blindside." On the way home, I had a voice mail from Mama in which she repeated a conversation about the many miracles our family has experienced in my lifetime. I had a sudden urge to go home, and sit at Mama's table. I jotted down the words, "I believe in miracles."

At home, things started coming together, and as I played with phrases and counted characters, the image of a tiny girl asleep on the radio reminded me of first "the Littles" and then "Gulliver's Travels." I recalled that earlier in the day a friend had mentioned Gulliver, and the image of a huge man tied to the ground had tucked itself away in my head for later.

What follows is the poem that I posted just before I packed a bag and headed up the highway to Mama's house, for the rest of the weekend. It was good to be home and bear the weight of hoping for miracles and answers with those I love.

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Traveling
Day 5

tree shadows climb walls
as Maggie sleeps on the radio
I’m a Lilliputian believer
in miracles and Gulliver

#100days
#twitpoem

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Even when it seems like the whole world just keeps going in spite of the darkness that's falling around me... though I feel very small, I believe in hope. I believe in miracles. I believe in something bigger than I can even imagine, a giant, Gulliver-sized answer from a God who loves.

I hope this poem encourages you to write, to create, to play with words, and to believe. There is much to believe in.

One Hundred Tiny Poems

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 16:48:00 +0000

As I was finishing up the Poetic Asides NOVPAD challenge, and tweeting about it on Twitter, I discovered a new challenge. "London Word Festival presents: One Hundred Days To Make Me A Better Person. ONE thing done ONCE each day for ONE hundred days."

I realize after my consistency (or lack thereof) with the NOVPAD challenge, one hundred days will be a stretch. Writing pulls creativity, and lately my energy has been lacking. But I also recently discovered a little thing called a twit-poem. (search #twitpoem on Twitter)

140 characters, including spaces, in which to wrap a bit of poetic beauty or humor. I can do this. So, if you're interested in 100 days of me bettering myself through four poetic lines, check out my poetry via the link above, or follow me on Twitter. @TaunaLen

Intervention

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 03:52:00 +0000

They sit in a circle, in the middle of my living room, a motley crew of people, all smiling at me with strained looks on their faces. It isn’t my birthday, and nobody yells “Surprise,” so I’m not really sure what to make of it. I stand there in the doorway for a second, while nobody speaks. They just stare at each other, waiting for someone to say something.

There is an empty spot on the loveseat, so I make my way to it, silence as thick as mud around me. My footsteps shuffle on the parquet floor, and as I sit, the cushion makes that strange whooshing sound that only happens when there is no other noise in the room to drown it out.

I turn toward my husband, and arch an eyebrow at him; but it is my youngest daughter sitting on my left side, who speaks up. “So, you’re probably wondering why we’re all here, Mom.” She laughs, a little too loudly and busses me on the cheek. “It’s just that we love you, Mom… and we’re worried about you… all of us.” I glance around the room, at the faces staring back at me, wondering what in the world she is talking about.

My mother sits in a straight-backed dining chair, near the fireplace. She isn’t frowning, but she isn’t smiling. She has that look like she has an opinion, but it isn’t her place to speak up… yet. I recognize it from times past, when one of us kids would argue with our spouse in her kitchen, or at the dinner table. I know she’s thinking something, but she’s holding her peace.

My dad is here, looking uncomfortable, and probably wishing he were at home, in his recliner. Across the room from them sit my two girlfriends… the longest standing, still active members of my writer’s group, and next to them is my high-school English teacher, Mrs. Lea. What? I thought she died years ago, but here she is, sitting in my living room. She just smiles at me, and says nothing.

My older daughter and son are looking expectantly at the younger one, waiting for her to finish, so, I turn back to her, and nod. “Um… yeah, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Can you enlighten me, please?” She opens her mouth to respond then abruptly closes it, tears springing to her eyes. With a pleading look, she begs her father to come to her rescue. He does, taking my hand and starting to speak.

“I’ve been concerned since you ordered your sixth dictionary or thesaurus or whatever in the past year and had it delivered by UPS. I mean… how many reference books do you need? Your choices are starting to wreak havoc in our bank account and honestly, between the letter magnets on the fridge, the white boards covered in multi-colored post-it notes and the magnetic poetry word stones… I’m seeing a pattern emerge, and I think you’re addicted, Honey.”

My youngest daughter chimes in, picking up the thread again. “I used to love playing Scrabble and doing crosswords with you, but now it’s just…. impossible.” It’s the quietest I ever remember her voice being.

My mouth falls open, I am speechless, and in shock. Looking around at the circle of faces, I can see that nobody is surprised; in fact, everyone looks as though my family is accusing me of stashing methamphetamines in my underwear drawer---and they believe it.

Beside my husband, my oldest daughter takes her turn. “You’ve been posting a word of the day on Facebook for more than six months. Six months, Mom! Day in and day out… doesn’t that sound like a problem to you? Every time I login, I have to see that, and worry about you.”

Across the room, Mrs. Lea clears her throat and speaks up in her quiet voice. “I feel responsible, in part. Though you know, my dear, you should really face this like an adult and take responsibility for yourself. I realize I encouraged you back in high school. You showed such promise, and I was sure your curiosity was healthy---indicated that you had a future. I just didn’t ever expect it to go this far.” She purses her lips and nods to herself while I sit here feeling like I’ve lost my mind.

My quiet, soft-spoken son speaks next, and his eyes glittered with tears. “I found a stack of notebooks in your closet, Mom, all of them full of pages and pages of words… so many words… I just can’t believe it.” His voice cracks and he looks away, overcome with emotion.

Next, it’s Mama’s turn. Her commanding voice carries across the room and I feel it deep down in the pit of my stomach, like when she used to call me in from the playroom, using first, middle and last name. I knew she was serious then. Now she coughs and begins with “Well.” I turn my eyes toward her, a look of incredulity on my face. “Perhaps I should have made you play outside more… not given you books so soon,” she says. “I was just so thrilled when you began reading at such an early age; but didn’t I always teach you to respect words, TaunaLen? Didn’t I model balance and moderation?” She shakes her head sadly and sighs, while a little part of me wilts inside.

I glance across the room at my girlfriends Lynn and Lisa, hoping that they, if no others, will help me out. After all, they’ve been meeting with me every Monday night for nearly two years… writing, discussing words, stories, the aspirations and dreams of writers. If anyone gets it, they do. Lynn keeps her head down, her mouth closed. Lisa looks at me, sheepishly. “I know; but I’m getting help, too… we both are. She looks to Lynn, then back to me. “…and this is about you… this is your intervention; but we’ll be there with you, to get you through. We’ll do this together.”
Finally, my eyes fall on my father’s face, searching for something, anything to get me out of this nightmare. He has the same, uncomfortable expression, and I just can’t bring myself to draw him into the insanity. Instead, I sit staring at all of them like they’ve been replaced by alien life forms. The clock on the mantle ticks in the silence, and after what seems like an eternity, I look up at it. The face reads, 11:11 a.m. I giggle and repeat to myself a phrase my kids used to say on just such occasions. “It’s eleven-eleven, make a wish.”

I squeeze my eyes closed, breathe deeply, and whisper. “Please, get me out of this rabbit hole, and back to reality.” Counting to ten, I open my eyes, and I’m alone in my library, sitting in front of a blank page on the computer screen. Sunlight streams through the window, and steam rises from my cup of tea. The reality of a thousand words, waiting to spill out on the page has never looked so good.

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prompted writing from www.writingfix.com. A cup of Words Writer's Group, 10/5/09

Playing with My Words

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 01:51:00 +0000

(Click to enlarge.)

Word Cloud generated from www.taunalen.com.

Make your own with the Wordle Application at www.wordle.net.

Monday Wash Day, Tuesday Ironing, Wednesday Sewing...

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 18:19:00 +0000

In the past few weeks life is beginning to return to normal, and I'm thinking more about what to write on my blog. Searching through one of my actual pen-and-paper journals, I found a page I'd tucked into the back cover that Mama gave me a few weeks ago. She told me she'd been inspired to write about the changes that sneak up on you as life progresses, and after reading, I got her permission to post it here.

So, today, Mama is a guest blogger, and here's a journey into her mind. I hope you enjoy.

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I have spent the last forty-two years, trying to keep my house clean. I did a load of laundry every day, and two on Saturday. I washed two loads of dishes every day. There was dusting to do three times a week, the floor to sweep & mop every day, bed linen to change twice a week, trash bags to be taken out twice a day, and then deep cleaning at least once a week. You see, I had anywhere from one to four of my children in my home for all of those forty-two years.

Today, I do a load of laundry every four days, one load of dishes every other day, sweep & mop every other day, because there is very little traffic in my home. I dust once a week. I still change the bed linen twice a week, but instead of four or five bets to change, now there are only two. The trash fills up about once every other day, and the deep cleaning needs to be done once a month. As you can guess, my children have grown up and left home to start their own families and clean their own homes.

But as happy as I am that we ahve raised four children to be happy, successful, thriving adults with thirteen wonderful children (my grandchildren) and one more due any day now, and one grandson (my great-grandson), I sometimes wish they would come by more often to make a messy home again.

A parent's goal is to have their children grow up, find their special mate, build their home & family, and live a productive life. But oh, how we miss the busy, chaotic life of all our little chicks under our roof.

Of course, one of more of my "babies" is here almost every day, but gone are the days of a busy, active family, days of scheduling everything around school, extra-curricular activities, part-time jobs, and homework.

Would I want them back here on a permanent basis, absolutely not!! They are living their own lives exactly the way they should. Plus, I am older now, and probably too tired to do all that cleaning every day. But, now and then, I get a little nostalgic, and wish it could be the way it was before, even if just for a short while.

Even so, looking back, I am so aware of what a blessed life we have lived and are still living. Thank you Lord.

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for more from and about Mama, check out these links: She Heard It On the Cash Cab, Forty Years Ago Today, and I'm a Word Hunter.

Oh Autumn, Where Art Thou? -- A Re-post

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 15:00:00 +0000

Oh Happy Day! It's the first calendar day of autumn. Now I know that can mean any number of things, depending on where you live. Here in Oklahoma, it will likely still be summer-hot and humid today, or summer-rainy and humid. I long for temperatures in the fifties and sixties, and will probably work up a good sweat in the eighties, instead. But, the calendar says it's autumn, and I'm in the mood to celebrate. Things are still hectic at my house, new job, new schedule, new excuses for not writing nearly as much as I'd like. I think a re-post is in order... so here's one from October, 2005 -- just because I can't wait for cooler temperatures. Happy beginning of Autumn (or Indian summer in Oklahoma). I hope you enjoy.

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He’s coming. I can feel it.

I have had a life-long love affair with Autumn.

As September draws to a close, the temperatures begin to tease me. The still warm days are occasionally interrupted by a cool breeze, or a chilly evening, --- The problem is that it never lasts long. Just when I think I might throw open the windows and air out the house…the thermometer creeps up over eighty degrees, and summer lingers.

And though summer hangs around rather longer than she is welcome, I know her days are numbered. Eventually she will have to sleep, and then Autumn will finally blow in on the breeze.

He will bring me mementos --- all the sights and smells of fall. Wet leaves, logs burning, the scent of rain on the air, hay-rides, county fairs, pumpkins, apple pies, squash and high-school football. He whispers on the wind, and in my ears I hear… “Look, I’ve set the horizon on fire with red and orange, brown and gold. There’s a chill in the air, let’s go for a walk."

What is it about the crunch of leaves beneath my feet that makes me feel as though everything is absolutely beautiful?

So I linger in the evenings and watch the sunset. I shiver slightly, and pull on a sweater as the stars turn on their lights, one-by-one. I listen to the sounds of fall, and already, it is a bittersweet moment.

Because I know…

Autumn never stays long in Oklahoma. He floats in on a breeze, plays with my hair, and my heart… He whispers to me of steaming bowls of stew and chili, happy family gatherings and holidays…I almost believe he’s going to stay a while… but in little more than a week he has left me again.

The color fades.

The temperature falls.

Winter begins to announce his arrival, and dear, sweet Autumn slips away when I’m not looking….

And still, I love him.

My Mommy You'll Be...

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 19:02:00 +0000

In honor of my 42nd birthday, my youngest daughter, Jericho is guest blogging for me today. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I did.

~TaunaLen

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“I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
As long as I’m living,
My Mommy you’ll be…”

As a young girl, I remember a book I’d always ask my mother to read me. It’s about a young boy growing into a man, and throughout his years, his mother would come into his room, crawl across the floor, and peek over the edge of his bed. If he was really asleep she’d pick him up, no matter his age, and rock him, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, as he slept. She’d always sing this song, “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.”

As he gets older, moves away from home, and has children of his own, she never ceases. “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” However, my favorite part is the day she calls him and asks him to come over. He walks through the door and she starts to sing, “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always…” But she can’t finish, so her son picks her up, sings, “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my mommy you’ll be.”

Afterward, the son drives home, and stands at the top of the stairs for a long time. He then opens up the door to his newborn baby girl’s nursery, picks her up and sings, “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.”

(Read the book online: Love You Forever by Robert Munsch.)

“I’ll love you forever…”

My mommy turns forty-two today, which is twenty years older than my sister, and twenty years younger than my grandmother. I’m currently nineteen, and when she was my age, my mother learned she was pregnant with my sister Sarah and her twin Amber. I don’t know how I could have handled the news. I would have had to give up my dreams, as an aspiring film director. She was an aspiring writer. For almost twenty years, my mother put her life and dreams on hold to raise three beautiful babies (if I may say so myself) my sister, Sarah, my brother, Jotham, and me, Jericho. Not only did she raise the three of us, she also helped raise my step-brother, Tyler, and my step-sister, Tiffany as well. Yet, her amazing abilities didn’t begin there. A year older than I am now, she lost one of her twins, Amber. Again, I can’t even begin to fathom, losing a baby girl at my age. Yet, she remained strong. She put her life into mine and my siblings', and she raised us extremely well. For that, mommy, I’ll love you forever.

“I’ll like you for always…”

When my mother was young, she was of course a special child. My grandma tells me of times when she was younger, my mother refused to go anywhere without a hat. Whenever she couldn’t find a hat, in what I’m sure was a mess of her room, my mother would grab her sand pail and wear it atop her head. No matter what my grandma said, Mom would refuse to take it off. Before long, of course, my grandmother would just let her travel around in her sand pail.

This is just one of a few things I’ve inherited from her. Like me, when she was younger, opening Christmas or Birthday presents, with a bow, my mother would take them & stick them on her head.

“As long as I’m living…”

My mother is probably the smartest person I know. Currently if she really wanted to, my mother could be a MENSA card carrier. When she was younger, my grandmother got a call from my mother’s teacher. Mom was a bright, exceptional child, well above the rest of her class. There was a day the teacher gave her two pieces of paper with homework on the front and back. My mother threw them away. The next day, he gave her more, two pieces of paper, double sided with homework. This time, my mother took them glued them together and filled out only one side of each.

Several years later, my sister recalls her elementary school informing her that she had been accepted into the Gifted & Talented Program. Not knowing what it was she told my mother, who of course was ecstatic. In the years following, my brother and I also were accepted, which of course caused my mother to beam with pride.

“My mommy you’ll be...”

I cannot think of anything more I’d like to say to my mother than, I love you. Happy Birthday Mommy.

Stopping Time - A Repost from 2008

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Sun, 30 Aug 2009 20:07:00 +0000

My family is still dealing with the trauma that nearly took the lives of my sister and niece, and one of her little friends. Life is slowly returning to normal -- as normal as court hearings and police interviews and nightmares can be. It will be a long road, and I know any positive thoughts, prayers and good wishes will be appreciated.

Meantime, I've decided to post another old entry. In the spring of 2008, I wrote about my Treasure Box. Here's one of the pieces that came of that exercise. I hope you enjoy it.

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Monday, May 19, 2008
Stopping Time

As I continue to sift through my treasure box, I hope to write about some of the things hidden there. The following is an example:

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What is it about a stopped pocket watch, a wristwatch with a dead battery, or a grandfather clock in a dark hallway, covered in inch-thick dust?

I have an affinity for time-pieces, a room in my house where the walls are covered by bookshelves and clocks—pendulums swinging, soft ticking echoing off of the ceiling and sliding down the walls to the hardwood floor. I like that time is measured, meted out…that if I’m waiting for something to happen, there is a moment, when it will, and when the preceding moments are counted down, that split-second of realization will arrive. That thought helps me be a bit more patient, to hope knowing the moment isn’t always somewhere out there in the future…it must get closer, it must finally arrive. So, the whole working, ticking, functioning timepieces thing makes sense to me.

Then there are the broken watches, the dead battery timepieces in my treasure box. What do they represent? I think maybe they are mementos of history. Moments past, marking a lifetime, mine, or someone else’s, when something significant happened. Those moments when everything changed. Or when time was frozen, as by a photograph. I think a wristwatch that is forever stopped at 1:37 may be a reminder of the very moment when someone said “I love you”, or the devastating news was delivered to the one whose heart would be forever broken. There’s significance in these frozen hour and minute hands, even that second hand that is normally in perpetual motion, is beautiful stopped on that tiny second line between the nine and the ten on that tarnished silver wrist watch.

I am, I guess, a lover of minutes. All of them. They are the things that make up a life, a relationship, a memory. I guess the moments past are as important to me, as the ones yet to come…those seconds of “appointed time” that I am waiting to see come to pass. I am a child of time, and cannot imagine timelessness. I need these markers, to tell me where I’ve been, and where I’m going.

Branches On My Tree - Repost from 2007

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 03:26:00 +0000

This weekend has been traumatic for my family, and though everyone is fine, I'm exhausted. I'm doing the family thing, and will hopefully be back to writing later in the week. In the meantime, here's a post from two years ago. I hope you enjoy it, and hug your family members close, hold them a little longer. You never know.

TaunaLen

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Friday, October 19, 2007
Branches on My Tree

Some of you may remember in my list of 8 Random Topics about Me preliminary post, that I listed the fact that I am the oldest child of three.

Actually, I’m the oldest of five, if you count the two sisters my mother didn’t give birth to---the two siblings who didn’t share my childhood.

It’s a strange thing, to have sisters who didn’t grow up in my home but are still a piece of my family. I grew up with three parents who were always a part of my childhood. We never said “step-sister” or “half-brother”. So, instead of a mom, dad and step-dad, I had one mother and two fathers, and I was very happy in spite of the divorce that came when I was nine. It was hard on my sister and me. But we adapted. And we were loved.

It wasn’t long before my second dad came along and married my mom. Soon after my little brother, Derek was born. But before Derek, my other dad brought us a sister, Angela. She only came on weekends, but she was just the cutest thing, and the three of us had so much fun. After a while, she stopped coming. We really missed her. A few years after Derek was born, my first dad remarried and had a baby girl, Natasha – the cutest little baby I’d ever seen. I was a teenager, and I loved babysitting for this beautiful, dark haired child.

So, I am the oldest of five.

My brother Derek, who will be thirty, next year, talks with me often about the wonder he finds in our family tree---the people who came before us with dark, thick hair, or freckles, or high foreheads, and how he can see them in himself, his sisters, and our children. How his love for the woods and the water must be a genetic predisposition, passed from a great-great-great-grandfather who spent his life among the trees, listening to the voice of the wind in the branches.

Derek is eleven years younger than I am. When he was very small, he started calling me Bubba. It’s an unusual nickname, borrowed from a little friend of his who used it for her older brother. Though he’s been six-foot-something for nearly fifteen years, he’s always been my little brother, It’s odd, now, to look at him and see a man who’s not only “full-growed”, but whose face is painted by the life he’s lived.

Derek is a man who stands for something, no matter the cost. He believes in love even as his heart is healing. He can make you laugh in about three seconds, and sing a song that would cut right through your soul. He’s a loyal friend, and someone I’m better for knowing. And even now, when the phone rings, and I hear, “Hey, Bubba, I love you.” I’m the happiest big sister alive.

Before Derek came along, there was always my little sister. Alissa is three years younger than I am, but I can’t remember a time when she wasn’t my playmate. We used to dump all of our toys out and scatter them about our tiny bedroom. Sitting in the empty toy box, we’d sail away on a ship to Africa, or drive a bus to school. We could make believe like no other kids we knew. Summer afternoons were spent at Mimi and Grandpa’s house playing outside with all the neighborhood kids. We’d put together a talent show and rehearse for hours. As twilight would fall, we’d drag the adults out onto the lawn and perform in the front porch spotlight. We were such a hit!

For my sister and me, things were always a competition. We argued over chores and the television. I remember throwing a peanut-butter sandwich at her in the heat of the moment, and a plastic dinner plate on another occasion. Somehow as we grew older, our friendship became more and more of a rivalry. I wasn’t thrilled when she joined the choir after me, or when she got a job at the Sonic where I worked. She didn’t like it when everyone called her my sister.

When I got married and started having kids, and Alissa soon did the same, we quickly realized how amazing it was to have each other as friends. My sister never met a stranger. She’s the kindest, most generous person I know. She’s an amazing mom and wife, and when her husband did a tour of duty in Afghanistan, I watched her hold everything together, manage the household, her job, and their finances, while sleeping alone every night in their bed, and praying every day he’d come home safely. Watching her through all of that, I knew---she was my hero.

Looking back, I still sometimes feel like the oldest child of three, and I often wonder what I missed out on with Angela and Natasha. As an adult, I’ve had the chance to get to know Natasha better. She’s a really beautiful and fun person. And though I don’t know Angela that well, I wish we’d all had the chance to share toy box adventures, and long conversations walking home from school together.

Childhood passes too quickly, and a kid can never have too many siblings to share it with.

----------

She Heard it on the Cash Cab

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 18:15:00 +0000

Sometimes a topic for a blog post comes on the morning news, or from a book I just read, a movie I just saw, or a conversation I had in the checkout line at Wal-Mart. I can’t count how many times though, that a subject has come to me via the ringing of the telephone.

Mama called this morning.

Mama is a thinker and a language lover. She loves to call me and report on the latest grammatically incorrect roadside sign, or some mispronunciation she just overheard in the truck stop restaurant. She wonders what cows say to each other, and how places come to be named Toad Suck, Arkansas, or Bucksnort, Tennessee. She’s an idea person, and I love her for giving me so much blog fodder over the years.

This morning she called me and said, “I knew you’d want to hear my important news. Y’all have thought… (Mama’s from Texas, and she has a license to use the word Y’all, it hangs on the wall in her laundry room.) “Y’all have thought I was crazy all these years, but I’m not. I have proof.”

You see, among the myriad of conversation topics Mama and I enjoy, one is her interesting, and sometimes peculiar way of looking at things. For instance, Mama subconsciously counts her steps when she’s working on some mindless project, like carrying in several bags of groceries or folding the laundry. Mama and Daddy travel a lot, and she says she catches herself lying in bed in the hotel rooms, counting the ceiling tiles; and when it comes to the volume on the radio in her van, or on the television, she likes to make sure it stops on a multiple of five, like thirty. “If thirty is too loud,” she says, “I will bump it down to twenty-nine, but I don’t like to.”

I remember sitting at Mama’s table over coffee recently, discussing the fact that she has always assigned gender to numbers. Mama sees numbers in male and female, and has since she was a very young child. You see, in Mama’s mind, even numbers are decidedly female, especially 2, 4 and 8. The number 6 is usually female, though she clarifies that 6 is rather tall and athletic, maybe a bit of a tomboy. Conversely, the odd numbers 5, 7 and 9 are male, Mama says. The number 3 she’s not certain about---perhaps he’s gay, or another one of those tomboy types. That covers the numerals 2 through 9, and as for the 0 and the 1, Mama says they are each genderless, though she’s not sure why.

So, I’m sitting at my computer this morning, browsing my blog roll, and wondering what to write about when Mama calls to prove to me that she’s not insane. “I was listening to the Cash Cab on the television this morning, and I heard it. The question was about the theory that numbers have gender. So I looked it up on the computer…” (That’s Mama’s way of saying she googled.) “…and it’s called the Pythagoras Theory.”

Pythagoras said that even numbers were male and odd numbers were female. That’s not exactly the way Mama sees it, but if you’re assigning gender to numbers, like a sixth century CE Greek philosopher, that has to prove something, doesn’t it? Even more interesting, says Mama, is the idea that
The number 1 was godlike to Pythagoreans, and the number 0 did not exist – so neither is assigned gender, further confirmation that she has not lost her marbles.

I have to tell you, I’m relieved that Mama called, and not just because I needed a blog topic today. You see, last weekend my husband and three adult kids, and I were making a road trip. My oldest daughter Sarah was in the middle of the back seat, when she saw me adjusting the volume on the radio dial. I stopped on 45---because volume adjustment is governed by the unspoken “multiples of five” rule. Immediately Sarah called to me over my shoulder. “Um Mom, it has to stop on an even number!” Because I love my children, I sacrificed, and dropped the dial back down to 44, but I will tell you, it bothered me for a while. Before long, I kicked it to 50, and everyone was happy.

So, if Mama’s numeric gender assignments are the sort of thing that makes a Greek theorist like Pythagoras a genius, then I can assume that my peculiarities with numbers are just evidence of my own dizzying IQ.

In conclusion, neither Mama nor I is crazy.
She heard it on the Cash Cab!

Happy Birthday Julia Child!

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 16:38:00 +0000

If I’d known earlier, I might have baked one of the few cakes I make completely from scratch.

Seven sticks of butter…Julia, would be so proud!

You know, I’m not big on spending hours in the kitchen---playing with recipes and discovering new techniques---but I did go out with my girlfriends last night and see Julie & Julia. What a wonderful film! It was ‘based on two stories’. The first of course, is the wonderful love story between Julia and her husband Paul, and how Julia learned to cook. (Wow, what an understatement!) The second story is about a woman named---you guessed it---Julie Powell. She’s a writer, a blogger, and evidently, a very good cook as well. Though I’ve never tasted her cooking, I’ve seen her blog, just this morning, and she’s witty and clever, and real.

So, I watched this great story unfold on the screen last night, and there were many things that spoke to me. Julia was an awkward, larger-than-life woman, more than six feet tall, and millions of people loved her in her lifetime---still do, five years after her death. (She died August 12, 2004, just three days shy of her 92nd birthday.) Yet, what struck me most was the way her husband Paul loved her. There are letters he wrote to his twin brother; and from these letters, we see a man who adored Julia, laughed with her at her quirks, and encouraged her to do what she loved, though the task seemed daunting. The movie was so good, I’m borrowing the related books from my library, and probably ordering my own copies soon after.

I laughed so hard watching this film, especially when Paul wrote to his brother about Julia’s shocking exclamation about hot cannelloni she’d just plucked from boiling water. I won’t spoil it for you, but let me just say, the closing scene made me cry. If you love food, or writing, or both, you must see it. Upon exiting the theater, the girls and I headed to the Starbucks at Barnes & Noble and I bought a lemon baby bundt cake to bring home and share with my husband. I only ate a few bites, but it was delicious. It reminded me of my Mimi’s lemon pound cake.

We recently had a family reunion and to cover costs for food and such, we auctioned items we’d made or inherited from Mimi and Grandpa. When I was young, Mimi hand wrote a handful of her favorite recipes on index cards and gave them to me, and each of the granddaughters to follow. Therefore, in preparation for this reunion, I scanned those cards and created a digital scrapbook, with the recipe cards slipped under bits of digital-ribbon and old photos and the text of the recipes on facing pages. Scattered throughout the book are five, short pieces about my childhood memories of Mimi, one of which I wrote the day she died, and read at her funeral. Mimi passed away in April of 2008. The book is something I’m very proud of, and it was a big hit at the auction.

I’m thinking I want to dig out Mimi’s Lemon Pound Cake recipe, and adapt it for mini bundt cakes. That means a trip to Wal-Mart. I hope they carry the right pans. I’m inspired to set the world right for at least a few minutes, baking in my kitchen with Julia and Mimi. Then while the aroma of warm lemon cake fills the air, maybe I’ll read a bit from “My Life in France.”

Chasing Ghosts - A Short Story

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 17:55:00 +0000

The yellow lines unfurled before Jeanette’s Impala like miles of ribbon in a summer breeze, but there was no breeze today. Sweat trickled down her neck, and soaked into her collar. The hot air pressed in through her windows tasting of dust and leaving her eyes gritty, her throat dry. “Damned air conditioner.” She muttered as she scanned the roadside for a gas station, or restaurant---somewhere to get in out of the heat.

Ahead she saw a neon coffee cup. Bold, blue letters spelled out ‘café’. As she pulled off the road, gravel crunched beneath her tires and she slipped the car into park. Turning the key, she leaned back against the headrest, closed her eyes and replayed the conversation. “I just need to go, Michael. I can’t explain it. I mean yeah, things have been rough; and I honestly don’t know whether it’s worth fighting it out. The two of us are making each other miserable. But this trip isn’t about us…it isn’t about you.”

A blast of cool air hit her as she entered the quiet diner, her eyes adjusting to the shadows. The waitress behind the counter pulled a pen from her dish-water blonde hair and a pad from her apron. “Come on in out of the heat, and grab a seat anywhere you’d like, hun!” She followed Jeanette to the corner booth, her sneakers squeaking on the tile floor. “You look like you could use some iced tea. Sweet, or un-sweet?” Jeanette slid across the faded vinyl and nodded at the woman’s name tag. Linda. “Un-sweet, please. No lemon.” With a wink, Linda handed her the menu. “The blue-plate’s normally the best bet, except when Earl’s cookin’---which he is---and when Earl’s cookin’, you can’t go wrong with a cheeseburger.” Linda patted Jeanette’s arm, before turning. Jeanette smiled at the familiarity, and then turned to scrutinize her reflection in the window.

Standing in the bedroom doorway, Michael had stared the same way at her half-packed suitcase, asking, “Can you honestly say you’re not running from this, from me?” He’d sighed, annoyed when she didn’t answer. “You know we’ve got the counselor Tuesday?” Her response had been strained. “Michael, I don’t know. I just need time and space. I can’t breathe. There’s paranormal activity in Santa Rosa, and you know I’m on deadline. Call it a research trip.” She wiped her forehead with the flat of her hand, echoing his sigh. “I’ll be back soon, and we’ll reschedule counseling, okay?”

The clink of glass on the table brought Jeanette back to now. The waitress asked, “You decide on lunch?” Jeanette accepted the tea, and gulped from the glass. “That’s good.” After a second drink, she realized that Linda was waiting for her to order. “Oh! I’m sorry. I think I’ll go with the cheeseburger.” She was too exhausted to bother with the menu.

Linda arched an eyebrow leaning against the booth, “Looks like you’ve come a long way. What brings you to Amarillo?” Jeanette shrugged. “I’m headed to Santa Rosa, for research, writing about ghosts.” Linda brightened, settling into the seat across from her. “You know we’ve got ghosts in the Nat, uptown. She lowered her voice conspiratorially, though the diner was empty except for the two of them, and Earl. “I’ve seen them myself---a couple waltzing across that polished wooden dance floor all satin and sequins. Tommy Dorsey played the Nat, years ago.” She paused.

“And the cafe used to have a ghost. Not for a while now—but a pretty, little slip of a girl, no more than nineteen used to haunt the place. “Folks say she came in one night, put quarters in the jukebox, ordered a Coke, and ducked into the restroom. She just disappeared, never came back for that Coke. Shirley had the late night shift. She remembers the girl, because of the dandelion tattooed on her left thigh---you know, the white kind, with the seeds that look like umbrellas on the wind?

Nobody thought much of it until later. Old man Henderson drove by one night, and saw a girl at the jukebox. He called the owner and Sheriff Wallace, but by the time they came, the place was empty. Folks have spotted her at the counter sipping a Coke, and I’ve been here alone late, and heard the restroom door open and shut. Poor girl. Dunno why she chose this place, but seems to me, she was waiting for someone. I guess she decided life was short, and went on her way.”

Jeanette felt a chill, and took a deep breath. Linda frowned in concern, “You okay, hun?” When she didn’t respond, the waitress jumped to her feet. “Oh, listen to me---going on, while you’re starving for a good lunch.” Jeanette nodded vacantly. “I’m sorry… yeah, maybe food would help. I feel dizzy.”

As Linda headed for the kitchen, Jeanette raised the hem of her cotton skirt, tracing the outline of the tattoo on her right thigh. The dandelion was the exact mirror of Jackie’s tattoo, done on their eighteenth birthdays. The twin connection thing had always been true for them, like a sort of ESP. The night Jackie died, Jeanette had awakened screaming in her dorm, the sound of screeching tires echoing in her head. The news came hours later, but Jeanette already knew, she’d heard Jackie’s goodbye. Staring again at her reflection, she watched a tear trace its way down her cheek. After twenty years, Jackie was still sending her messages.

When Linda returned, she was surprised to find a gold band on the table, and a twenty-dollar bill. She stepped out into the bright August sunshine and shielded her eyes from the sun, watching the Impala disappear over the shimmering horizon. Trudging back into the dark diner, she sank into the empty booth, and took a bite from the cheeseburger. “Yep, I’d have to agree. Life is too short.”

Kindred Spirits and Connoisseurs

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 01:18:00 +0000

I want this book.

I'm waiting until payday, hoping I'll remember to order it from Amazon.com's used book sellers, before all the paycheck is spent and I have to wait until I remember it again. Surely I'm not the only one who does this?

I read the above excerpt and think yes! This Tom Robbins is obviously someone who thinks like me. Look, there's proof, he keeps a green-labeled bottle of Anais Nin locked in the cupboard, and likens his writing to a juggling act. I get it! He gets it! I must own this book! (I must also seriously consider the possibility that I over-use the exclamation point.)

I had a similar reaction to Roy Blount Junior's Alphabet Juice: The Energies, Gists and Spirits of Letters, Words and Combinations Thereof: Their Roots, Bones, Innards, Piths, Pips and Secret Parts, Tinctures and Essences; With Examples of Their Usage, Foul and Savory.

Sure, the fact that I identify so readily with these two authors --- that my heart sings and celebrates their grasp of language, and the skill with which they make amusing playthings of words --- may simply prove that I'm a creative genius who is only one strong breeze away from falling completely off my rocker, but hey, it seems to work for them.

So, why not?

And if you think of it next Monday, please remind me to order my copy, before the paycheck runs out. I'll be forever grateful.

Technorati Blog Claim Code

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 15:32:00 +0000

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Insult to Injury

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 18:33:00 +0000

gaping wound in me
invisible seeping blood
pain so constant seems
normal, easy to forget
this is the real reason
I have no more strength
why I cannot breathe
carrying it for so long
I don’t recall the blade
or hand, the original cut

I neglect to bandage it
no time to heal no caution
no protection in the storm
until one careless word
a strike that bites and cuts
I can’t even discern intent
awash in pain, defenseless
I curl, drenched in blood
can’t stem the flow how
can a heart bleed so much

will no one notice this
bleeding broken piece
of me spilling out?
must every one smile
and blink and nod
and keep walking past?
will you ask whether
you slipped and cut with
your sharp edged words
perhaps even apologize?

Nightmare

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 16:03:00 +0000

Woke from a nightmare
Unable to find sleep
Staring back into the face
Of arrogant silent darkness

My heart pounds in my
Chest a hundred questions
Refusing to release me
Back to resting quiet peace

The tannic acid taste of
Fear fills my mouth like
Coppery pennies sucked
By a childish tongue, bitter

Can't shake this feeling of
Dread, of loss, of absence
abcess something missing
in myself, was it ever there?

----------

I wrote this just after midnight, on my cell phone. Woke up with that irrational fear that attacks just after you've drifted to sleep and could swear that you're still awake, except for the feeling that something is coming at you through the mirror on the wall. Didn't go back to sleep for a couple of hours. I'm amazed it still reads in the light of day.

Waiting for Rain

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 23:33:00 +0000

I sat on the porch last
night for an hour watching
the lightning chase itself
across the sky.

The sticky heat clung to
me like a bed sheet
the strong storm
creeping over the
horizon toward me.

Promising rain and
coolness it lingered
long before it ever
delivered too long
as a trickle of sweat
slithered down the
back of my knee.

I watched and waited,
and longed for you.

Occasionally a breeze
would tousle the tops
of the trees, and tease
the flag on the flagpole
but it would peter out
before reaching my skin
and I'd beg in a whisper
"Come on... rain!"

The wind grew stronger
tangling my hair against
my shoulder lifting the
heat from my skin
before letting it settle
again like a blanket.

On the edge of my chair
face toward the sky
I waited impatiently
for the first cooling drops.

As the first one struck
the ground at my feet
I stepped into the yard
raising my arms
to embrace you.

Faster, harder they fell
splashing against my
skin like kisses, on my
arms, neck, cheeks, eyes.

Open mouthed I caught
them on my tongue while
the wind whispered in my
ears, your voice, your words.

I stood this way until the rain
soaked through my clothes
and drenched my skin
damp hair clinging to me
the wind making me shiver
with your delicious touch.

I watched the clouds blow
slowly past, thunder rumbling
in the distance and whispered
a request to this wind and rain
to this storm on it's way to
where you are---please carry
messages of love from me.

My Winter Sleep

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 17:46:00 +0000

coldness of silence
without a coat
wind gusting wildly
skin stinging icy red
with every breath
my chest cries out
in agonized protest

curled into a tight ball
I shiver, shudder wait
tempted to let winter
lull me to sleep, escape
trying to convince self
it is short term, temporary
soon the sun will come

aching for the drip, drip
thaw of springtime light
and the growing warmth
of morning when I hear
the voice of truth whisper
that the ice is gone and
winter just a nightmare

Walking Wounded

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 04:27:00 +0000

life is having
his way with me
while I tend wounds
and pray for rest
this game is no fun
hands tied this way
behind my back

my world is spinning
out of my control
I am defeated by
not a full frontal
attack I can defend
a team of snipers
at every new turn
unexpected angles

life thrusts and parries
taunts me with laughter
I am weary to the bone
Tired of waiting for
the next advance

I have no strength
to lift or hold these
weapons any longer
as this legion tramples
me an army of one

I cannot breathe
or hear the sounds
of coming rescue
I have hoped will echo
rising over the hill
they may be too late

I face these demons
life has assigned me
on my own clinging
to the hope they will
at least leave me
to rise once again
after he’s had his fun

Table for One

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 02:14:00 +0000

the table was spread
a banquet for one
the finest of china
silver tableware
sparkling in reflected light
from great candelabra
and she took her seat
her bare throat cloaked
by the finest lace
the rustle of silk
echoing in the room
above the muted strains
Chopin’s Prelude in E minor

the fork and spoon like
weapons clenched in her hands
and the first bite tasted
of salty tears, bitter herbs
the fresh earthy scent
of slow walks in the rain
picnics shared on the grass
the neighborhood dog park
with the irritating yip-yip
of a Yorkshire terrier
peppered throughout

the sauce bore hints
of the first song
first dance, first night
in a darkened room
and the slam of the door
echoing through the night
when he finally left

a course of sorrow
both sweet and pungent
she washed it down
with tannic regret
an acidic dry merlot

the sun broke the clouds
made It’s journey
toward the horizon
of the waking world
splashed through the pane
and blanketed her lap
she drew a deep breath
and with it possibility
a spoonful of delight
filled her mouth and soul
enough hope to press on
and as she pushed herself
from the banquet table
stood to make her way out
into the bright morning
the tightly twisted knot
of hate began to unwind

----------

Prompt:
a course of sorrow
a spoonful of delight
a knot of hate

New Angle

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 01:30:00 +0000

the world around me
wants to tilt and
coffee cups and keys
chairs and shoes
and ideas set in stone
want to slide off
their firm foundations
want to slip into a void
of confusing questions
darkness beyond black
I cannot ignore it now
this shaking up of
all I thought I knew
I cannot curl into myself
hide inside imagination
I need a rope a lifeline
someone’s hand to hold
someone who recognizes
a bit of me in their self
sees their self in me
while the world around me
shifts and sets it all awry

Wind

taunalen@gmail.com (TaunaLen) — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 01:07:00 +0000

you can hold a breath
you can let it out slow
exhale, oh so slowly
you can well imagine
that you have control

you can fan yourself
scrap of folded paper
swishing to and fro
a flick of your wrist
an artificial breeze

you can stand atop
the highest hill
turn your face to
the driving storm
and beat your breast

you can open your throat
pull air into your lungs
and use it to power
your passionate cries
shouting your pain aloud

yet you cannot tame it
this wild, unruly stallion
you cannot break it
as it goes galloping
over the endless earth

better to surrender yourself
throw open all your curtains
unlock and raise your windows
spread wide your arms
let down your tangled hair

embrace the feral wind
and surrender your will
to it’s untamed fury
embrace its true nature
and you will surely fly

----------

A Cup of Words (Monday, July 6, 2009)
Prompted by the following last line:

“For now she knew what Shalimar knew: If you surrendered to the air you could ride it.” ~Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon (1977)