(This started as a "tell me a story" request in the car which the little man later wanted to hear again. I always pictured it as a picture book with black and white charcoal pencil drawings.) The Cloudmaker and The Water Dancer Once upon a time, there was a Cloudmaker named Aaron. His job was to form the clouds into all sorts of shapes. He made fluffy puffs, sheep, ducks, elephants – anything he could imagine. But Aaron the Cloudmaker was lonely. It was hard to make friends with his head in the clouds all day. He tried making friends, but clouds do not make very good friends. Clouds could not talk or sing or laugh or dance. One day, while Aaron was humming to himself, he spied something interesting from atop his ice cream cloud. He looked closer and saw this something was not a thing, but a who. He looked closer and saw this who was a beautiful girl. Not only was this girl beautiful, but she was dancing on a river, making ripples in the water with her toes. Aaron the Cloudmaker knew he had to meet her, so he wove a rope out of some spare wispy clouds. He crafted a cloud ladder from his wispy rope, and he climbed very carefully down to the girl. The girl was Jessie the Water Dancer. Her job was to make sure the rivers and creeks kept flowing by dancing downstream. Her little feet left wake in their wake. Aaron laughed a thunderclap laugh. Jessie startled. She turned to look at him and liked his laugh so much that she giggled a bubbling brook giggle. Aaron and Jessie instantly fell in love. They whispered whispering dreams and talked up a windstorm. Once they argued a raging river and laughed a whirlwind, but most of all they loved…and they danced. Wherever they danced, raindrops fell from their feet, and they watered the earth with showers of love from their soles.

I, Cello

The long flowing lines
Of the pale beech skin
Leading into soft, supple curves.
The shape of the mother with the songs
Of the gods unborn in her womb.
The gentle strum across the strings
Plant the seed for the voice of the mute.
The delicate symmetry of a bulky body
Not so comfortable with herself to
Possess a distinguishable voice,
But finally proud enough to know
She carries them forward all on her own.

Managing my three-ring circus life is my grandest adventure. In the first ring, we see Dana-the-mother taming the nine-year-old super genius. In ring number two, we find Dana-the-dispatcher juggling calls for help, calls of annoyance, and calls of fear. Finally, in ring three we giggle at Dana-the-student walking on a tightrope of possible success by returning to school for that elusive pedigree and maintaining nothing less than a 4.0 gpa.

I just wish there were ponies.

  Perhaps not most reflective on my mood but sort of, if the circumstances could be elaborated upon - which, alas, they cannot.

I, Cello

 

The long flowing lines

            Of the pale beech skin

Leading into soft, supple curves.

            The shape of the mother with the songs

Of the gods unborn in her womb.

The gentle strum across the strings

            Plant the seed for the voice of the mute.

The delicate symmetry of a bulky body

Not so comfortable with herself to

            Possess a distinguishable voice,

But finally proud enough to know

            She carries them forward all on her own.

 

Winter Birds

 

The winter birds keen

            A mourning song,

  Lamenting the sun's demise.

A plaintive cry breaks through the hoary air.

The bitter cold does not quell

   The hope of a fertile spring

 When nature's bounty returns with

Songs of life and growth.

Yet how sad to see

            The winter birds leave

  Who sing so sweetly

 The beauty of death.

I don't think my answer will be popular, but I must, at least, be honest to myself. I think that first we should give our time to our families. We are too rushed, too in a hurry to be altruistic when we should first be teaching altruism at home. We no longer have time for a home cooked meal when a burger in a box will suffice. We don't even have time for milk-turned-purple from the sugar cereal in a bowl - no, we have to turn our cereal into straws so we can suck down our breakfast, or we have cereal bars - yay no dishes. But the point is unless we learn to appreciate that which is already here and often taken for granted, how can we truly give freely of ourselves to others? How can our motives be altruistic if while we are giving we are ignoring, shushing, and glossing over the ties that bind and free us?  Give to the family first; the rest will follow.

I believe in simple joy. If I can't find simple joy, then I have forgotten who I am. I wrote on this in a separate thread, but it was a profound experience. My son and I had just completed our hot cocoa ritual which involves snowfall, gratitude, and a mug of cocoa. We wanted the universe to know that we were in awe of the beauty of the snow (and really wouldn't mind any more that she had to offer, truth be told). The snowfall was beautiful, but we recognized that not everybody was appreciative of the 3-d paintscape. What took my breath away? Watching my son trudge down the driveway in his boots, snowpants, coat, gloves, and hat, dragging his shovel behind him, and asking the neighbor if she needed any help clearing her drive.

Pure spirit dancing with the swirls of snowflakes; love and honor and some laughing winter sprites enjoying, enjoying joy.

So I'm sitting here (at work - I know, bad), trying to do my homework, and feeling all around ucky because what I REALLY (can you hear the whine?) want to be doing is writing - real writing, my writing - not this clinical, aseptic drivel, when it hits me. You know that feeling? It starts as an itch that turns into a really pleasant tickle, and then all of a sudden the idea just surges and explodes and you KNOW you have to grab onto it quickly because the feeling is all to fleeting and you don't want the edge to wear off and be replaced by contentment because contentment is just a synonym for non-action. So I jotted down my oh-so-brilliant idea - think in terms of writer's notes, the idea looks totally LAME right now, but I know the story is there, just a couple sentences away from a life of its own.  I can hear the characters starting to talk to me - yay, I was looking for some new friends! And the dreamers here will understand that comment...I am so pumped right now. Of course I know the story will have to hit the back burner for quite awhile. But I got a voice who needs a life that only I can give birth to - how EXHILERATING!!!!

Prayer is the union of divine and mundane. It is the marriage of that which is sacred within with that which is sacred without. It is trust placed in the otherness which has the ability to affect within. Stepping into a prayer-ful mood is the realization of the soul's needs, and praying is the driving of those needs out to the universe and beyond. Can and do I pray for others? Certainly - if I feel I can ask the universe for a favor I don't think I should limit the scope or be humble in my request. Out of respect, though, I do not demand the impossible - like the answer to "Why?" I think the receiver of my energy knows me well enough to know I am inquisitive and if "why?" merits an answer, it will be given if I am receptive. Prayer is a two-way street.

Heaven is permission to not do it all over. Heaven is the house in my head - the path to which has been given to my nearest and dearest so that they may come to visit anytime they wish. Heaven is the sigh of an angel and the kiss of a daffodil. Heaven is the scent of cinnamon in the winter air and the smell of life in spring rain. Heaven is you, and heaven is me.