Monday, December 1, 2014

Giggleville

A few months ago, my granddaughters and I played a storytelling game.  We would give each other  four or five words that had to be used as we made up stories.  The following is what happened when Rosie (7) was given the following words: mayor, underwear, rain, giggle.  She told a wild and funny story....which  became this poem.  


Our life stories are priceless gifts we give our loved ones...whether a child's fantasy or a grandparents childhood memory.   

Listen,  Ask questions. Know that sharing something about yourself can live for generations to come. 


Rosie


Giggleville


The mayor of Giggleville 
Stomped through the mud
She stopped in a puddle
And gazed out at the flood

Rain dripped from the rooftops 
And poured down the streets
The clouds in the sky 
Hung like huge wet sheets

April showers are welcome
But please, not every day
We want to be able to work 
And to play

The grownups were grumpy 
Because their shoes  were a mess
The kids were tired of being inside 
Playing Checkers and Chess


The mayor of Giggleville 
Missed the sounds of folks having fun
And asked the citizens 
What they thought could be done

The adults huddled on a porch 
And came up with a plan
To create a dry space
Where people could stand 

From lamppost to street signs
Mammoth umbrellas were strung
And to add extra cheer 
They looked like the sun

From treetop to treetop
Tarps were hung in the park
So all could stay dry
From morning till dark. 

But when it rained a bit harder
 It all came crashing down 
And the mayor of Giggleville 
Couldn't help but frown

Droopy umbrellas and tents
Covered the square
But the people looked up 
And couldn't believe what was there

The girls and the boys
Borrowed some clothes
And sewed them together
Into a giant rainbow 

From the flagpole up high
Flying alone
A colorful banner 
Stood on its own

Blue and yellow PJs, a violet swimsuit
Red, orange and green underwear
They raided someone's bedroom
Who could it be?  Oh my!  Would she care? 

The Mayor of Giggleville saw her undies fly by
And was totally shocked
But listened to the laughter
And said "giggling rocks!"

It brightened them all
Though it didn't stop the flood
They sang and danced
In the puddles and mud

When May arrived and
The sun shone all day
The mayor of Giggleville 
Declared a holiday

The citizens packed
And left by car, boat and bike
To swim oceans, see friends 
and find mountains to hike

But nowhere else flies undies
And giggles at rain
So the mayor and everyone
All came home again 

Monday, October 13, 2014

Legacy

Happy 87th Birthday to my lovely mother, Luci Dannar!  May your day be filled with many reasons to smile and celebrate who you are....

I wrote the following  seven years ago, to celebrate my mother's 80th birthday. The photo is from my recent visit. 







Mom and me.....Sept. 2014
 photo by Marty Bruce Scheall
                                                                                                 Legacy

      Across the room, Rose, my one year old grand-daughter, beats her drum and sings, while Fern,  her older sister, tap dances and plays her ukulele.  Sara, my daughter, joins her daughters on viola and West African rhythm instruments, while I play piano. 
     Music and dance are as present in our family as the nuts are to the squirrels outside the window.  
     My three sisters and I were driven routinely to  various lessons from our rural home---which meant a lot of driving for Mom and a hefty financial burden for the family. 
     Our two-bedroom home--without plumbing and heated by a coal stove--was on ten scruffy acres, twenty minutes from Columbia, Missouri. Orchards, vegetable gardens and pastures provided most of our food--raised and preserved by my parents and grandparents.  On Sundays we  attended services at  a little country church, in our matching home-made dresses. Then, a couple of times a week, we made the trip into town to study dance, piano, violin or anything else we might want to explore. ( I had a brief stint as a baton twirler!)
     "How come you and your sisters do all of that fancy stuff in town?" my friend asked when she came to my dance recital.
      "Mom was raised in the country and moved often. She didn't get to take dance or music lessons, so when she ended up with all of these daughters she decided to make sure we got what she missed." I had heard that story often so it t made perfect sense to me as I explained it to my friend, but I didn't realize at that time how powerful and influential those opportunities were.  
     Mom infused us with her love for fashion, literature, writing, music, dance, religion and theater as  she exposed us to as many cultural events as she could manage. Although she doesn't play an instrument, she often sings hymns --as her mother did --while working in the garden, scrubbing floors or ironing clothes.
    We all grew up, got married and became mothers. Mom's influence has continued as many of her grand children now study music and dance. 
     Mom's legacy of introducing us to a broader culture--one of fancy stuff--is evident now as we gather to celebrate her birthday with instruments, dance and songs. 
      The beat goes on. 

      
     








'


Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Happy New Year

Wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving.                                                                                                                           Khalil Gibran


I read the words again, on the small brown card balanced on my knee; yesterday’s gift from a friend. I hear in it a call to live lightly, with gratitude and seize the moment to love. I consider the card a celestial message, rather than the random prize it was intended to be. 


I woke up this morning in a tent snuggled with Peter.  The beauty of Madera canyon surrounds us, on this cusp of a new year.   We came here two years ago for New Year's Eve, camped, made resolutions around the campfire, reflected on the past, expressed hope for the future and felt more peaceful with each other than we had for quite a while. 


Photo: Wake up sleepy head....stayed warm in the tent.  Lovely sunny day today.  Peaceful. Quiet.Last year on December 29th we packed the car, ready to repeat the previous year’s journey, but got sidetracked by illness. Establishing a tradition apparently takes time, patience and some level of predictability.  Is that why I have felt sidetracked more often than not this year? 


We are back now, braving 25 degrees at night, and soaking the sunny warmth of mid-fifties later, to explore not just the canyon, but also our relationship to each other, ourselves and the world. 


Last night as we cuddled against the cold, we listened to Jon Cabot-Zinn's meditation instruction.  We practice meditation together, and I do solo sessions, but we both want to delve deeper into the meaning of awareness through mindful practice. 

Wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving....

We woke before sunrise, stayed under the warm down blanket, and I read aloud from Julia Cameron's book The Writing Diet.  The chapter about a daily writing practice to encourage creativity, resonated with both of us. Yes let's write, let's make healthy choices.....let's get back on track with.....oh, so many things to examine, evaluate, explore. 


Klara Lynn Dannar
I sit alone with the mid-morning sun on my back.   The waning campfire, which  warmed us, fed us breakfast and encouraged us to get out and enjoy this moment, is no longer needed for comfort.


Mexican Blue Jays, chickadees and titmice flit around me. I love being surrounded by birds, but have never had much interest in learning to identify them or their songs.  When I feel lonely I often seek a place where their presence comforts me; a park, a shore, a forest. 

Years ago at a Buddhist weekend retreat, a man approached me at a meal break.  "I am sure you were a bird in a past life.  I've been watching how you sit on your cushion. Look at you now, perched on the picnic bench." I nodded, whispered Namaste, and smiled. 

My family still teases me about my need to escape them by shimmying up the rope of our tire swing and sitting on an oak branch much of my childhood.   I nod at them, and smile. 


The park ranger drives by and checks the document that proves we are legal residents here. Our dues are paid. 

The jays attempt to steal granola from the picnic table, stymied by the Ziploc bag and my laughter. A bee insists on exploring my neck, so I shoo it toward nearby berries.  The wood smoke moves skyward, carried by a determined breeze.  Dry yellow, knee-high grasses bow slightly toward the altar of glowing coals.

Peter is off doing his favorite thing here; walking a trail. He will return eager to tell  me stories of woodpeckers, trees, clouds. 

I will be happy to see him and  to share my morning of stillness. 

I love it that we each listen to our heart and move accordingly on our individual paths. 

Wake at dawn with a winged heart......