"In Like a Lion, Out Like a Lamb"

It was March first, and the winds were wild and uncontrollable. Patio furniture was blown all around as if it were weightless. I smiled remembering Henry Wadsworth's thoughts on the wind:  

"I hear the wind among the trees 
Playing the celestial symphonies; 
I see the branches downward bent, 
Like keys of some great instrument."    

Today was one of those blustery days. With fond memories I remember the windy days of March in my childhood. My dad asked me if I would like him to make me a kite, and we could spend the afternoon watching it sail through air. I was thrilled as a small child. as I had never flown a kite before. 

He gathered the newspaper, glue, some rags that would become the tail, and sticks to hold the form of the kite together. And of course, string that would be the primitive navigational system to keep it in the air. 

Upon completion of the construction of my new kite, he, mama and I got into the car and drove down to the open fields where nothing but pecan trees dwelled. We lived on base, and I had never been to this area that was farther away than I was allowed to venture. It was a warm and sunny March day in 1956. The old pecan trees were budding their leaves with the declaration of spring, and the branches were dancing in unison with the gusty winds blowing them back and forth. 

I didn't know how to set in motion, the sailing of the kite as this was my first experience. Daddy held onto the string, and began running as he gave way to more and more of the string. The powerful March wind grabbed the kite, and the kite sailed higher and higher into the air, powered by the currents. Up over the tops of the pecan trees the kite sailed, gliding nicely embraced by the wind. Laughing and clapping my hands with the joy and amazement that is a gift of childhood, I grew impatient because I wanted to take over the delight of guiding the kite through the sky.

 Daddy warned me about the tautness of the string, and how important it was to keep the kite in the air. I was sure I would manage just fine.....it looked so smooth and easy. It was the wind doing all the work, so it appeared to my four year old mind. Mama reminded Daddy this was all about ME experiencing flying a kite for the fist time, not him. With a word of warning, Daddy carefully released the taut string into my small hands, warning me to hold tightly to it, and to guide the kite giving it just enough freedom to keep it sailing through the wind. I thought it would be easy. I thought I could manage this kite as it sailed into what seemed to me, the clouds. Within minutes I watched in horror, as my kite began spiraling downward. Daddy tried to rectify the situation, but it had gotten too far out of control, and my sweet, graceful, spiraling kite came crashing down towards the ground. Tears blurred my vision, streaming down my face. I just didn't know it would be so difficult. 

Mama reassured me that we could do this again on another windy day. There was no consultation in my broken heart. Daddy told me that when the pecans ripened on the trees in the fall, we would get a bucket and we would return to the fields again, and gather pecans together. That was some comfort, and I loved the huge open space of the fields.

Mama began to usher me towards the car, as the sun began setting and the warmth of the sun gave way to the chill of an early "pre-spring" evening. It was time to go home and begin preparing our supper. After spending the better part of an afternoon out in the fresh air and mildly warm sunshine, I realized that I was ready for supper. 

I don't think after this first time, I've ever flown another kite. I do remember going back to the fields with daddy, large white bucket in hand, and spending a warm "Indian-summer's" evening gathering all the pecans we could find. They tasted awfully good in mama's homemade fudge, in a sugared pecan sauce Mama made to top off vanilla ice cream, and in the fruitcakes my grandmother made and "cured" with bourbon for a month or so, in the winter air inside her garage. The moist and rich cake was cut and served on Christmas Eve, for as long as I can remember.

Each windy March that arrives, heralding the hope of spring each year, takes me back to that especially blustery, kite-flying day so many years ago, in the field of pecan trees.  

Hidden Pieces of the Puzzle Rediscovered

Hidden Pieces of the Puzzle Rediscovered

Late one evening as I was looking at various posts on Facebook, I came across a poem that at once, captivated my interest......and heart. It hit as spontaneously as a strike of lightening. I read it once, and I read it again. I immediately looked to see who its creator was. I had never heard of him. 

In that instant that it took me to read the poem, I remembered that in my youth I had loved poetry. I read it for enjoyment in elementary school. Throughout high school it became a near obsession......the dark Annabelle Lee  by Poe, the beauty of Frost's A Road Not Taken, and my favorite, Stopping By The Woods On a Snowy Evening. Elizabeth Barrett Browning's How Do I Love Thee, Let Me Count The Ways.....the time of adolescence and romance and being in love with love. There are hundreds of others, far too many to swoon over here. Oh blessed English class when we devoted a grading period to poetry! In my twenties I was enamored with everything Rod McKuen penned. I can't remember how I ever discovered him, as back then, there was no internet. During that time, I fell in love and on the second date, my love handed me a gift beautifully wrapped. I thought it was so strange because he didn't know me well enough to know what I liked and what I disliked. I opened it, and the first "sign" that this was the man that was picked for me, became suddenly apparent.  It was Rod McKuen's  book of poetry, Listen to the Warm. We had only been out twice, and I never mentioned anything about poetry. I love that book. 

Life ebbed and flowed, and I was a mother of two children. In my late thirties, my children were growing up and reading and my daughter received Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree from one of her friends as a birthday gift. I loved the story! I went to my favorite book store and discovered he wrote another called Where The Sidewalk Ends. I was hooked. I suppose as my daughter matured and entered college, it came as no shock she became an English major. 

Years passed.......and I forgot about poetry. Life in all it's ferocious force took over. I had no time for much of what I loved, and work took over my life. The love of writing since I was a child had fallen by the wayside, along with my love of poetry. How can that be? How can the things that fuel your soul get lost in the quicksand of necessary, but to the heart and soul, meaningless  aspects of life? What else is hidden, deep within my soul that I don't even recognize as being lost? 

If I had not come upon this most lovely work of art......I may have lost this love forever. The young man that wrote the poem is a member on Facebook, and I contacted him to tell him how beautiful his thoughts were and deep into his soul I could see by his words. It was profound and so beautiful. He is a poet in the States, and he has self published several books. He told me if I ever wanted to order his book, to let him know and he would sign it for me. I don't know this young man, but I have seen something of his heart, and his soul. Quite beautiful. I am so thankful that I came across his poem, and remembered my love of poetry. 

And all of this realization brought me back to missing pieces of the puzzle. We as humans are complex creatures. Our hearts and minds and souls are comprised of so many treasures. In our youth, they are beautiful new discoveries of things that connect us to things of beauty. We discover what we love. What we don't. But as we grow older, too often the necessities of life crowd those things of beauty out. Things that give us joy, and wings are saddled down by life's problems and worries and livelihood. And like delicate petals of a rose, they are bruised and crushed. It's like having the gift of a beautiful puzzle, but we've lost pieces along the years and we can't put it together as a whole again. 

I found a big piece to the puzzle of me. I am going to cherish that piece and make sure I will never lose it again. In fact, the first thing I am going to do is order the book of poetry from the young man I spoke with........and then go through the massive collection of books I have collected during my lifetime, and reread McKuen's Listen To The Warm. And I'll fall in love with poetry all over again. This time, not in the heady experience of youth, but in the embers of life and experience. Take inventory. Make sure you haven't lost or misplaced any pieces of your puzzle.