Prairie Song...

She’s singing now. Her pure, melodic voice rises and falls like the crests of ocean waves, waves of sound across our prairie ocean. I lean forward and close my eyes to listen deeply. Singing and sitting in an old Tennessee rocking chair in my office, Mystry (that’s her name) forms easily into her music, as the quivering sadness unique to country and western ballads reverberates around us.

This is her song, her ballad written and sung from her soul. It all began when she was so young, so fresh from God...

She was 11 years old, living in a tiny hamlet on these western plains. That was the last she remembers being a child. She went that day to being 30 years old in the twinkling of an eye...

Her mommy and daddy were struggling in a dying marriage. Suddenly one day, without warning, her daddy said he was going away on a much-needed vacation. “Be back in two weeks.” Mystry did not see him again for seven years. He disappeared into the prairie wind. She never cried, never talked about her broken dreams of a daddy near to hold and bless her. Anxiously though, secretly, everyday, she looked down the long, flat prairie highway, praying that the next truck would be his, bringing her daddy home...

Mystry became a woman that night. Her mother worked three jobs for food, rent, and warmth. Mystry took care of the young ones...they became her babies. The boundary erased between siblings and motherhood.

Mystry turned inward. She locked tight the doors of her soul, sealing off any semblance of pain and sorrow. In her spare time, Mystry became playful and wild. A pattern emerged over her years... loving older men, loving men who would always leave. Then, one day, Mystry gave birth to a daughter as petite and beautiful as she. The baby’s cry became a wake-up call for Mystry, a time to unlock the rusty doors of pain and love...

So, one day after the birth of her baby, Mystry was in her kitchen washing dishes, and, unexpectedly, Mystry began to cry. She could not stop, and did not know why... A week before, her father had called...It was one of those twice-a-year “Gee-I’m-sorry-if-I-ever-hurt-you-see-I-must’ve-done-something-right” kind of calls...

“Yeah, whatever, dad” her heart would say, and she would ignore the call, go and look beautiful again, write more music, pay the rent and find an older guy to warm the lonely night...

Except, this time, this night, Mystry could not stop crying, her broken heart not willing to be silent ever again... Something about an 11-year-old will do that sometimes. Stubborn, maybe.

Mystry sought counseling and in her therapy she began to listen to her internal self, her 11-year-old forgotten child. This child had much to say, much to cry about... It was not the hard work and taking care of babies that hurt so much for this young girl so long ago...it was the continual looking down the long, open, empty, flat prairie highway... Hoping, in the distant shimmer of heat waves, that an old farm truck would emerge...

Her work, her hard, hard task was to become the parent her inner child so longed for, to give the internal "11-year-old", the parent she had lost...not perfectly, not magically, but with grace and understanding for self... and for her new, lovely baby...

Bus Writer

san antonio, tx "dad! wake up! it's 25after7! if we hurry, we'll make the bus at 10till...!" oh yeah...we were going to catch the sunday morning bus at 5:50am, but last night's movie and dinner only ended four and a half hours before that...not a creature was stirring then, not even a dad... "ok!! let's go!" i threw the covers back on this cloudy and misty san antonio sunday morning...threw on my sunday best hiking clothes, grabbed my sunday best back-pack and grabbed my sacred (yes, if you're a guy, you'll know) baseball cap and he grabbed his, and we blew out the door!...the sky is dark, foreboding, going to rain, feel it as close as the air we breathe...humid, muggy, warm and chilly on this urban adventure...gonnna hike the town, the river walk and push north for 7miles through neighborhoods, plain and simple, and beautiful...we start to run to catch the bus...oh no! forgot my cell phone! tore back to the house, grabbed it and ran harder, the half mile to the stop...this is fun, crazy! we are laughing...will we make it? who takes an intentional urban hike and starts off with a half hour bus ride at 7:50am on a sunday morning to city center? "this is crazy, dad!" he's laughing...out of breath, me, not him...we make the bus... then, it happens...without expecting or knowing, it just happens...it's quiet, very quite on the bus...the droan of the diesel engine, almost hypnotic, as we sit in silence, breathing hard, yet calm, satisfied...just a few gather together for this ride...i had barely thought who might be riding with us, or we with them, on this sunday morning...the lady in front of me, two rows down, sleeping, head bobbing hard, knit cap not budging..."she looks wasted", i self-righteously judge... then, a big man, dressed in a casual black suit, tie-less, hair, shiny and slick, gets on, quietly, exuding some sort of peaceful presence (no, really!)... we stop again... who is this, i wonder? a small, "gotta be at least 72 year old woman", i think, wearing a kinda bad reddish wig, carrying a huge black purse, pulls out a book as she sits..."cool", i think, she uses time like this to read..."good choice", i bless her, 'cause i would do that, too! every day, if i could...h-h-m-m-m-m...but, what is the book? i am nosy on this ride, i know, just a nebraska boy in the big, very big city and, maybe goofly, intrigued by this ride...i strain to spy on her book...no, not her! is this true? i smile, it l-o-o-k-s l-i-k-e, ian fleming...you know! james bond! is this true?! i hope so! you go girl! where DOES she go in her amazing mind, at her amazing age with this amazing adventure? i wanna go, too! ...and then, a mommy and her 8ish, impish, little girl gets on...the little one pops around trying to find her best seat for today's ride, the "just right seat", ignoring her mommy's mild directions to sit with her...finally, she does and they settle in...all pretty in pink, her ribbons and dress, and she writes in her tablet and sings loud mexican pinata songs, doing all the gestures and movements, eyes dancing, mommy gently trying to shush her, and, always failing, thank god!...dance, little girl, dance! keep those laughing eyes dancing forever! we're there! we jump off the bus..."we have to hike to the very beginning of the river walk, where it starts on the south, by the gunther house, we will start there", he says, so, no walking/hiking will officially count til then...ok, add an unofficial mile...we walk past intriguing old buildings, he likes the architecture and wonders what is inside..."did you know, a bowling alley is in there, on the second floor?" wow, a nothing-looking building holding a secret bowling alley...we rush past a bus stop... i see a very elderly couple waiting for a bus...we have to walk around them a bit, he, bent over, in a wheel chair, she, sitting on the bench, wearing a bright bandanna around her head...our eyes meet...i want to warmly say "good morning", and do, and walk briskly by...each returns the greeting...and then, fifty feet past, she calls out to me, a blessing..."god bless you!", her voice joyously smiles in hispanic lilt...i turn, smile, clasp my hands in a prayer grasp, walk back-wards for a few steps, and bow slightly, "and, to you..." i say... blessings this every-day...