The Unexpected Meadowlark

She sits poised and ready, but melting into her chair. She wonders why she has even put herself in this situation. The thumping of her heart is loud enough that she smiles apologetically at her neighbors. Each of them seem to be pre-occupied in their own world as they hum  their prepared pieces. Sarah needs to busy her fingers. Her application sheet takes the brunt of her anxiety.  It is as if her fingers think the sheet of paper is a piano. Where is all the extra saliva coming from? What if she drools when she opens her mouth.  Her feet even have a mind of their own as they tap dance on the top of her worn brown guitar case.

Stop. Stop. Just breath.

It is almost as if  the world has stopped. Her iPhone still displays 11:11am as she checks it for the fifth time. Why is the phone all wet? Nope just sweat. Is anyone else boiling? The young brunette across from her is wearing a fur collared jacket wrapped tightly around her neck. Her hair sits exquisitely in it's little ballet dancer bun. Am I in the right area?

I could see it all on Sarah's face.

I laugh though because what she doesn't know is she is a born meadowlark. Her big humble brownish hazel eyes are full of imagination and every time her fingers move across guitar strings it is like a dance. She just needs to get lost after the first chord.

As a toddler, Sarah's little arms could direct symphonies for hours. Teddy played the bass; old Mr. yellow duck played the horn, and Tanya the Flamingo played the violin-first chair. Then there was everyone else. When Sarah was eight she accompanied them on Daddy's guitar whom she called Mellow Yellow.  It was on her 10th birthday that Sarah realized what she wanted to do. She wanted to make music with Daddy.

"Sarah Collins."

Sarah neatly nestles her long straight hair to one side as she follows a smartly dressed woman into a room.  She is left standing in the center of the room. A steel and rather cold looking table holds coffee cups, scattered sugar packets, and a massive pile of headshots. Sitting behind the mass of strewn items is The Man. The Man who seems to hold Sarah's fate in his little skinny hands.

"So, Ms. Collins, is it?" He is finishing the remains of a sugar donut.

"Ah, yes, sir." Sarah begins to unlock her guitar case.

"Any relation to Steve Collins?"

"Yeah."

"Good man. VERY talented."

Sarah pulls Mellow Yellow from his case.  As she does so, her eyes stop and look at a wrinkled photo of a man pinned into the velvet. A slight smile manifests on her lips.

"Yes, sir."

"Are you VERY talented like your Dad?"

"Not like my Dad, no sir."

"Really. That's....honest....I guess. Well let's hear it."

"Meadowlark. It's called Meadowlark."

As Sarah finishes the last chord, she looks at The Man. He sits in the same position. His demeanor still dry. Legs crossed and expression emotionless. He picks up a pen and writes briefly on her headshot.

"You are correct. You are not VERY talented like you're Dad."

"No, but I will be better than him."

"How do you know?"

"Because he told me. My Father wouldn't lie to me." Sarah clicks the lock on her case and lifts it to leave.

"Well, see you in September then. Next!"

The Man doesn't look at Sarah while she exits. He doesn't see her grin and the tears in her eyes, but they aren't meant for him. As Sarah pushes through the revolving door into freedom the sun and wind hit her face at the same time. Leaves crunch under her feet like croutons as she slowly walks down the white marble steps.

"Dad, I did it! Can you hear me?!!" The autumn air rushes in as Sarah yells to the sky. To me.

I know Baby Girl. My little Meadowlark.

"I am your little Meadowlark. I believe you now. I believe you!"

I love it when you laugh, Sarah. I love you.

I watch her as she dances down the street. I love it when she dances.



   

The Basin, The Flower Holder, and The Dreamer

It's practical use is what caught her attention. It's history is what caught my attention. 

The durability and necessity of it made her bring it to the shop counter. The rust, braided and frayed rope handles, and  the faded yellow canary painting  on front made me stop, cross my arms, and wonder.

All Annie needed was a basin.  Well that wasn't all. As she walked with the basin filling her arms, Annie realized how hard the floor seemed and how thin the soles on her shoes were and how cuddled her toes felt.  A little shuffle was habitual for Annie as the tenants in her shoes demanded more space.  It never surprised people when she would bury her hand into her purse in search of a safety pin to fix a random hole in her top.  She was discreet, yet she had a feeling people were staring. This was true. It was intriguing to watch, but then embarrassment would grip them and make them swiftly turn away.

I don't need a basin. I just believe it is beautiful because it was loved and needed by someone else. Someone's hands have touched these rope handles, their sweat and blood -their very DNA- is lodged into it's fibers. It is now used as a flower pot. All the dancing colors and happy daisies are so inviting along with the aroma of wood chips that make me reminisce about being on a farm . As I examine it from left to right the rust and chipping metal tell a story of rain and then I see it. The feather-like handwriting below the detailed canary. The only decipherable letters are A.n,n and L.e.

Annie Lewis couldn't believe that Apple stayed still. She decided to take the opportunity to paint every detail from her chocolate oval eyes to the layers of her sunshine yellow feathers. Apple, her sweet little canary, clutched contently to her homemade perch by the stove. There was no reason for her to go outside. Absolutely none. This pleased Annie because she wanted to be able to remember Apple. She knew she couldn't control when Apple left. Spring was beautiful, but  it's impending arrival meant Apple would more than likely leave.  And as Annie expected, three months later, Apple heard the call of love when the last drop of frost evaporated. She was gone. but Annie still had her memory painted on the basin.

The only memory I have of my canary is a photograph with white metal bars. Spunky couldn't fly. Breeders or maybe pet shops clip their wings when they become pets. The little canary would never sing much when I played her canary record. A few chirps came out;that was it, but I loved her regardless because my mom loved canaries and part of me felt closer to my mom because of my little canary.  The day I brought Sammy home, I expected Spunky to sing when I put them next to each other so I waited. It was later I began to hear chirping and singing. Finally. It was during the next week I realized that Spunky was not the singer. In fact, Spunky was the nurturer. A little blue egg had appeared in his-I mean her-cage.  I wish I could say it ended happily, but it wasn't long after that I took Sammy to the vet for a cough and that was the last time I saw him. Spunky died not long after and I buried her in a little postal box under the pear tree. For a short period of time all I had was that little blue egg. It still hurts sometimes.

"Drafts wrestle with the curtains a lot during winter and sometimes I have to pull the sheets off my bed and block the breeze at its source.  I have been forced to put Apple's basin under the leak by the window, but I am sure to keep it in sight as it gives me comfort during this time. The fire is always soothing to not only my physical body, but my heart as well. I will have a nice lie down by the stove as I imagine the Cinder Girl  story. That girl might have been in dire circumstances, but we know that she found happiness. It will find me, "writes Annie.

"I bought a basin today. I think I like the idea of a happy flower pot on my balcony. Don't worry little basin, only joy will grow out of you. Happy daisies. I plan to fix the rust stains and I have some left over paint from my last project.  The little canary on the front looks like Spunky. Somehow I find looking at comforting. Where did you come from, little basin?"

Autumn's Tears

Like a leaf in the breeze, I fly when God lifts me into the cool air.

My arms are wide open.

Upon the pages of my memory, I recall the feeling starting on my face and then my arms and then through my hair; the evidence of October. This all occurred outside the local mall just as I past the bleached outside wall of Macy's. The pre-planned sidewalk ended at purple-black railing. But those descriptions are mere  speculation. Guesses. Somehow the modern buildings and my destination faded away as I stood enchanted by the whirling and crunching of autumn's tears. The leaves! It wasn't just scattered breath from random directions, but there was a pattern as the wind kissed the leaves into rings. They would flow up clockwise and then float to the ground and repeat in a mesmerizing cycle.  The air was not crisp and cold like one would expect, but dry and warm like a muffin just out of the oven. Even while droplets of sweat crowded on my forehead,  I could have stared all day. The nectarine reds and burnt oranges and cookie browns painted streaks and shapes harmoniously in the air. If that moment had a song it would have been a  mix of violin, harp, and a drum.

Dance! Dance!  Is all I hear inside myself.

This world was made to dance! Precise movements yet with melodic flow. Delicate expression mixed with a victorious spirit. Seize the opportunity and dance. Risk and realize you will fly! Because in this moment, I believe. We can.