The Elephant in the Room
I know you won’t believe me, but it’s there;
large as life, it sits there,
this trembling elephant,
big, grey, lumpy
spoiling for a fight
This is not some docile, nurturing cow,
but an old rogue bull,
sated from roaring and rampaging
ripping off thatched roofs
and uprooting trees
It sits without a word – it cannot speak -
and takes up too much space with its huge, wrinkled presence
in the thin confines of this tiny room
I try to stay out of its way,
moving gingerly
speaking quietly
thinking that if I do not acknowledge it, it will go away
but it is just so … there!
The elephant looks at me,
every so often,
from beneath half-lidded, lashless eyes,
watery with unshed tears,
and asks me to remember
how it got here
My sigh is huge,
deep as the elephant’s watering hole,
but stale and fetid
a scum of green algae on the surface
and the edges trodden down and muddy
Every so often, the elephant swings its snake-like trunk
around the room,
waggles its tusks, distracting me,
knocking memories off the shelves
and shattering windows into bits of splintered glass
which fly off through the roofless room
like a flock of little silver birds
© Melanie Turner
August 12, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Monday, August 3, 2009
Still Breathing
waking up in the middle of the night
to find that I am still breathing …
and grateful for the wordless breath
which rises and falls
beneath the crisp white cotton sheet
I pull the air in,
air still muggy and warm from thunderstorms
earlier in the day
and hold it,
hot in my mouth,
just for a moment,
savoring it
trying to remember when it was, exactly,
that I learned to breathe
exhaling quietly,
quickly pulling another breath in
lest I forget how
I remember how the baby hippo is born,
underwater,
and how, unerringly, he swims up and up,
with determination
without fear
simply knowing this is what he needs to do, until
suddenly breaking the surface
he fills his nascent lungs with air
and it dawns on me that this,
our original gasp of air,
is surely the first miracle
© Melanie Turner
August 3, 2009
to find that I am still breathing …
and grateful for the wordless breath
which rises and falls
beneath the crisp white cotton sheet
I pull the air in,
air still muggy and warm from thunderstorms
earlier in the day
and hold it,
hot in my mouth,
just for a moment,
savoring it
trying to remember when it was, exactly,
that I learned to breathe
exhaling quietly,
quickly pulling another breath in
lest I forget how
I remember how the baby hippo is born,
underwater,
and how, unerringly, he swims up and up,
with determination
without fear
simply knowing this is what he needs to do, until
suddenly breaking the surface
he fills his nascent lungs with air
and it dawns on me that this,
our original gasp of air,
is surely the first miracle
© Melanie Turner
August 3, 2009
Passions, Part 3 (and Final)
Passions, Part 3 (Third and Final)
I am not sure if this “series” has been as much self-introspection as self-immolation. The intent was to present questions, generate ideas, and, hopefully, come up with a dream, a vision, and a light at the beginning of the path. I am looking for something from the universe, I guess: direction, guidance, clarification, and some clue as to what I am supposed to be doing with my life. Oh, and how to keep a roof over my head and food on the table while I’m at it.
Before I begin, however, a small digression. I have mentioned how much I enjoy playing the piano. Usually, I lean towards New Age type instrumentals, because they suit me with their minor key tendencies, flowing harmonies, and graceful movements. But this week, I went back to my “roots”. Physically, I was able to get in a little extra practice this week, so I picked some lightly challenging classical pieces for church today, and I think I pulled it off with just a few missed notes and wrong keys, hopefully not too noticeable. The pieces I picked were: Rondino by Antonio Diabelli for the Prelude, Musetta’s Song (from “La Boheme”) by Giacomo Puccini for the “Dollar” Offering, Für Elise (For Elise) by Beethoven for the Offertory, and Rondo-Valse by Muzio Clementi for the Postlude.
But all this piano talk makes me think of singing. I used to love to sing. Not that I was all that good, but I enjoyed it, and in the privacy of my own home I could belt out Cabaret’s “Maybe This Time” or My Fair Lady’s “I Could Have Danced All Night”. I enjoyed singing in my high school’s choir, participating in school talent shows and the Senior Class musicals (such as Bye-Bye Birdie and The Music Man). My mom even paid for a year’s worth of classical training, not that it did any good. I didn’t have faith in my own ability to think that it was worth pursuing, so I didn’t. But those days of even casual singing are over. Several years ago, I had surgery to have a benign tumor removed. The tumor was wrapped around my vocal chords, and in the process of removing the tumor, a nerve to my vocal chords was severed, and I lost the ability to sing. My vocal range, never really impressive (I was a mediocre second soprano), is now about five notes hovering around middle C.
Theatre is something else I really enjoy both onstage and off, as a participant and as a spectator. I have been involved in community theatre, off and on, for several years, beginning with children’s theatre. Again, I never really had enough confidence in my own ability to really consider a serious pursuit in theatre. Besides, the tall blondes always got the good parts, even when I was twelve.
As an adult, I spent more time backstage than on, and while I really enjoyed the camaraderie of the theatre crowd, again, I never felt like I belonged. These people knew theatre. They understood it. They were quick, clever, witty people.
Again, I wonder when and where these seeds of disconnection and discontent were planted and what encouraged it to grow inside of me. My mother said, more than once, she wished she had never read me fairy tales. Was that it? Did I honestly believe in the “happily ever after” and nothing else would satisfy me? Was I now allowed to dream? Was I told, too often, or even ever, that things were beyond my reach and that I should just settle? I don’t know. I don’t have any concrete memories of growing up, but I do know my parents loved me and did the best they could. (In fact, they are much better parents than I turned out to be). But, most of my childhood memories are not spontaneous; rather, they are triggered by conversations with family or by seeing photographs, so I can’t say with any conviction that my shortcomings are by nurture and environment rather than genetic inheritance. (My younger brother, and only sibling, has been, by far, more successful than me in everything – make of that what you will.)
With theatre, though, once I am caught up in the thrill of the performance, I really enjoy(ed) myself. Whether I was onstage as “Samantha” in Uncommon Women & Others or “Molly” in Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap, or backstage as props, stage manager, lighting, even working the box office didn’t matter.
I have not been involved in any kind of theatre for many, many years. However, since moving to southern Oregon in 2004, I have had the opportunity to see so much wonderful theatre, from the acclaimed Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland to the fantastic shows done by a small, semi-professional company called Camelot. And this summer, my youngest son is participating in his first musical and I am enjoying a bit of the backstage life again, working in the costume room (on papier-mâché masks – I don’t sew!) and in the greenroom helping to supervise costume changes. While it’s not making me any money, it is fun to be out and involved in something again.
Last, but certainly not least, is my love of reading. I have loved to read, according to my mom, since before I could read. She has a photograph of me as an infant, lying on my back in the middle of my parents’ bed, holding an opened paperback book in my hands and staring at it intently.
You would be hard-pressed to find me without a book in my hand even now, sometimes two or three (one for upstairs, one for downstairs, and one for the car!). For several years, my parents owned an independent bookstore, new books in front and used books in back, and it was the most wonderful place in the world. I probably didn’t appreciate it as much as I should have and now, years later, I regret they had to sell it when they did.
Reading is probably my one true passion, but I haven’t figured out yet how to make any money at it.
So there you have it: me in a nutshell. Now, if I could just figure out how to crack that nut and get out of there! But even if I could get out, I have this strange feeling that I’d still be lost in the woods with no idea how to find my way home.
Any guides out there, please feel free to apply!
© Melanie Turner
August 2, 2009
I am not sure if this “series” has been as much self-introspection as self-immolation. The intent was to present questions, generate ideas, and, hopefully, come up with a dream, a vision, and a light at the beginning of the path. I am looking for something from the universe, I guess: direction, guidance, clarification, and some clue as to what I am supposed to be doing with my life. Oh, and how to keep a roof over my head and food on the table while I’m at it.
Before I begin, however, a small digression. I have mentioned how much I enjoy playing the piano. Usually, I lean towards New Age type instrumentals, because they suit me with their minor key tendencies, flowing harmonies, and graceful movements. But this week, I went back to my “roots”. Physically, I was able to get in a little extra practice this week, so I picked some lightly challenging classical pieces for church today, and I think I pulled it off with just a few missed notes and wrong keys, hopefully not too noticeable. The pieces I picked were: Rondino by Antonio Diabelli for the Prelude, Musetta’s Song (from “La Boheme”) by Giacomo Puccini for the “Dollar” Offering, Für Elise (For Elise) by Beethoven for the Offertory, and Rondo-Valse by Muzio Clementi for the Postlude.
But all this piano talk makes me think of singing. I used to love to sing. Not that I was all that good, but I enjoyed it, and in the privacy of my own home I could belt out Cabaret’s “Maybe This Time” or My Fair Lady’s “I Could Have Danced All Night”. I enjoyed singing in my high school’s choir, participating in school talent shows and the Senior Class musicals (such as Bye-Bye Birdie and The Music Man). My mom even paid for a year’s worth of classical training, not that it did any good. I didn’t have faith in my own ability to think that it was worth pursuing, so I didn’t. But those days of even casual singing are over. Several years ago, I had surgery to have a benign tumor removed. The tumor was wrapped around my vocal chords, and in the process of removing the tumor, a nerve to my vocal chords was severed, and I lost the ability to sing. My vocal range, never really impressive (I was a mediocre second soprano), is now about five notes hovering around middle C.
Theatre is something else I really enjoy both onstage and off, as a participant and as a spectator. I have been involved in community theatre, off and on, for several years, beginning with children’s theatre. Again, I never really had enough confidence in my own ability to really consider a serious pursuit in theatre. Besides, the tall blondes always got the good parts, even when I was twelve.
As an adult, I spent more time backstage than on, and while I really enjoyed the camaraderie of the theatre crowd, again, I never felt like I belonged. These people knew theatre. They understood it. They were quick, clever, witty people.
Again, I wonder when and where these seeds of disconnection and discontent were planted and what encouraged it to grow inside of me. My mother said, more than once, she wished she had never read me fairy tales. Was that it? Did I honestly believe in the “happily ever after” and nothing else would satisfy me? Was I now allowed to dream? Was I told, too often, or even ever, that things were beyond my reach and that I should just settle? I don’t know. I don’t have any concrete memories of growing up, but I do know my parents loved me and did the best they could. (In fact, they are much better parents than I turned out to be). But, most of my childhood memories are not spontaneous; rather, they are triggered by conversations with family or by seeing photographs, so I can’t say with any conviction that my shortcomings are by nurture and environment rather than genetic inheritance. (My younger brother, and only sibling, has been, by far, more successful than me in everything – make of that what you will.)
With theatre, though, once I am caught up in the thrill of the performance, I really enjoy(ed) myself. Whether I was onstage as “Samantha” in Uncommon Women & Others or “Molly” in Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap, or backstage as props, stage manager, lighting, even working the box office didn’t matter.
I have not been involved in any kind of theatre for many, many years. However, since moving to southern Oregon in 2004, I have had the opportunity to see so much wonderful theatre, from the acclaimed Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland to the fantastic shows done by a small, semi-professional company called Camelot. And this summer, my youngest son is participating in his first musical and I am enjoying a bit of the backstage life again, working in the costume room (on papier-mâché masks – I don’t sew!) and in the greenroom helping to supervise costume changes. While it’s not making me any money, it is fun to be out and involved in something again.
Last, but certainly not least, is my love of reading. I have loved to read, according to my mom, since before I could read. She has a photograph of me as an infant, lying on my back in the middle of my parents’ bed, holding an opened paperback book in my hands and staring at it intently.
You would be hard-pressed to find me without a book in my hand even now, sometimes two or three (one for upstairs, one for downstairs, and one for the car!). For several years, my parents owned an independent bookstore, new books in front and used books in back, and it was the most wonderful place in the world. I probably didn’t appreciate it as much as I should have and now, years later, I regret they had to sell it when they did.
Reading is probably my one true passion, but I haven’t figured out yet how to make any money at it.
So there you have it: me in a nutshell. Now, if I could just figure out how to crack that nut and get out of there! But even if I could get out, I have this strange feeling that I’d still be lost in the woods with no idea how to find my way home.
Any guides out there, please feel free to apply!
© Melanie Turner
August 2, 2009
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