The Trouble With Wings

November 1, 2022November 2, 2022Chel Owens 17 Comments

It’s not like she didn’t want wings, you see -who hasn’t ever wanted wings in her life; wanted to fly?

The problem was the side effects.

Laura Kate hadn’t anticipated how darn uncomfortable wings would be. She had arms, didn’t she? Legs? Ears -although, come to think of it, ears occasionally keep one up with that annoying trait of either folding on themselves or of amplifying a heartbeat *chuh-chung* *chuh-chung* *CHUH-chung* *CHUH-CHUNG*

But I digress.

LK came to me because she’d heard I’d found a wishing ring. -How she heard, I don’t know. I try to keep those sorts of things private.

Then again, I’d heard about her wings.

And about her troubles with them.

“Whatever you do,” she said, wings lifting and blowing my papers off my counter, “Don’t wish for flight.” She tried to rub at somewhere on her back; boy, did it look impossible. And itchy. She sighed and twitched.

“Why not?” I really was curious. Like I said, who hasn’t wanted to fly?

Her shoulders shifted at the itch she’d never scratch. “I …didn’t think it through. I mean, I hadn’t ever paid attention to the things that could fly: birds… Yeah; birds! Have you ever seen a bird lie down? Have you seen a bird in a blanket? How about a bird doin’ anything ‘cept pooping?”

I thought it over. “Can’t you fly without wings?”

She shrugged and I lost the rest of the counter decorations to the floor. “Like I said. Didn’t think it through. Now, I don’t want anyone else to make the same mistake.”

I nodded, pensive. I offered her some seeds; I’d heard she couldn’t stomach much any more. She pecked happily at the pile and left in a more lifted mood, having delivered her message -and maybe a little unintended keepsake on the front stoop as well.

I reflected on Laura Kate’s advice, good and hard.

That night, after giving things enough time and consideration -I thought- I took out the wishing ring. I held it in my hands and tried to be smart before saying anything. Finally, I was ready. I cleared my throat and spoke up.

“I wish -“

A Child’s Breath

September 27, 2022September 27, 2022Chel Owens 28 Comments

We’re only here for a breath.

Some breathe longer than others, of course; like octogenarians shuffling to hit a hundred years.

Others, very little. They gasp -we gasp- and our only son is gone. Our only daughter is still. Our only grandchild grows forever cold.

What do we do when our child is gone? -When we’ll hold them and no longer feel the rising-falling-softness of life against our neck?

What can we do -those of us still breathing?

Dedicated to my good friend who just lost her ‘baby,’ her sixteen-year-old son, unexpectedly. I don’t know what happened but my heart aches for her loss.

Altitude Anonymous

September 13, 2022September 13, 2022Chel Owens 23 Comments

-“Hello, and welcome -yet again- to our meeting of Altitude Anonymous. I am your group leader for this quarter, Slim J.”

“Hi, Slim J.”

-“Thank you. Let’s open this meeting with our Share Session. Who’d like to start?”

…..

-“Anyone?” “Ah. Yes, of course; Bean P.”

“Alrighty. So, as you know, I’m the team lead in a high profile sales environment over at-“

-“No names, Bean.”

“Yes; of course. Silly rule but -as team lead, I oversee operations on both the East and West Coasts as well as inspiring the logistics and marketing departments in global aspir-“

-“Shares are two minutes, Bean.”

“Two minutes. Right. Well; okay then. -Team lead is, as you know, vital to any organization. Without my input and direction, no one would know which end went where -ya know what I mean?”

-“Beeean.”

“Right.” *Ahem.* “Step Three’s humility and I met my goals and did very well. As always.”

=”Oookay, then. Er… good work, Bean.”

“You’re welcome!”

-“Who else wants to share? …Gian T? Yeah; go ahead.”

“Hi. I’m Gian T.”

“Hi, Gian T.“

“My weekly goal was walking in a small person’s shoes, so I took mah girl’s heels and hit the clubs -but that bi-“

-“Giaaan”

“Er; that beautiful woman’s got tiny ass feet so I broke ’em right away and was barefoot all night.”

-“Thank you, Gian. Anyone else?”

“I have one.”

-“Okay.”

“Hello; I’m Lank E.”

“Hi, Lank E.”

“Hi. Hi, guys. I’ve really been trying to not not see -you know- little people. It’s so hard! They’re like kids: popping up behind your cart or standing in an aisle with the peaches right behind you-“

-“Um, Lank-“

“An’ then there’s that time I got in my truck ’cause, you know, my truck -and I drove over a little person’s car but luckily they weren’t in it when I back up they just hadn’t parked it in a very obvious spot. But, that’s what I’m saying: that the little ones are so darned hard to see-“

-“Ms. Lank?”

“Just Lank, thanks. Yeah, so, I didn’t do so great at seeing littles. Better luck next week, I guess.”

-“Well! It’s getting late so let’s wrap up with The Altitude Anonymous Pledge.”

“I, LaSliGiaPecTalBig, am tall, but I can think small. No matter where I go, I can move slow. When others are in the way, I can politely say, “I respect your space, ‘though I can’t see your face.”

-“Thanks, guys -and gals. Pecos has the treat next time. See you then.”

We are writers.

July 8, 2021July 14, 2021Chel Owens 31 Comments

We are writers.

Our innocent country walks; our grocery trips; our meditations -are narrated. “Lush greenings brush against…” “So stands the stoic milk…” “Thus, she found herself…”

We can subsist on very little, although it must be a consumable accessory to a keyboard or notebook.

It’s perfectly normal and reasonable to find we’ve only left our desk to curl up somewhere, muttering about a “block” or “wall” or “J.K. Rowling.”

Time does not exist. Dishes do not exist. Why are you asking about the dishes?

Words are all that matter.

Therefore, we are also readers. Don’t bother us during or after a book. Blinking blearily, we’re likely to assume you’re less real than the world between the words. And we’ll bite.

To those still wishing understanding or attention: practice a straight face, prepare encouraging remarks, clean the kitchen, bring something chocolate, and stay away until THE END.

Sometimes, we are human again.

What I Hear

September 4, 2020September 4, 2020Chel Owens 19 Comments

Conversation. Voices that are not mine or my children’s or the creaking moaning ageing of the house -voices from others are talking. And laughing. We have friends over, and we are visiting without fear.

As we talk about their move from out of state, we hear an airplane fly over. We hear a click-clunk of scooter on sidewalk coupled with happy child-talk, from outside. As the night darkens, the child-talk becomes teenage squeals as our older neighbors begin night games in the street.

Do you remember these things?

Music -I hear music. There’s an impromptu outdoor concert a few blocks away. There’s a neighbor cleaning his house with the radio playing. My husband sings to our baby; he grins, entranced, as he watches the slow notes move his father’s lips.

The hose, outside, is on. I hear the rush of water that used to send me running to scold, “Turn that off this instant!” Now, I open our blinds to summer sky; glance down to muddy children, laughing in the hose-rain. I wave.

I remember these things.

As sounds filter in where once they were not, I remember. I feel my soul shudder thaw stretch unfurl. I feel. I hope. I smile.

In response to Rethinking Scripture’s post, “Summer 2020 – What I Don’t Hear.”

Dear Teacher

May 14, 2020Chel Owens 21 Comments

Dear Smile Fingers,
I sleep in my bed with Blankie and not in the car turned around so I couldn’t see you until Milk Hands took me out and said hi and buh-bye and you leaned in and said I’ve gotten fat and you don’t know where my brother is oh no you don’t and bed is good but the car is gooder.

—–

Dear Mrs. Smith,
Mom made me pull out all my school clothes, she put them in a box. She said [in a Mom voice] “We aren’t going to use these, so we may as well pack them up.” Then she made me put away the stuff from my desk we got from you. You remember when we went to your house and threw candy at you? [laughs] I don’t know where to put my folders so I put them under the bed but don’t tell Mom. I miss when you read to us but not when you made me put my book away.

—–

Dear Teacher,
I only know a little about you; from the e-mails you send, the Zoom meetings I overhear, and the morning videos you share every day. I spoke to you forever ago, at carpool pickup after school, but never appreciated what you did before that time.
Most days, I can’t get my son to get off the floor if he’s determined to melt there. Yet, every day; you taught him, motivated him, got him to work, and loved him. Your stinkeye is legendary.
As I tucked my baby into bed, I remembered how you smiled and talked to him at pickup. As we folded the school clothes and sorted the school folders, I remembered the school conferences and class parties you held. You were surrounded by noise and chaos but thrived and guided so all those children also thrived.
You’re amazing -I thought you should know.
I’m not sure what to tell you, as normal keeps getting put off till later, except for, “Thank you.” Thank you for the magic you performed for every person for every day. I know you’ll get to do it again; will you stick around till the baby’s old enough?
Anyway, thank you. And sorry about the candy-throwing.

Written for the teachers.

Raw Ramblings

December 30, 2018Chel Owens 19 Comments

My mouth says I’m fine as my pain twists the tone and you hear it in the release sometimes you ask no really what’s wrong but I can only say

Nothing that’s all I feel by choice empty my mind my feelings most especially my soul anything that might be there has been bled dry and I am a skin of a person fluttering in the wind of others’

Change never for me every day the same drudgery-papered walls never the front of the parade nor even the front of the convoy but always the crew walking just behind to scoop the waste of others’

Happiness a dream or conciliatory statement I say to defer inquiry but I can only be happy if you are because I am the receiver of broadcast emotions buffeting my over-sensitive antennae and I really just say I am so you’ll stop asking because

It’s easier this way you’ll leave me alone and that’s where I want to be I think and yet I do not because thinking would mean I am alive and I try and try to not be alive and thinking and feeling and

Hurting so much hurting but soon I will sleep after not sleeping because here in limbo I can handle it until I can’t but the between is best and where I can numb and look up at you and say

I’m fine.

Reflecting on the Future

April 13, 2018Chel Owens 2 Comments

alessio-lin-236497-unsplash

My grandparents had a mirror in their bathroom, opposite another mirror on parallel walls. I could see myself in a hundred rooms in a hundred rooms.

Sometimes I walk where memory shadows still linger: a former neighborhood sidewalk, a street route I drove when I first earned my driver’s license, that base of a tree where I sat with my love in that park.

I see me in the past and even remember the thoughts and feelings of those moments. I think how I will walk there again in the future, and wonder what I will feel then.

unsplash-logoAlessio Lin

Ideas

January 13, 2018January 14, 2018Chel Owens 8 Comments

When do you whisper these well-formed words,

The thought-strung wishes your mind made?

They’ve been dancing round a life-numbed brain

Awaiting a chance to alight.

Why won’t you hear their fluttering feelings,

Their pleadings, in soft-spoken thoughtspeak?

Why turn an eager mental ear-hear

To angry-loud worldshout wailing?

Who else will gather these bent-broken fairies,

Wearying, slowing; near-dropping?

Their language extinct, their toe-dust unsparkled

Your brainstem a graveyard of art.

Word-Paint

January 3, 2018Chel Owens

Chalk

Sometimes I want to turn to my pallet and flawlessly express the images of my mind. From years of experience and materials-gathering, I would be done painting in a few, fantastic hours.

Instead, the best materials at hand are these very things you are looking at. And, I feel like a young child playing with fist-sized chalks whenever I start typing.