I signed up for NaBloPoMo and feel like a baby chick just wobbling away from my incubator. I did this all because of the fab Mizz V, and her incredible instructions and just her lightness of being flying around with intelligence and creativity. The theme for April is “big,” which is good, because it’s a monosyllabic word which I use for explanations of the sun, the moon, the stars, and for pleating the moon for friends, and thinking of prayers beyond syllables and sounds.

I think one could call that prayer. Speaking of Big, I still remember 9/11 and I felt as if afterwards, I felt as if we all were wrapped in cylindrical blue columns, translucent yet firm, and we, the world’s people, hanging out in the United States, were united, caring, feeling concern for another, and the word “stranger,” or “the other” disappeared from our lexicon, because we are really one. That happened until the boys, the crows, the gargoyles who cavort along the back halls of the power’s elite in government offices, and I might add, spout off as pundits punditing their particular brand of pudding, these boys, got together and division and chaos entered the realm, disunifying people.

I speak or write of this more in my new book You Carry the Heavy Stuffwhich says on the front page, “this is not a travelogue, trust me….” I talk a lot about gargoyles and greed and cavorting, maybe because a writing teacher named Oakley Hall said to us in 1983, “Use strong verbs,” and I thought this was a big idea and a great one.

For that year I packed my pieces with 3 verbs, always strong, busting out, saying, “Hi, I’m Esther and I’m a fledgling writer.” I wrote about bathrooms and first dances at dancing school with Harry Raymond. Harry Raymond looked like an opaque crow, and he carried a cane. We all sat around the room like troglodytes, and Liz, my twin, always kept her legs wide apart. Harry would slide, glide, stop and bang her ankles with is black shiny cane, and say “Girls, should sit with their legs closed,” and what did we know. We, Liz and I, looked like Prince Valiant, with identical handmade red dresses with glass buttons going down our flat chests, and wide waists and Peter Pan collars. The mysteries of womanhood didn’t affect Liz. She was interested in Bobby Benson and the BBAR B Ranch and climbing trees.

But now, in our world, which is tremendously big, I note, it’s a long time away from being twelve, a thickened twelve, looking sort of like President Obama’s dog Bo, and equally one dimensional. Big is a good word, has a solid thick feeling of a nail or wooden stake or branch nailed into the corner of an old Army tent, preparing a shelter for those who need shelter.

The tent has to be big, wide, and we got to get lots of them nailed down. The new housing maybe, because homeless isn’t an unknown word anymore. But I tell you I teach homeless women writing, and ribboned in their psyche’s is strength and story and courage. Oh so big. So that’s the fact for the day Jack. Just a typical Naneeneeenooo type of day on the blogging trail wishes wondrous miraculous things happen to everyone: jobs, good relationships; strong coffee and good friends; a touch on the cheek. You catch my drift.

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