Whisper Clouds

Whisper Clouds
by Marilyn Mackenzie
April 15, 2002

I scribbled as I sat in the airport terminal. New rules dictated that passengers arrive two hours prior to flight time, probably wise for peak travel times. On a Tuesday afternoon I questioned the need, since the airport terminal was almost empty. Still, as a rule follower I had arrived early and had lots of time to write. I counted that as a blessing.

As I sat in the terminal, I scribbled and scribbled. Take that literally, folks. I'm left handed, and for one brief year at age 12 my handwriting was quite nice. Since then, my handwriting has been rather horrible.

Years ago when I was a secretary, my boss had to ask what each phone message said, even when I meticulously labored so that the message would be legible.

I learned to leave messages for my teen son either carefully printed or typed, lest he have an excuse for leaving undone chores he was instructed to accomplish in my absence.

A few years ago when I received a back injury, one strange result of that injury was that my handwriting became so bad, and my left arm weakened so much, that one doctor insisted I had Parkinson’s disease. The neurologist decided otherwise. But now, my handwriting is so bad that often I cannot even decipher it myself.

While on the ground and in the air, I wrote:

"Fear of Flying" 
"My Father, the Child" 
"When Parents Grow Up" 

I also penned the beginning of a poem on the flight between Houston and Chicago. My hand had been flying over the page, scribbling two articles, one poem and the beginning of another poem. Then the gentleman passenger next to me interrupted my concentration as he asked what I was writing so fast and furiously. I told him and read some of what I'd written to him. Said passenger was impressed, which almost made up for the fact that he'd disrupted my creativity. Almost.

Once situated at my parents home, and when the reality of my aging parents overwhelmed me, I crept away to "hide" in the basement and tried to recapture the thoughts once more about the clouds. I could not.

I assumed once I was back in the air looking at the clouds that cloud thoughts would return. Alas, they did not.

Here is the beginning of that poem, begun on that day in the airplane:

Whisper clouds, so quick, so thin
Rush past as we fly by,
Then fluffier clouds, white mountains
Could I touch them if I tried?

The clouds they seem like wisdom
Of the ancient ones of old,
Bearded saints who shared God’s love,
Learned ones shared much, I'm told.

How did clouds become wise ones?
I question that very thing.
Quick as can be horizons
Disappear on airplane wings.

Later, there were other lines. Partial lines. Lines that made little sense without connections and additional verses. Yet the connections seemed lost forever, lost in the clouds themselves.

Riding high God seems so close
The Saints must be with Him too...

Or...

Above the clouds and looking
At small people down below

Or...

Behind them they leave wise thoughts

Perhaps one night at 3 a.m. I'll awaken with an "ah-ha" moment, the ending of "Whisper Clouds." Or perhaps not.

Since that time, the words have spilled onto pages and pages in front of me. Pages about my dad’s illness and aging process.

Perhaps that’s what I should be writing about, as I sort out my thoughts and feelings about my parents and the fact they won't be with me forever.

God taught me some years ago that writing my thoughts (after talking with Him) was one of the best ways I had to survive and go on. Yet, I continue to wonder if there will ever be an ending to "Whisper Clouds."




Note: My dad passed away in August, 2005 and I wrote about that. "I Miss My Dad"  Still, I have not finished "Whisper Clouds."