BEAUTY IS IN THE PANE OF MY WINDOW

​During my last years at Hallmark, my desk was actually in the tornado shelter.

Then I moved to Red Fuse and found myself next to a huge window framing the Kauffman Center. I would sometimes look up from working and take a picture. Just so epic, especially when the sun turned each curved edge rose gold.

And now, this. This I love even more. What an inspiring scene for the next few weeks of writing.

The hush here is amazing. No cars, no furnace kicking on, no sirens blasting up and down Wornall. All that, and FaceTime too? Am I dreaming?

So, yes. I ran away to the mountains so I could talk on the phone, text, email, blog, Skype and FaceTime with you lovely people. I will get on the screenplay, don't you worry. I'm still reading background info, which is part of my process.

And speaking of putting off the real writing, I had a wonderful FaceTime chat with Will this evening. There he was, chilling in his dorm in NYC, and me looking out at the trees surrounding my cabin and not writing. Then the biggest, reddest fox sauntered by! Will laughed at my wild attempt to flip the camera and find the fox for him. It did not work. But I think I was more amusing to him than woodland creatures. Moms and technology, jeez.

Toward the end of our conversation, I mentioned that our dear Rachel asked me to start a blog months ago to capture a story I'd just told her. I shared the incident with Will as well, and he asked me to capture it as a poem. As soon as we hung up, I did.

So here's my poem-like object. It may not be screenwriting, but if you've read my About Me, I think you can agree that it hits a number of my to-dos—most of all, PLAY. I don't know how poems work, so this little baby is a freestyle hot mess of oversharing. Enjoy.

Ownership

A quiet goodnight tossed his way.

Quickly. Don't follow.

I have a date with a good cry waiting for me in bed.

Hot springs of tears, usually so comforting.

Why isn't it working?

Why isn't the pain shrinking?

This has always vented the unnamed aches.

But the ache has always been smaller and more anonymous than "No longer a mother."

At least not in the usual way.

I can't breathe, can't want to.

What will I do, I'm breaking!

Boom.

Thunder.

Thank god. Thank God.

A new date to keep. Gather the thick Mesa Verde blanket.

Back through the living room.

Quietly. Don't follow.

Wrap myself in wool as the wind rocks the porch swing.

Rain finds my cheeks and blends with my tears.

Whipping branches.

Blinding flashes.

Whip cracks signal deafening roars.

Wait.

"This storm is here to help me cry bigger."

What a self-important thought.

But isn't it said that god knows every fallen bird?

Why not hear my crumbling heart?

Oh my god, this storm belongs to me.

The trees perform wildly,

Dancing to the campfires and war drums overhead.

Thank you, I love it, well-played!

Finally worn out, we all sigh together.

October 5, 2016, well after midnight, Kansas City.

Forgotten chaos.

But never to me. The storm song saved me.