In my family, we always opened presents on Christmas morning. The tradition was: I'd wake up real early, sneak downstairs in the dark, scope out exciting boxes under the tree and thrilling lumps in the stocking, go back to bed, wait to hear my parents getting up, go back downstairs, open one present each, have what seemed like an interminably long breakfast, open the rest of the presents. I remember one year, when I was still pretty young, once everything had been opened and laid back under the tree, my mother got up and shuffled around in all the loose ribbon and wrapping paper, kicking it up in the air and laughing, just because she was happy, I guess. It became part of the Christmas tradition ever after. My mom and me, and sometimes my dad would take a shot, too...from his chair...all of us laughing and kicking the paper.
The Cloud Messenger (Meghadūta) is a lyric poem by the respected Indian poet, Kālidāsa. The poem centers around a yaksa in exile. Longing for his beloved, waiting for him on a Himalayan mountain, he asks a cloud to take a message to her. The sights he tells the cloud it will see on its way make up most of the poem.
The idea of recording observations appeals to me. I thought The Cloud Messenger was the perfect title for a blog about the journey that we all make as we move through our days.
I'm a baby boomer who grew up dancing in the streets of Detroit during the classic Motown years, lived beside the Rocky Mountains for many years, now retired and living (and writing full time) in S. Ontario. I have one blog for rock 'n' roll oldies, and one for nature, poetry and life along the Lake.