Prose

Welcome to the Prose section of my website!

Some pieces will remain here and others will come and go, as need or whimsy desires. See Blog entries for more thoughts, memories, commentary and genre-less explorations.

Thanks for visiting.

At last! Here is an excerpt from my memoir in progress.
Titled Backbone, it is a story about finding voice.
It’s a journey of mentorship, music, nature,
and healing through adversity into the full breath of life.

Backbone, a Memoir

by Diantha Rau

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. – Anaïs Nin

Chapter Eight excerpt

Context: As an extremely introverted and unsteady twenty-three year old, I am standing behind my former voice teacher’s home seeking courage to tell Carla some difficult things. She had been my idol, and a mentor to me in every way.

It’s a hot, muggy July day and I have retreated to the back of the house following a panic attack, fearing my confessions to her and her husband will end in rejection, or worse. I face a steep, rain-soaked ravine, carved by The Little Miami River which I can hear far below. I want to go back into the house to say what I came to say, but fear has overtaken me.

Looking below, the sights and sounds of a lush, wooded river bank called me more. I wanted to follow them down. It was steep, but here was a challenge I could deal with. Physical tests I loved. Things seldom felt too dangerous for me in the physical world. Here I could prove my courage, even though I couldn’t muster it in the house. I hesitated briefly, but my body took over, seeking distance from a risk I had forged for myself but could not face. I was suddenly on my feet, climbing down over the stone wall onto the steep, leafy wet slope, following the sound of water, a sure balm for what ailed me. Read more

Mother’s Hands

My mother was good with rubber bands. She could snap one around any shape or size with long deft fingers as if it were a deliberate dance, punctuated by the final pop. She was equally good with money. Having worked as a teller she could count bills with speed, creating a unique feathery sound which never wavered in tempo. She could slide coins off a smooth tabletop, scraping them toward her, two by two, counting each pair with a persistent rhythm while dangling a cigarette from her mouth and talking about something else. The daughter of a rural accountant who kept books for farmers and other local businesses, she was an old hand with an adding machine as well. I think she enjoyed playing it like a piano, also a favorite activity of her hands. On the piano, she played a little classical and a little ragtime, but what she really loved was blues, the “dirty blues,” she was fond of emphasizing. Read more