A Dreamy Moment on a Timeless Summer's Day

I used to be a much more interesting dreamer.  Back in the day, I might disrupt sleep with outbursts of flying and mayhem,  or with a strange, toothless amble down a raging river.  These days, though, my dreams are more like visits to the local grocery store, filled with little lists and ordinariness, the occasional Jackfruit thrown in to keep things interesting.

Dreams, like so many other things, can let us down a bit if we are expecting only fireworks and Lord Fauntleroy.

So, how to explain the small smile I woke with this morning?  Surely, its source wasn't the tiny dream I'd been having, the one utterly void of action verbs.

But I knew otherwise.  It was, indeed, that simple dream that had washed over me.

In it, a younger me is laying on my bedroom floor, propped up on an elbow and feet crossed casually above my head.  A sketch pad in front of me,  I move my pencil across it, the fat, rounded nub working patiently.  Downstairs, my mom finishes the morning paper, both of us content in the morning quiet.   While I'm sketching, my mind moves to the books I've read and I'm filled with such love for them, for the places they've taken me, the people I've met.  And, for just a moment, I set down my pencil, overwhelmed that there are such things as libraries, all those stories free for the taking.

That was it, my dream.  A few minutes in a timeless space, filled with the beloved and the familiar--my mom, my room, some doodles and books.  Yet, the deep contentment that I woke with hung with me through the next few hours, its presence both warm and familiar.

I'd been between books when I went to bed last night, having said goodbye to Inspector Gamache and Three Pines earlier in the day.  After this morning's dream, though,  I knew exactly what my next book would be, one that is both magical and familiar.  The Wind and The Willows was written, no doubt, for a younger me, yet it is also deeply loved by my current self.

So, this morning, I said "hello" again to Mole and Ratty, letting my hand dangle into the river, while Ratty pushed off from the shore, with no particular place in mind.

The Unbearable and the Lightness

A friend of mine has endured unbearable things these past three months, from a broken body to the violent death of a loved one.  And while I sit here, tongue-tied and baffled, I hope no one will utter to him what some feel compelled to say.

"God never gives us more than we can bear."   

I do not care to know a god that would toy with a person, just to find his tipping point.

On my walk this morning, I had to struggle to resist the urge to explain my friend's recent string of hardships.  A part of me knows that there is no answer--no karmic nod, no cruel god, no if/then equation.  But the desire for explanations seems to be human nature.  We want there to be a logical sequence that adds up to this, in part, I suppose, so that we can manipulate our own future outcomes.

In my resistance of such certainty, a softening emerged.  My eyes and ears took over as my mind began to quiet a bit.  I watched three young grackles--their squawks as shocking as their name--frantically chase after their worn-out mother, her brood now brooding.  At my feet, a half dozen worms, thick and languid, patiently swam the breadth of the rain-pooled sidewalk, seeking higher ground.  Scattered in the dewy grass were hundreds of tiny maples, just a week ago crisp, brown helicopters whirring their way groundward.  Most had landed under the protective limbs of their mother.  Some, perhaps, would become mothers themselves one day.

Near the pool, I ran my hand along the fence and closed my eyes, listening to the rhythmic "gloph" of swimmers' feet, as they broke the surface of the water.  Punctured by occasional laughs and the "hup" of a coach, it was a blissful collection of summer sounds. 

A cloudburst released another round of rain, and I found myself listening to individual drops as they landed on maple leaves and hostas, each contact a distinct note.

By the time I walked by the tennis courts, I felt calm, bathed in the balm of the spirit that breathes through all things.  It is a breath that I hope finds its way to my friend today.

Where, in the midst of Big Bad Things, do we find healing?  The answer, for me, is just outside my door, where roots and wind, rain and sun bind us all together.  And, when I fill up on these things, I am better able to sit with my friend in his darkness.