Post Script: Time Zone and Grass

Yesterday’s poem was a quick attempt to capture two things: a fleeting dream, rich with color and feeling, and the fact that I was racing time just to write about it.

(This morning, my challenge with time may be no different. I hear Jeb rustling in his room, now as I type. The current time is one minute to 5:00am. How early must a woman wake to write in peace?!)

Since the Archives serves as a record of daily chronicles and I love to discover threads of the profound in the mundane, I will report the following details.

Tuesday evening I had a vivid dream in which the Bohemian and I, along with some close friends, were living in a natural, outdoor dwelling near the sea. He and I were finding patches of land where the lawn was dry and we were seeding those spots for soft, green grass.

Inspired to write a poem about it and share it here, I found myself up against the clock in the process. This further lent material to the poem, as I pondered time and space and that fascinating land of dreams which seems to both bridge, transcend (and pleasantly suspend) linear time.

The poem was nothing spectacular (hence I won’t bother reposting it here, though you can review it on yesterday’s post if you’re curious) but I got it finished in time to take Jeb to his bus stop.

I mentioned the dream to the Bohemian while we made breakfast. Spent, probably, three sentences on the topic, then he went to work with our friends and I left for my work day.

At day’s end, the Bohemian arrives home with his traditional whistle as he opens the front door. I whistle back. He climbs the stairs and comes into view, his t-shirt and corduroys dusty and damp with sweat, his face smiling.

“Hi Jess. How are you?”

“I’m well,” I say, happily assessing his figure and searching his face for clues. “How are you doing?”

I’m always curious what the Bohemian’s work day has entailed, as he works on our friends’ farm near the ocean where tasks vary by the day. Sometimes planting, sometimes clearing brush. They may build a greenhouse or cut back trees. No one day is the same.

“I’m good! Guess what I did today?” he asks with a grin.

“What?”

“I planted grass.” He’s smiling bigger.

And just for the record, the friends we were with in my dream, are the very friends he works with. The ones with which he spent the day planting grass.

“No way! Really?”

He nods. “Yep. See? Dreams really do come true.”

courtesy of Muffet

4 Comments

  1. Book recommendation: “Original Wisdom: Stories of an Ancient Way of Knowing” by Robert Wolff. Includes Robert’s experience with dreaming while living with aboriginal people in Malaysia. Fascinating.

    Like

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