We read that the albatross doesn’t fly as much as it glides. It uses wind and a massive wingspan (six to eleven feet, on average) to let the air propel it for millions of miles in its lifetime.
I think this plants some sort of seed in the mind of the Bohemian. Over the weekend, he obsesses on “free energy,” sketching diagrams from his imagination of self-propelling water pumps. He watches YouTube videos with titles like “Forbidden Knowledge,” that document sophisticated technology used in ancient civilizations. This project grabs him like a water wheel from which he can’t get off.
For days he’s staring into the distance and I say, “I know what you’re thinking about.”
And he’ll sigh, “I know.”
“It’s free energy isn’t it?”
He says he knows everything he’s mulling over is probably just the basics of what’s already been figured out. If he Googled the right term online he figures he’d find the research published.
He says he works all week on the farm, only using his body. On the weekends, “I just need something to do with my brain.”
On Sunday, I walk twice to my special lookout point. Once at sunrise, once at sunset. In the morning, I watch a lone albatross swoop above an orange-lit wave. Not far are the Ironwood trees where these birds come once a year, to find a mate, lay their eggs and take their first flight.
At sunset, the waves have gotten bigger. Large sets come in mountainous succession, crashing on the rocks below. I can gaze to a horizon line, with nothing but water in sight. Water, and the waves that move in my direction, unceasing. I realize they have been doing this all day. They will do this all night. That this has been done before I was born and will continue long after I am dead.
Our dream house is nearby this cliff top location. It’s been months of almost knowing if there was a chance for us to make it our home. Each deadline made to hear whether we were moving forward, has been met with postponement. “I’ll let you know by Wednesday,” turns into Friday’s “There’s still more paperwork. I think I can tell you next week.”
Financial institutions and the forms that come with them seem the epitome of inefficiency when you’re waiting on a dream.
And last night I dreamt of monk seals. The ‘oldest living fossil’ was with her baby. They were covered in mud, sleeping there, right on the asphalt, where a side road met the highway. The baby inched itself to rest upon its mother’s back. Vulnerable as fish out of water, resting in harm’s way, I stood sentry with my cell phone. In my hand materialized some nifty pocket card from the non-profit formed to protect these animals. I flipped it over, trying to read past the verbiage to find the phone number to call for their aid. Seems the organization was so focused on describing what they do, they forgot to include how to reach them to do it.
I wake feeling helpless, but relieved it was only a dream.
This Monday morning, I fire up the gas stove to make my coffee, pondering the threads. Winged masters that have evolved past muscling their way to flight. My husband’s hunt for harnessing power. The infinite push of waves to shore. An ancient sea mammal at the crossroads in my dream. That house – our house? – that keeps eluding us.
What is that force? That essence found in something as invisible and real as gravity? Don’t we all wish we could capture it and have it do our bidding? We want to sit in that seat of power and have every one of our wishes come true.
I’d like to be an albatross. Rather than fighting the wind, work with the forces that hold me.
That’s the dream, anyway.