By day
there are YMCA swim lessons
amid spray-on sunscreen clouds
and chlorine
a stop by the super-store on the way home
for a 12-pack roll of toilet paper
By night
I am an ancient soul
dreamtime
where I live
on the banks of an inlet
observing centuries of mariners
who approach my river mouth
and settle
these travelers are the water cultures
Indians of the Ganges
Polynesians of the Pacific
Italians from Venetian canals
It works this way in dreams
details may not match the mind
there’s just an understanding
that there is one water source
and a merging of its distant parts
waterways and bloodlines
cultures collide
over time
space
seep
blend
Who is this ancient me
in dreamtime
watching time unfurl
through men in boats
finding their way to the shore?
she understands
it’s all connected
not in the way
one would read a bumper sticker on a Prius
it’s a knowing
fundamental
as the element of water
WIth the light shining longer these days, it feels as though I’ve overslept by the time I stir at 5:45am.
Already there is rising sun and chittering birds.
My head still sunk to pillow, I steep in the remnants of my dreams. No plot or setting. Just the image of an ankh made from the wood of a Hawthorn tree.
I leave my bed and burn the incense. Brew the coffee. Writing time gives way to researching Egyptology, this key of life.
Still mysterious in its meaning, the ankh is thought to encompass both the male and female and symbolize eternal life.
As the mauves of early morning transform to orange and gold, I realize that no masterpiece of words will be crafted today. Obligations pull as the sun fills the sky.
I remind myself that the Archives are simply a recording. Some days more mundane than others.
This morning, it’s a cryptic dream of ancient origins that will segue me into Honey Nut Cheerios and a school lunch prep. Inside these cells of mine that walk through school fund-raisers, yoga postures and gas station fill-ups, there lives a wealth of layers. Am I just a filter through which lifetimes and dimensions beam?
What’s more real? Writing a check to the electric company or a dream of the key of life?
Questions that may never be answered. Just a recording here today. 6:21am on May 19, 2011. One mother at the computer before her son awakes. Sitting on an island in the middle of the Pacific, drinking coffee, dreaming, and writing as if any of it matters. Somehow, in some small way, I can’t help but believe it does.
The new boots are right here next to me. Kind of like the headless horseman, they stand erect, tall, but empty – waiting for feet and legs to take them for a walk.
Poised here by my writing desk, they exude the scent of leather, fresh and pristine. What other scents will soon mingle with these boots? The stale smell of an airplane’s interior? The damp undergrowth of an ancient forest? The salt and stone of a seaside village?
This is not my first pair. The original boots I ordered arrived by mail two weeks ago and when I slipped them on, my feet were swimming. What does it mean when the dream boots that took six years in coming are finally on your feet and they don’t fit? They were meant to carry me through visions of grandeur. Were my imaginings rooted in shoes too big to fill? My heels are narrow and the wiggle room inside those boots were a set up for floppy hikes and blister city.
Alas, I conceded. Let them go. They had to be returned.
There is a happy ending, though. Or, hopefully, a happy beginning.
I ordered a smaller size.
Perhaps I needed an exercise in holding out for exactly what I wanted. Making sure I had a perfect fit – solid, secure, grounded and ready for action. My alternate, smaller versions arrived in good time and when I tried them on, they hugged my feet in promised support. A fine balance of good sizing with just enough room for future stretch and give.
So this morning, it’s not yet sunrise. 75 degrees and 83% humidity. I’ve slipped my bare island feet into my boots and zipped them to my knees. I can sit with the twittering of song birds and the random wake-up calls of roosters. Ask these kicks, “What’s our first adventure?”
I hold an element of hesitancy, not wanting to mar their pristine state. I know that once I walk into the world with these, I am committed. Stepping beyond my front door to touch down on real-life soil, makes them mine. There is no more return.
Maybe I’m not quite ready (though opportunities for wear are limited in this May, tropical clime). Perhaps I need to keep them in. Just slip them on at dawn and dream a bit. Ask them where they’d like to wander.
Zipped up tight, I can imagine earthy realms where we could travel. Safe within my mind, scenarios are left to the place where I still can edit. Fast forward, rewind, delete. Maybe I’m not quite ready to set foot completely on the real path – muddy, rocky, leading to the unknown.
This morning these boots feel snug and full of promise. They’ll wait patiently for me to live the script. Ready when I am, to set foot outside.
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