Dreams this morning of children and unexpected swimming pools in a yard with space to put the chickens. Dreams of professors and books signed with love and a class on why lesbians like to eat what they like to eat.
Oh, my dreams are so funny. My brain makes jokes it takes even me a while to get.
While the covers were still up to my ears, I knew it was gong to be an anxious day but, oh- who knows? Most days seem that way in the beginning but this one is carrying on as predicted and why not? It's Sunday.
Do you know that even now, at the age of almost-63 I still have nightmares about my stepfather?
Fifty-four years of trying to "just let it go."
My mother is in those dreams too.
Ah well. This is part of who I am just as surely as my nearsightedness, my love of books and words, that patch of not-much-melanin on my right calf which looks like a map of an uncharted island.
Don't read the newspapers. Just don't do it. Don't read the news online. Not that either. Don't follow the links on Facebook. Uh-huh.
As if any of that is possible.
As if it's possible at all to isolate/pretend/protect/reject/stay in dreamworld all day long.
The crickets are singing, singing, singing. Rhythm, then harmony, chorus, verse, chorus, solo, all voices together again in crescendo, fading, beginning again. The sky is growing gray. We are supposed to get rain. A squirrel grazes on the chicken scratch in a desultory manner. A hen on the nest, an old friend faithfully by her side.
Slow and steady and same as always the planet makes its journey around this sun star and so far tides still rise and fall as do the voices of the crickets, cicadas, frogs, children.
The Holy Hymn of Earth.
Some days I think my only job is to hear it, to know it, to worship in its various cadences, realizing I have a heartbeat which, for now, is part of it all.