Dreaming of reality

Sometimes I am flying through an orange sky and taste the autumn air 

Then I am on my balcony on the 900^th floor, where I inhale deeply from a cigarette and look out over an alternate universe that I discovered, of all places, in a playground’s tunnel slide. 

Then I dance with abandon to a song that plays as it is written inside my head.  

I stretch my legs, my arms, my toes.

And the orange sky is gone

And the strange wildlife below are fading

And I am lying in a bed in a basement apartment. 

Sometimes my dreams are as real to me as the pillow beneath my head

And I return from them and think

Maybe I’m dreaming now of this basement apartment

And my life is still happening on that 900^th floor

And this breakfast

This conversation

This kiss goodbye and drive to work

Will seem so magical and strange from my view atop a tall tall balcony

So I’ll inhale them now like my dream cigarette

Like I’m going to wake up at any moment

and find they’re all gone,

like smoke

like a whisper

like a forgotten dream

and I’ll try to remember that everything is extraordinary to someone

so why not my life

to me?

Writer's block

The little robin does a dance around a small spot on the grass in the park, darting its head around suspiciously, then shoots its head down and comes up with something alive and wriggly.  It sees me watching and hops further away, maintaining a safe distance between human and worm.  Ambitious; proud; polished; that’s what he is. And I take my eyes off the bird and look down at my blank sheet of notebook paper and wish I could dive in head first and pull living, breathing, wriggly words out of the raw soil, fueling myself with the energy to fly off and get more inspiration.  But the bird finishes his meal and leaves the ground without me, and I remain here in the park with a full pen and an empty page.

Spring

This week I planted some seeds.

I tenderly tucked them into a bed of fresh, rich-smelling soil, humming a Simon and Garfunkel lullaby and giving them a bedtime drink. I strained my ears to hear them, perhaps whispering the foresty fairy tales of their grandfathers, or asking for more water, or kicking off the blankets.  I poked my head in to check on them hourly that day, hoping to see one of them peek its tiny green head out to catch a glimpse of the sun.  None of them did.  And then I realized there was one more thing I hadn’t done for them.

Somewhere inside of me there grows a wild jungle and a struggling vineyard.  The jungle is my imagination; the vineyard is my dreams. And in between them rests the barren wasteland; the cemetery where I bury my insecurities. Occasionally I visit this in-between place to check that it remains still and desolate, for many times horrible things have grown here and tried to suck the moisture from my jungle and choke the branches in my vineyard.  It’s cold here: a perfect place for burying my winter, for keeping my baby seeds away from the cold negativity that sometimes flurries into my soul. 

And so, on the day I tenderly tucked in my seeds, I buried a deep, frigid grave for my fears.  I buried my doubts in my abilities; my discouraging thoughts of 5,000 unfinished projects; my guilt at not being a better friend; the pain and remorse for the miscarriage I still don’t talk about.

And I carved with my finger over that grave, “Here lies winter,” and I walked away. For my seeds – for myself – I walked into a new beginning.  Then the smell of blossoms and fresh soil and the taste of sunshine on my skin awakened my vineyard and my jungle into a lush frenzy of growth.  And somewhere, deep beneath the surface of my garden, I swear I heard a hundred baby seeds whispering tales of springs long gone by.

Happy new new year!

Good morning, world.


I just woke up and discovered it’s the last day of January.

Turns out my mind has been asleep during the very time of year that everyone else’s is wide awake.  At this point in the year, 2012 is still wearing a preposterously loud and colorful party hat with fake fruit and a real tropical bird on top. He’s walking around, so to speak, giving everyone high-fives for keeping their resolutions so fantastically. And everyone’s laughing right along with that good-humored 2012, because before the ink has dried on their 2012 goal lists, they really have lost ten pounds, or won a Pulitzer, or hiked the Alps by now.

For some reason, 2012 didn’t give me a high five like everyone else. It’s like he just strolled on by me, whistling distractedly, straightening his party hat to avoid looking at me.  Maybe it’s because I slept through the fireworks on his birthday? And I just sort of shrugged my shoulders and played another round of Mahjong on my dumb smart phone, because playing Mahjong on your dumb smart phone is about all you can do while you’re waiting for your mind to wake up.

But never fear, world, for my mind has yawned and stretched and at last left its hibernation cave!  And my mind has asked me to hereby proclaim this day as second New Year’s.  We start fresh right now, my mind and I, on January 31, and I’m going to celebrate by making up a song and dreaming up a novel and deleting Mahjong from my smart phone and, of course, by writing in this lonely blog for the first time in over a month.

Happy new new year, world!

Sincerely, me and my mind