One long dream.
Morning like a glass of clear water. I take the first sip. Everything has become a poem, lately, even sleeping, which feels like being curled on the forest floor with creatures coming by to investigate what or who I am. Last night I dreamed that I was going camping with a group of friends and I couldn’t pack fast enough to arrive before dark. In the dream, we were on the fifth day of a reunion, we had spent the first four in a large house with many rooms, and we were on our way to our camping site.
But then I found out we were only camping for one day and I cried, because I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Also, a box of my paints disappeared, but I found that my artist friend, who has passed away, had borrowed them, thinking they were his.
You didn’t come here to read about my dreams.
New years feel like new mornings, only bigger, longer, filled with possibility. I do not have October or November, though, I have this morning, which started with pink light.
Leafy made a rope out of coconut fibers yesterday, and now he is investigating plant weaving. Childhood is a dream that he will carry with him, made of learning and Thai boxing and computer games and weaving ropes out of old coconuts. He and Kenya sing in the evenings sometimes, while he plays piano. It is more beautiful than I can bear.
Are things more beautiful when they are transient? I feel the future looking at us, waiting for us— this is my decade of letting go. And then I am clinging to things as well, to each day, to words, to the memory of holding them close to my skin. All these people that I held in my own body.
Isaac told me a string of jokes yesterday, his face earnest and close to mine. We sat in our living room eating at the sofas and around the low table because the regular table was piled high with books and school things. No matter how hard I try to get organized, the place I fall back into is scattered with papers and barely remembered lines, scribbles and doodles and lit candles. The Christmas tree is still up, and it is alive—three ornamental cedars that we will plant in the ground again. Today? Maybe. It feels like my dream. I cannot pack fast enough.
The jokes were good. We had to set some rules about not stealing each other’s punchlines.
What do you call an alligator in a vest? An investigator.
We made one up, riffing until we got it perfect. Are you ready?
What do you call a Sith Lord who thinks outside the box? An innovator. (Inno-Vader) You will have to brush up on your Star Wars trivia.
Solo also told some jokes, experimenting with timing and delivery. The world is not ready for Solo, this kid is brilliant. Chinua always says there is only one of him, that’s why he is called Solo. He’s also in this part of life that three of his siblings have already gone through, where temper is always simmering and it is hard to control emotions. Last night we didn’t have too many explosions, just sitting together and laughing and then listening to a chapter of Harry Potter—the fourth book. Durmstrang arrived, coming up out of the lake.
We were told that Hermione was not deterred in her search for justice for enslaved house elves, and Isaac said out loud, “Good!”
Home is a dream, childhood is a dream. We set the table or sit on the ground, we make a safe space and curl up on the forest floor. Morning comes with a pink sky. Children weave ropes and learn how to build worlds. I find that I don’t want it all to be clear now. Mostly I want to see the things behind the things, the whole world in motion, one long dream.
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