The pattern of my dreams throwing me these days. Revisiting the site of old dreams albeit with a new narrative and so waking with a sense that other worlds actually exist and the I that dreams visits them and so of course have to wonder, Is this life too a dream? Even writing it out like that leaves me a little nauseated, like standing on a boat rocked by waves. How do we hold our balance when our minds contain the universe?
Or something like that. Dan used to quote that old Zen story about the monk who dreams he’s a butterfly and wakes up unsure if he’s a monk or a butterfly dreaming he’s a monk. I guess we have to be some sort of beast. This beast – in this world – is short of eggs, the chickens hunkering down in winter barrenness and offering nothing, and the “pale, tepid imitations” of the grocer hardly a fit replacement. The kids and I looking at our toast and thinking it’s only half a breakfast. Bartering with neighbors then, but for fewer than we could eat. On the other hand, we do have an abundance of potatoes, brotherly tubers which I have always believed own a secret heart, one that strengthens me so long as I eat it in grace.
Notice that each paragraph has a pattern. They begin with the pedestrian and proceed to the melodramatic. My dreaming is off quickly becomes a mind roiled with the universe. But then I am reading Dickinson at night, and while stirring the soup for dinner yesterday, Thomas Jefferson on Education and God.
Writing in the sharp clarity of morning, when the mind remains a modestly open cup yet awaiting the overflowing world of sensual and intellectual data. Making tea in the morning these days instead of coffee which feels right, though for the life of me I can say why. It has something to do with time, and also the speed at which my mind leaves my body. My goals today are words and walking, in that order, and also to have goals.