In dreams, I occupy a large white-stained wood room, nearly bare but for bed, table, wood stove, rug, cupboards and the cushion where a wolf/dog sleeps. The skylight above the loft, which encircles a second story book-shelf lined gallery built around the perimeter of the space, looks toward the stars. A wall of tempered, insulated glass shows a lush green landscape of clover and thyme covered lawn. Beyond borders of the extensive medicinal herb and flower garden, a path through a birch and hemlock forest leads to a sandy rise, and beyond that, a pristine sea waiting for the swimmer to arrive.
I wake at dawn thinking about the reasons my sleep pattern is the way it is, with it's predictable pauses--interruptions timed out to between three and five hours through the night. But my thoughts seem irrelevant to the fact that my body dictates the facts. My still mysterious body, with it's mechanistic maneuverings, and my mind with its meandering words and images dictates the way things are with me. If this old frame chooses to rest easy, or twist restlessly, who am I to disagree. The wonder of it is that it seems to suit me, and that, at present, I am able to acquiesce to whatever it suggests.
So waking at dawn today I look around my apartment as a tourist might, and see the mirrored Indian textile my Massachusetts friend just gave me , the in-process Contemporary-Boro shirt hanging under African hedel-pullys from an auction sometime in the early sixties,
the newly indigo-dyed t-shirt promised to a friend, and awaiting embellishment of little Buddhas,
the 'unfinished' patchwork piece (she says unfinished, but it feels finished to me) I can't decide what to do with, but love looking at,
the 1968 poster I framed when I arrived here in 69, on the heels of that massive world-wide cultural revolution too many don't know the important details of,
the 'street-found' golden horse
and spices, cups and
the decorated refrigerator,
and Jackie Morris "Elmo" sleeping on the wall over an angel and condor feather on an inherited table, with it's inherited crocheted cover,
standing near the clever Mexican-vest, scarf draped covering of brooms and mops that looks like a figure ready to go out into the world wearing a wide brimmed red hat, sporting a butterfly on it's shoulder,
and the old maple chair just the right height for my short frame, with that beloved wool sweater hanging off it's back,
the unmade bed I will have a nap upon as soon as this stick of Indian sandalwood finishes burning off scent through the molecules of air drifting in from a window open to one more lovely day.
Of course, none of these things matter, and all of them matter just enough to prick a memory from this rich life I'm living, causing my heart to swell with happy gratitude, veins pulsing ineffable feelings of peace that sometimes wash over me so powerfully, all my solids become liquid.