HIDDEN BEAUTY

The publishing date for my first book, LARK RISING, is still a year away. So, before I begin the countdown, I'm musing on other things...

My town is filled with beautiful treasures--places to wander, sites to admire.  This probably stretches credibility, but I consider our town dump to be one of those treasures.  We have a service that picks up our weekly trash and recycling, and removes it to somewhere I don't know, but I still drop by our dump on occasion to recycle paper and such.  I know, I know. It is not supposed to be called a dump; some far more sterile and official term is on the sign at the entrance.  But I love the name 'dump', and I love calling this little spot off a winding road the 'Dump', just because it is so NOT a dump.

Here's why:

The shed is neat as a pin; I swear you could picnic on site.  It radiates order: the broom-swept floor, the set of tables with free items neatly laid out, the friendly old man who sits in his throne-positioned chair (behind me in this photo) and knows, after a formal exchange of greetings, exactly where you can dispose of your things ("Just drive up the hill a little ways, young lady, hang left, you'll see the green container...") and who likes to inspect all things added to the items table to make sure they are not junk (not junk!) and just in case he might want it for himself.

And look!!!  It's like a little library in the back!  Silence included!

Sometimes there is a person or two browsing the stacks.  But I like it best when I'm the only visitor.  I pull my car over to the side, get out, turn to the right, and this is what I see (and hear):

I'm fairly certain this hill is the result of years of trash, of years of being the Dump.  But I love that Nature has taken hold and re-birthed it.  I stand still for a moment listening: crickets, a bee, and nothing else.

we are the dreamers of dreams...

Such is the second line from the poem "Ode" by Arthur WE O'Shaughnessy.  My best friend in high school showed it to me; the beginning caught my heart:

We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams.
World-losers and world-forsakers,
Upon whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world forever, it seems.

My best friend has moved on to the place of Once, but the verse--battered and bruised by time and happenstance--never quite let go.  "The dreamers of dreams..." still haunts me.  We are.  We are.  It meant: if you are one of us, then carry on those dreams of yours and don't let go.  It meant: see the world through bits of your dreams.  It meant: grow old but don't grow up (not the other way around). And if at sixteen I can be forgiven for separating words from their writers and using them as guides, then I can say ages later that doing so saved me from a life of simply doing, of simply accepting.  Drudgery and Giving Up are bad words.

So:  Yard work is cleaning day for the sprites.  Releasing spiders outside when dusting is a moment in which you bow politely to Earth and she bows back.  Moths, too, for they are here to save a bit of fairyland, I'm sure.  Tackling homework is for the learning of how to slay dragons, or save them, as the case may be. Keeping one's house in order allows room for dreams to breathe.  But make sure to leave a crumb or two for the night wanderers.

And because you are reading this brand-new blog, peeking at this brand-new website, you see that one of my dreams is being fulfilled because I didn't Give Up, and so am here sharing a shy-ish, fiercely private voice out loud, (gulp) OUT LOUD.  I'd like to say, sometimes, that I'm one to toss my head with the irony of it all, or that I am scathingly witty.  But that is not me; that is not this space.  Irony has no place in dreams.  Nightmare or fantasy, dreams are pure of heart--extraordinary paths to somewhere... anywhere... everywhere.  Soul yearnings.  And in moments of darkness, as there will always be, dreams are what carry you through, remind you of your special-ness.  You might try to dissuade yourself, of course, but dreams say other.  So this is dedicated to all dreamers--the countless and unique--with love.

So I'm testing my limited computer knowledge by creating a new blog to go with a new website, all of which is extremely daunting.  I always assumed that I would write quietly in the shadows. We'll see how this goes...