“Now the melancholy god protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything and their intent everywhere, for that’s it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.”
It’s Sunday morning and I just spent 20 minutes in the rocking chair on our front porch, sipping coffee and remembering my dream while the puppies chased each other, chased chickens, found the horse field again, and generally reinserted themselves into a landscape that couldn’t care less. I’m not going to repeat my dream, because really, what is more boring than someone else’s dreams? I will simply tell you that it involved packing our house to move and remembering suddenly that we’d bought a couch that was to be delivered soon and thinking ahead to maneuvering an overflowing flatbed truck down a steep rocky path. And worrying, too, that I hadn’t warned my friend b, and wanting to call and tell her, “I’m moving! And I’m sorry! But I didn’t know soon enough to tell you!” But also being afraid of breaking her heart, because that is a huge change to thrust upon someone over the phone. It was a dream that was both unsettling and completely mundane. But I was thinking about it outside just now and it’s not quite full light, and the breeze is alive, and it’s that tipping moment of the year when the ground is melting and the sky is growing harder and the air is easier. And these puppies are continuously overjoyed at basic things, such as compost, a grassy field, their name being called out from the person sitting on the porch who will later, they have no doubt, feed them. It was a really lovely 20 minutes.
Stretched out in front is a day to accomplish. The hope is that by the end of it, I can look back and recognize moments of decent parenting, a digital pile of new pages written, and slightly aching muscles from a walk with a good friend. The hope is to be a good human today, to make a good voyage of something. Wish me luck. It’s already an hour later than I meant it to be and it’s difficult to keep from feeling like it’s all slipping past in a rush of graceful but meaningless fluidity. But that’s all of life, right? A dream of odd proportions, worries that most often prove to be fruitless, a discovery in the end of basic rightness.