Daffodils:
"I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,...
...For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
-- William Wordsworth"
Really?
Really.
Had a really bad day last Sunday. I awoke truly disappointed that I had done so. Spent the day in the bottom of a well without bottom. In case you have never been there, it is not so nice. In the evening I went to sleep, wishing I had the might to stay that way.
That night I had the most beautiful dream I ever had: After playing bouncy ball with Gigi, my favorite lost dog (sorry, Ginger), I found myself in my childhood home, and then a car drive with my mother through the fields near our home. We went down into a shallow valley over which we floated in what I assumed was a hot air balloon (I never looked up).
It was the lovliest scape I ever saw, and still is. There were golden mounds of ground grain, heaps of paprikas, the size of babies' heads, red and yellow and green. Orchards heavy with fruit. I was surrounded by horizons filled with brilliant patches of color. Just lush. Into the gorgeous distance workers sowed beneath wide-brimmed hats and a vibrant technocolored sky.
We floated just above the valley's floor, and when I saw something I wanted, we would inch closer, and I would stretch down and grab it. Fresh Bread. French cheeses. Peaches. I had everything I needed. My dog. My mother. Life was perfect.
When I awoke, I was saying aloud: "daffodils."
I do not actually remember the daffodils. Indeed, while I awoke saying daffodils, I have no idea the signifigace. To be honest I could not have pick up them out of a line up. But I will say this: They are now the key to another place. When I say that word to myself, I am warmed inside against the cold "grey haze" that seeks to envelop these days: dream as memory.
I did some research on daffodils (sounds better than "googling", doesn't it?), and came across this Wordworth poem. I used to read a fair bit of literature back when I was young and I thought such things would make me seem more entertaining at cocktail parties.
But whether this is memory or magic, I do not need to know. I will judge this tree by its fruit.
"daffodils"
still works.
1 comment:
Had a really bad day last Sunday. Felt like I was in the bottom of a well. That night I had the most beautiful dream I ever had. I was floating in a shallow valley in what I assumed was I hot air balloon (I never looked up). I was with my mother and Gigi, my favourite lost dog (sorry, Ginger) and we floated over this lushness. There were golden mounds of ground grain, heaps of paprikas, the size of a baby's head, red and yellow and green. Into the gorgeous healthy distance workers sowed beneath wide-brimmed hats and a vibrant sky. We floated just above the valley's floor, and when I saw something I wanted we would inch closer and I would stretch down and grab it. Fresh Bread. French cheeses. I had everything I needed. My dog. My mother. Life was perfect. When I awoke, I was saying aloud "daffodils." I do not actually remember the daffodils. I remember being surounded by horizons of growth and fruit trees and color things growing. Indeed, while I awoke saying daffodils, I have no idea the signifigace. But I will say this: It is a key to another place. when I say that word to myself, I am warmed inside against the cold grey haze seeks to envelop these days.
I did some research on daffodils (sounds better than "googling", doesn't it?), and came across this Wordworth poem. I used to read a fair bit of literature back when I was young I thought such things would make me seem more entertaining at cocktail parties. Whether this is memory or magic, I do not need to know. I will judge this tree by its fruit.
"daffodils"
still works.
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