Dream Weaver

The hill, that I have become so familiar with here in France, loomed ahead of me today. I just had to make it over that mass of land to go purchase some of the necessary items in life like toilet paper and lemons. The landscape was serene, birds were welcoming the morning with their songs. But that darn hill –“Le Lavancher”; it’s steepness threatened every muscle in my legs, from hamstring to tibialis anteroir, this morning. Usually, I dart up this hill like a gazelle just let loose from the zoo, and then catch my breath at the top if even necessary, but today I stood at the bottom of it dreading the climb.

I don’t know why my head is always thinking in metaphors, analogies, wishes, whimsicals, wills, wazoos, and such.  I’m not sure why it’s always in the clouds like the ones I watched wrapping Mont Blanc in their light, airy wisps this morning. I also have no idea as to why I liked to play with matches, create fires in the woods, and watch things burn as a child. Some things remain a mystery.

 After I began hiking the hill, I realized there was no turning back. I couldn’t slide down on my butt because someone would probably see me and I would lose my reputation here in France. Also, I didn’t have pants on that would slide, they are more “cottony” in nature. The only way to go was up. Besides, have you ever run out of toilet paper? I had to get to town.

Do you want to know what? It was EASY! In fact, it may have been the absolutely, most positively, sure-fire, supercalifragilisticexpialidotiously, easy time I have ever gotten to the top of that anthill! What was I so worried about? Sometimes, when you have had a lot of beginnings in your life, that have turned into steep, excruciating climbs with no end in sight, you tend to think the worst about new beginnings in general. Or at the slightest inkling of tension, you RUN!

It’s how I begin all of my books: (notice none of my writings have turned up on the NY Times Bestseller’s or Oprah Winfrey’s XOXO list) I get a babbling of idea in the form of word poop, I write down how I think the first couple of chapters should go, and then I stop. And start some new project. Buy a new notebook. Iron a shirt. Start cutting pictures out of magazines for a vision board. Some new ADD-induced job, or life-altering friendship, or a new hobby. Hundreds of beginnings. Left by the wayside.

Projects on paper: ink covering page upon page of forest that has sacrificed itself for my outpouring of brain activity. Only to find it crumpled, ripped, burned, for the world only to know of it as ashes and accompanying the Herald Tribune as fuel in my Chalet fires.

Jobs: Too stringent, too tedious, too taxing, too boring  –all too much to manage (excuse the pun). Not even making it onto my laundry list of a resume due to their short duration or temporary nature.

New Locations: The promise of a new life, with new beginnings, loaded with expectations, and occasionally a little of someone else’s vivacity for the adventure at hand.

Strands of shape-shifting, searching, chapters with no conclusions. It panics me to begin that first step up a new hill. It makes me wonder if it will be taxing energetically. If it will hurt every cell in my body. Or will I fall on my ass and roll to meet the bottom of the hill yet again. Plunging into a sea of self-loathing and trying to figure out what went wrong with my cramp-ons. 

Some of the dreams have been crushed by others, others I have awakened from only to realize they were never mine to begin with. And still others, I have had smashed over my own head with as much fury as Anne (with an E) of Green Gables did to poor Gilbert Blythe when he called her “Carrot” in class. It’s one way to wipe the slate clean, I suppose. Shattering it to bits and pieces.

The bounty of unfinished stories, I leave in my wake. Some starring me as the tyrant. When in my own rendition, I am but a fugitive, a slave, a penniless wanderer. Waiting to break free the chains. Auditioning for a role as the star, who gets to set sail on my own dreams.

Apparently, now is the time. The hill is looming ahead of me, and for once it holds no explicit knowledge of what is next. Just the certainty that this is the path. I need a rope. Perhaps I shall weave together all of the beginnings. All of the past energy of sliding down, all of the strength needed to climb up; strings woven together into a rope. That’s what I need. With which to climb. Is it even a hill in fact? Perhaps once I start climbing it I will realize the ease with which I am….dream-weaving.

Perhaps it would be better with two dream-woven ropes; a plank in between connecting them. To make a swing. That is nice way to get to the top of any hill.

When the going gets tough, do the tough get personal?

Ok, now no more blogs until my dad arrives to visit and I PROMISE then they will all be light and airy as fresh powder and whip creme! They may even make you laugh! They may even make sense!!! Or, if I feel like torturing my dad with a gastronomic delight like fondue they might be heavy and you will feel like you’re gagging on cheese.

Lifting latches and burning matches,

— Emily —


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