Laugh Lines

I know, I know. Dreams are the most boring things to read/hear about. Sleeping dreams, day dreams, goal dreams. I love the imagery and the hope these wishes bring with them. Chad, not so much. So, to all the folks like Chad.....move along. This one is for those of us who revel in the magic of dreams.

Last night I woke up in the darkness from a strange dream. It was one of those life like experience dreams.  

It started at a coffee house where I confided in a friend that I was concerned about the lines around my eyes, laugh lines, crows feet- those lines. I said I was feeling....not old....not wise....but faded and tired.

He responded, "Stop calling me your gay friend in that annoying ironic way and then I will introduce you to Ana."

So, to pause here. I would never worry about facial lines or call someone my gay friend. Dreams, eh?

So in the dream we walk through an urban streetscape and down a lane and then into a wooded neighborhood to a cabin house that is surrounded by water landscaping, like a river moat with a mill generator. In the water is a women, middle aged with wild golden hair, pulling a giant log through the current and up to the side of the house where she opens a giant metal door and reveals a roaring fire. In goes the log, the door slams shut.

I realize there is ice in the water and it is snowing.

My friend says, "That's Ana. She'll let you warm up inside."

Inside we see that the fire fuels a giant kiln for pottery. Ana is soaked and has ice forming in her hair. She laughs at my look of concern and silent wonder. She tells me, "It is strange now, but you'll grow into this life. You know. What would the city girl think of the farmer you are now? You know."

I do. I see. We sip strong tea. We wander her halls and look at art. She shows us her solar generators and her indoor greenhouse. It is warm and clean and inspiring. Tile floors that she handmade and set, living plants everywhere, and sweet smells of fruit and spice.

Then she says, "You can come back. I charge 50$/hour for art lessons. I agree that I should take you as my student."

I am sad at that. I am tired of paying people to have company. I then think of all the ways that I pay for friendship. I retreat out the door and walk home, lonely through the neighborhoods and into the rural township all the way home to the farm.

I do not know what this dream means, though I am pulling at bits of the wisdom. I had a very powerful urge to gather up all my writing books and take another look at the craft of poetry. I also felt very lonely in the darkness, though my toddler son had decided that sleeping perpendicular and across my chest was the most idea for dreaming soundly while my 5 year old daughter needed her feet by my face.

This new year is bringing with it art and inspiration where it is found and as it presents itself.

Mermaids

A few months back I had a close friend say I reminded her of a mermaid. The comment has stuck with me in a way that has been haunting my dreams and waking reflection.

I have often, let's be honest here, my whole life, felt out of water. I have felt like an alien on a strange planet. I don't understand people. I don't understand the way they think, act, or do the things the so many call "normal". None of it makes sense to me immediately, so I observe.

Like a mermaid, I sometimes long to have legs and walk with them, like a normal person. Sometimes I have a deep longing for the ocean, to find more people like me that "swim".  Caught on dry land with fins and gills.

Growing up I dealt with everyone thinking I was a freak. I was a prodigy, a writer/poet, that instinctively knew how to turn a phrase and make an artful metaphor.

Now, understand that I am not really saying I am a mermaid. It is a metaphor. I have to state this disclosure because in the past I have been accused of being crazy for using metaphors or story telling.

But what I am saying, is that life is hard. Maybe it is harder for quirky people with poor social skills? I don't know. What I do know it that it is really hard to thrive out of water. It took time, growing up some.

I recently read an article about child prodigies and how as adults they fade and flop and struggle. The article, to sum it up, says that they are all intuition and that early success comes so easy to them that they never learn to actually master the craft or work to improve. I could not find the article but this one says similar things.

Yes. That. I flowed through writing classes and to this day I still don't know how many syllables in a haiku- I have to look it up. I have no idea what kind of verse Shakespeare used. I graduated with a degree in creative writing and published poetry and I should know these things! I should have studied them, paid attention, mastered the craft. Instead, I just walked away from it.

So now, I feel like I am drowning. I feel like I am not very good at any of it. I feel like Garth Brooks- a country music super star who's passion was really rock and roll. I'm good at making pork and farming- but that's not really what I want to be good at. That's not what I want to do. I am paddling upstream in murky alligator snapping turtle infested muck, my own insecurities and incompetence like a bag of cannon balls weighted and tied to my legs.

I have to make peace with that. For right now, I have to make this swamp and mire my home. I have to make friends with those beasts in the river, my tail, and either drown or emerge queen of the swamp.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays From the Stamps Kids

A Foot Deep With Two Days Left

We got 8 inched of snow, though Chad says less. That's not the foot deep I am referring to in the title of this post. I am so, so intensely deep into just surviving my own emotions this season.

A Midwestern storm blew in just as our family cow went down and refuses or cannot get up. I spent 4 hours in the freezing rain pulling and pushing, running a quarter mile back and forth to the house checking on the kids and trying to make dinner then back to Rosie. The sheep are in heat and the ram was feeling aggressive. I got the truck in the pasture and felt like I broke the fence trying to get it there and keep all the sheep from escaping led by the llama. I did it though, facing the truck downhill and put the brights on so I could keep going down to Rosie, begging her to get up, pulling on her, the rain freezing in my hair and making my clothing stiff as it froze and thawed and refroze. My breath like needles on my mouth in the air, in and exhale. Rosie's calf, crying out for milk and the ram slamming on her side. All of us begging her to get on her feet. Rosie tried and tried and just couldn't. I get that. I get being so deep into pain and just not having the energy to get back up even with pulling and pushing and begging and the rain.

I cannot give up on her. I called the vet for after hours help and he came to the farm in the dark, freezing rain. I called Chad and was rude to him about not being home, but he got on the road and headed home.

The vet got Rosie stable, a could shots, instructions. I hauled a tarp to the pasture. I gathered food for her. I made oven baked shrimp for the kids. Changed diapers. Changed boots and into dry clothes and repeated the rounds out to the pasture.

By the time Chad got home, all my own pain and all my own loneliness had frozen and was crackling into shards of nothingness. Rosie still isn't doing well, two days later, but she's still with us. We are nourishing her and attending to her. Praying that she'll make it.

Me? I am still out there. Soaked to the bone in freezing rain, buried in a foot of snow, waiting for the moment when I will be up on my feet again.