May 9, 2012

Dark, and more dark, the cool blue is late arriving this morning.  Yesterday the tiniest rain, for a couple of hours no more than a hard sprinkle, you could almost walk between the rain drops; we just got the edge of two weather systems, a Pacific front and the sea breeze, neither produced much here, though along the actual coast there were some pretty good thunderstorms.

This morning just before waking for the last time, I had my favorite dream, one of those dreams that continues to return, however rarely, that you know is a dream and welcome it.  For me, it's the flying dream I have not had in such a long time that I thought it might be gone for good, but for that short space of moments, when I am flying I know it's a dream, but it does not matter, the feeling of freedom and joy lasts well into the day.

Dream of Flying

In that dream

I long to dream

And dream seldom,

When the blue-black sky

Thick with pinprick stars

Is a dome over the desert, 

When the air so thin

And clear creates a lens

Examining mud brick walls

Of some ancient city,

The streets crooked and empty

Heavy with history and dust

The daylight a breath away . . .

Only then can I fly

Swooping above

Like a purple martin

In my own body

A soaring solitude

Feeling wind

Of my own making

Open to one infinite moment

When nothing is

Impossible,

Except continuing,

If there were a way to bottle that feeling, the ancient desert city that is always the scene of that dream, the moments of soaring, the joy so intense it takes your breath away, whoever could give that feeling to people, well, they would make a fortune, I think.  Perhaps though, like so many things, the joy of it comes from two sources, from the familiar scene, and from the surprise of it, both at the same time.  I only know that I treasure those few moments, even though I know they will end, even though I know it's a dream.  Those moments are as real a memory as anything I have had in my waking life, and as precious.