You have to have a dream
If you don't have a dream
How you gonna have a dream come true?
- from "Happy Talk" in Rogers and Hammerstein's "South Pacific"
The inscription on the Cabot Lyford sculpture out on Four Tree Island in Portsmouth reads, "For those who sailed here to find a new life." Before setting sail, the immigrants no doubt had a dream of that new life, a promise of something better than the intractable problems of their current one. My dissatisfactions pale in comparison, but neither am I looking to uproot myself entirely and set sail. I already uprooted myself five years ago to take this job and then a year later to move out of my home to come live near the city, which was rejuvenating. But I'm wearing down, and changes need to be made to have a sustainable -- enjoyable? fulfilling? -- life, particularly the huge portion of my day that is Making a Living.
A work colleague who is a stained glass artist in her off-time told me yesterday that she's hoping to get a subsidized artist work/live space to rent. I told her I saw full-time artist in her future, which is her dream.
I woke up with "You have to have a dream..." running through my head. Dreams need time to surface. I need to find time to reflect, not just to work on it, but time to let that conscious work germinate. Online time (aside from surfing from the office) may be sparse. I guess it already is.
The weather was finally warm enough to drive up to the seacoast one day last weekend. I uploaded a handful of photos from there starting here.
I dreamed I was on my way to a party at a restaurant, but the sun came out and the air was clean as after spring rain. I didn't want to go inside -- no one did. People were milling around on the sidewalks and in the park across the street, basking in the sunshine.
The cold rain has stopped today, but the sun is veiled behind a scrim of cloud cover. It's still cold, but a sunny day is forecast, warming to just above freezing. The sun will continue its languid effort at melting the snow piles. Just as well, as yesterday's hard rain turned the sidewalks to deep slippery mush, treacherous to walk on.
But I'm running late for work, dawdling in dreamed sunny warmth. It's March 1st.
Dreamed I was washing my face with a warm stock of broccoli.
Dreamed I sat between two men, holding their hands.
Dreamed I considered sprinkling pot on my take-out sandwich, but was afraid I wouldn't be able to drive.
Tightly balled in a word-woven clot, working, source-citing through the night, waking with an urge to uncurl and grow wings.
A large white sheet on the floor, the performance artist rolls herself in paint and then bounces horizontally across, rolling, leaving prints in the shape of large cigars, mummies. Then she rolls in another color and bounces across again. Each color is for a nationality, and its human rights abuses. The audience murmurs in approval. "Yes, I am from Honduras," a man says, after she leaves olive-green prints across the sheet. At the end, the performance artist is left panting with the effort. I wake up panting.
Friday night, fatigue and an endlessly throbbing elbow (apparently golfer's elbow, minus the golf part), devolved into general meltdown, extending into Saturday morning. In between, the dream worms did their best to churn through, pushing up indigestible bits, rancid old bones gnawed and gnawed but still there and still nowhere to put them.
The frigid temps outdoors were uninviting, but eventually I had to get dressed, bundle up, and go out to meet a friend who'd promised to help me pick out new glasses at the optician's (I have FSA money to burn through by the end of the year). Her college-age daughter showed up, wanting lunch at Za just up the street, so we ended up having lunch out, too, which was unexpected and delightful. A freshman at Northeastern, M has blossomed from a disinterested student and difficult teen into a focused and charming young woman. It made me ridiculously wistful. Where did all the time go? How did I waste so much time? Sigh.
This morning I have a brunch/housewarming to go to, followed by a walk with my walking group, despite wind chills in the teens. But I think Beth is right about the need to get out and move and do upbeat things. Maybe I've just been getting SAD.
I dream of driving a cart through dry fields buzzing with insects, backwards, using a mirror to steer clear of obstacles, people, stopping just shy of a ditch. Happy.
I am rearranging the furniture in a place I'm apparently moving into. My brother is there, and we move a tattered old couch, looking for somewhere out of the way to put it. The apartment is very cluttered, and the white walls are scuffed and need painting. But squinting out all the stuff, it's a fine space. Just needs a bit of heavy lifting, sorting, elbow grease.
I read that rearranging furniture means sorting out priorities and conclusions within the mind. I buy that.