Wednesday, March 18, 2009

CROWD

March 18, 2009 crowd
In the morning, when I am allowed a lazy awakening, I let myself drift in and out of the crowd. Dave will lean over the large kingness of our bed and reach to kiss my hand. "Bye Love", he'll whisper, and I'll lay my hand against his cheek for just a moment, then let him go. Re-adjusting my pillow I will hunker down in the down of my comforter, pulling my knees into my chest and digging my head into my down pillow like my sister Sherry's puppy does when she decides she'll have a nap on Gram's soft pile of a blanket. Eyelids stretched like the awning over a window, I dance back into my dreams. There I walk with the crowds, angels or demons or whomever they be. It used to be when I tired of the crowds in my dreams I would, almost uncontrollably, lift off the ground and begin to fly. It would be wonderful, if only I had any control over it. I suppose most things are that way. I can even now, if I imagine I am asleep, feel myself weightless, my body tilted and aimless, whisking over Kansas with Dorothy and the Wicked Witch of the West weaving in and out of my path, my velocity changing for no reason at all. It is against all logic and completely natural feeling at the same time. I say to myself, as I hover over the crowd, that I should really try to enjoy this view. But too much of my heart-brain space is taken up by fear.
One time I went para-sailing with friends at Lake Powell. We one-by-one attached ourselves to a para-sail on our backs and a rope on our bellies.(Actually, I don't really remember the logistics of the attachments, but it was something like that.) The rope in front was attached to one of our friends' speed boats. Everyone took a turn. Because I was heavy, I thought I should start further back on the rocks when it came to my turn. I thought it would take more wind to lift me. I hadn't considered that a few of the men were as heavy, just a little taller than I. Nonetheless, I started back on the solid rock that bordered the water of Lake Powell and they revved the engine. The wind caught the sail sooner than expected, so when the natural dip came, which was usually over the water, before the big rise to the heavens, I was still over rock. The sail thrust me forward and dragged my legs across the sandstone. As I rose up above the boat; above the reservoir and the crowd of friends, I kept repeating to myself, "Wow, this is beautiful...Oww...Owww... Owwww." I remember telling myself I had better enjoy this because I would never in my life be doing this again! So I looked at the red rock, and the shimmering water, and my blood dripping into it. When I finally hit the water the coolness of it against my wounds was rather therapeutic.
I have never been para-sailing again. And, come to think of it, I really don't fly much in my dreams any more either.
Sad.

2 comments:

  1. What is it about getting old that causes us to lose our flying dreams? I enjoyed your visual images of those adventures I used to have too. Maybe we will have them again someday for real.

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  2. ouch ouch ouch ouch. i wasn't even there and i feel your pain! aside from that i love your writing.

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