... She Wrote

The Promise of Dreams

(prompt: 'sleep' Aug 13, 2021)

I dreamed I met a man who complained to me of sleeplessness... for six long and wearisome nights; he said. Slumped in a dejected pose on a rock, hands hanging limply over his knees, he gazed out to sea, though his red and stary eyes appeared to register nothing of the beauty and grandeur surrounding him. When I saw his face wore a wet sheen of tears, I found myself unable to pass by; to continue carelessly on my morning walk.

He was a loner, he told me, and not only of the obvious 'have no close family, no friends' type (a common complaint in these days of so much selfishness creeping through the land). All too often it seems the 'milk of human kindness' is evaporating much faster than the ravages of spreading plague. Added to the heaviness of this burden, the mourning man told me he had been wifeless and childless all his life. Somewhere he had read, '... the childless are dead as twigs on the Tree of Life' and the phrase now haunted him. It was as though he alone held responsibility for the slow death of wishful hope, of renewed possibilities, and the smiling promise of brand new growth sprouting from the old and worn.

As I talked with him, I gazed in the same near-sightless way at the endless majesty of the sea, and a silence fell upon both of us... gradually rendered speechless by its might and our smallness in its face. There came a dream-like time of wonder, hand-in-hand with the creeping warmth of creativity I am blessed with... often, thankfully. And a poem was born. And in my dream, our minds connected — the stranger's and mine — and I could see, as his eyes cleared in wonder, replacing the hopeless dullness of moments before, he felt it too. Abruptly, I was awake, and scribbling, even as my eyes widened. I tried to hang on to the glory of my dreamtime, the thunder of breaking surf, of gulls crying, the smells of salty, cleanest air, and the spray on my cheek... but a rush of words overpowered all. Nothing to do with the seascape, but ALL to do with insomnia —

Regret my sleeplessness?

Deny it?

Wrong... for me.

MY bestiest hours flow,

quiet, uninterrupted,

even my Grandfather clock

too far away for even chimes to count,

and the ticks of time unwinding

are definitely unheard.

MY choice to see nothing

but daydreams,

imaginings,

wannabes.

Delicious.

I will do what I will do.

All mine.

Higher power?

No. Not at my place.

Here, it's a much lower

Call to Action.

Regrets tomorrow?

Ohh no... never.

My reverse day/nights are a choice,

wonderfully well-suited

to one whose body has slowed,

while imagination sped up.

And there's always the nana-nap...

after lunch.

Did it help my new friend to face his day with a new perspective? I don't know. Dream or not, I choose to think so.

Photo by Tyler Milligan on Unsplash

Naming rights and decorative bits by Christine Larsen, Author