It has been some time since I’ve followed the curve of a river, sound of an engine, wind in my hair. Town life left behind. Mountains in the distance that I had forgotten existed. That particular freedom of rolling down a road, on one side verdant lushness, fields and the rise of trees. The river runs beside me, a reminder that it leads elsewhere, as does this road. I’m not in Texas anymore. It’s been three months since I’ve come home to the attic. Three months today. And I cannot seem to settle down and write. The stories are there. My notebook with me always as I walked those roads and sat to write in my favourite place on the edge of town, the Archer City Cemetery. Quiet and alone. There is a lot of love in a graveyard. It is a good place to take your own emotion and look back and ahead. Here on my high porch at the attic, behind the sentinels of cherry trees in bloom that line the wrought-iron fence, I view the cemetery of Fort Langley. A lot of love there, too.
How to gather it all up, hold it out, say what it feels like to come from the solitude of afternoons like that, to gunning down River Road in an old Saab convertible on my way to a horse farm? There are blanks to fill in. I sit and dream. The breeze stirs the purple lilacs into scent. I try again, sit and spring back up. If I’m ever going to get back on the page again it will have to be by climbing in a window. Today. I’ll open the door to Texas another time. There are still tales to tell; of the Wildcat Cafe, walking a mile in Cathy’s boots, waiting for an armadillo, a tornado watch, inauguration day at The Lonesome Dove Inn (hallelujah and goodbye Bush!) and all the days wandering in between.
I always wanted to be listened to. Always wanted to live out loud. Ted asks if I’m still searching for self-discipline…under the fridge? Janice said it feels like she’s waiting six weeks for the ship to cross the Atlantic with the latest letter. How lucky am I! There are so many friends cajoling me, reaching out to pinch me with their smartass comments, pat me, soothe and encourage, and probably wanting to slap me up one side of my head and down the other.
Thank you. I’m back.
………..
I was given a kite for Mother’s Day. My son Joseph said he could picture me in a field trying to put it up. Today as I drove down that winding river road, off in the distance up high I saw two kites suspended in a spanking blue sky. Twirling, flashing, in a dance, a dream. I felt my heart contract, and expand. So much hope in a beautiful day. The kites dip, rise, soar.
We have these dreams, they are seeds inside us looking for our sun. We can feel them growing, making themselves known. Looking for room, for faith and belief, trusting we’ll recognize them and know of their existence in the dark where they’re born. They whisper to us in a language outside of time, outside of place. Promising to nurture us if we will nurture them.
I am two kites high,
free.
I am in a car,
moving.
I am in a dream,
walking.
I am letting the light in.
I am watering me.
Good Life
diane
Written by Robert B. Sherman – my favourite swinging/kite-flying song for you:
With tuppence for paper and strings,
you can have your own set of wings.
With your feet on the ground,
you’re a bird in flight!
With your fist holding tight,
to the string of your kite!
Let’s go fly a kite
Up to the highest height
Let’s go fly a kite
And send it soaring
Up through the atmosphere
Up where the air is clear
Oh, let’s go fly a kite!
When you send it flying up there,
all at once your lighter than air!
You can dance on the breeze,
over ‘ouses and trees!
With your fist ‘olding tight,
to the string of your kite!
Let’s go fly a kite
Up to the highest height
Let’s go fly a kite
And send it soaring
Up through the atmosphere
Up where the air is clear
Oh, let’s go fly a kite!
Okay, you brought tears to my eyes. I am with you in that Saab. Keep writing. Love Val
I’m glad you’re back and I will see you soon. I have time now to catch up on my reading… love, cyl