I’ve
got bills to pay, I shouldn’t be writing, I
shouldn’t go down to my studio to paint either, because once i get into
my studio I’m gone. Gone from paying, gone from time. I keep shuffling
the pile of bills from one room to the other, as though a different
atmosphere might induce me to open the mail. It doesn’t.
I keep shuffling myself from room to room, too, hoping this downcast mood might change. It doesn’t.
In
yoga yesterday the teacher said to open your heart and image something
beyond yourself, something you wanted, although I admit I wasn’t
listening closely and don’t remember exactly, but suddenly the Tree of
Life appeared, in a Rousseau kind of jungle, but nothing like Rousseau.
It was the monkey puzzle tree, twisted branches and all my loved ones
were there: my mother and father, my old dogs Reina
and Ghostie, my old rat, my cats looking up, Mekko and Maya, Tom, all tumbling
around in that tree that is life. I could imagine it so clearly, and
this morning, I purposely walked passed the monkey puzzle tree—the
only one on the hill—to make sure nobody was in it.
The
dream was this: Tom in a checkered shirt. (His shirts are always so
important to the dream; last time I had a series of Tom dreams, his
shirts were red.) But this was checkered, a good looking shirt. We were
stuck in a motel, waiting for Maya, but before that we were stuck in a
murky pool of water sealed off by rocks and in front of us was the river
to the City. Fast currents. But we couldn’t get over those rocks,
literally stuck on the rocks, to where we had to go. And then some young
swimmers came by and told us it wasn’t so treacherous, we should try, but instead we went back to the motel waiting until Maya came.
