Not the Only One

On dreaming too much

How many cloths are there? When they say “he’s cut from the same cloth” or “I’m cut from a different cloth?” Is it finite thread we’re talking about?

It is one quilt, that much I’m certain.

I just wonder which little square is mine? Is it blasphemous to traverse past our square? Or encouraged?

Or is the tragedy that we move to another square rather than embrace our little corner of the quilt? Perform.

Oh, the egoic, unique misery feeling I find myself in again. The well worn battle of being in the here and now and not floating away to dream world.

There must be others. Right? Tell me, yes!

It felt entirely normal when I was young. Dreaming of the future and what it will be like - youth allows that luxury.

But I never stopped.

And it’s mid-life now.

Am I supposed to have gotten it together?

Haven’t I learned that the present moment is the only one that’s real? Yes.

And don’t I count my blessings in front of me and soak up the innocent joy in my kids’ laughter? Yes.

And cherish the birdsong that greets me each morning on the stunning patch of land I reside? Absolutely.

But when things get hard, I leave embodiment and float away.

Sure, I can be quick to return, having built the muscle.

Sometimes, I want to deliberately float further. Digging in my heels on the whole back and forth. One-way ticket for Departure only, please.

They say I’m a dreamer. But I’m not the only one.

Growing up with deep capitalist conditioning - dreamer was supposed to result in something. Some creation. An invention! A business. An idea providing a revenue stream.

What if this is it?

Can it just be?

Without polluting the thinking. Just letting the dreaming be.

I dream when I have space. I dream when I’m in nature. I dream within my dream-state.

How about painting my dreams in words and bring to life what I see? Not to turn them into some tangible outcome. Rather to help tether me here, so I don’t leave fully.

This is my introspective cloth. I come from this family. Evenings sitting on the porch, talking, philosophizing, watching the world. All of us are this way! Humans are creative beings, their experiences and what they witness shape that creativity. Into making, doing, thinking, being.

Where is the village with set trades? The village idiot and the medicine woman and the blacksmith and the tailor and the bread maker? The one son that denounces being a shoemaker like the five generations that came before him to go travel with the circus instead? Why are we all only robots in this corporate grind?

The traditional artists are forced to navigate the machine too, even if they maintain their agency or the illusion of freedom better.

Why is there greed for the resources of the Earth?

Why is there supremacy?

Strawberry Fields

That I could spend my entire day looking at the sky, walking the trails, and reading or writing is not news to me. I just never thought it was worthy until recently. I was not accepting of it as ‘that’s enough.’

From this place, seeds are planted. And what comes forth - I have never allowed to truly be born.

To co-create with the Universe, with divine, with God. I have a sense of a few directions it can go - which groups of people it could impact. Just in - maybe I connected with someone. Maybe I touched someone with a similar story.

That’s it. That is how I want to move through my days. Thinking and pontificating and embracing the sensitivity of my cloth.

The soft shape whose border edges up against the beautiful patterns of what’s near. Next to the next village, and the next. And so on. Stitched together intricately in a steady support of warmth.

The invisible web of intelligence on Earth. One wide cozy blanket covering us in protection. One.

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Because it will make your day nicer —