dreams, desires, goals...

I don't set long term goals. This is probably due to countless days and hours of unfinished lists. If I write it all down then it's so much more pressure and only a clearer failure when it doesn't happen.

Dreams and desires feel different to me. It's not so much that I'm pushing myself to do something, but that something inside me is pulling unbidden toward an unseen destination. A yearning. A painful aching. A secret hope.

Where do they come from? Are they catalysts placed inside by our manufacturer, or the remains of resistance to a more mundane reality, or something else entirely? Why do some of them seem so arbitrary or impossible and difficult to admit or share?

First, something I wrote over 20 years ago...

I remember when it really used to be summer. When for three whole months there was nothing to do but grow. When having fun wasn't called making a mess. When life wasn't just a job, but an adventure. That was when I could take root in my grandma's flower bed, my favorite place to wade through flowers and mud and frogs and time.

It ran the length of the wall, with the back steps at one end. It had a skinny strip of bricks all around it (to keep all the plants from getting out, of course.) I never knew the names of the huge red stars and their long green leaves or the tiny white daisy flowers who refused to droop their chins under the weight of August. Dried dill twigs stuck out between them like scaly chicken feet. All the way at the other end, next to the back porch hid the water faucet in the shade. It was almost covered in towering mint spears. I would squat down, turn the metal handle, and wait for my friends to come out- the toads I called frogs. First the water splashed hot, then cold, as the level crawled up the brick border. Pretty soon, they started appearing, and I squealed whenever I saw one.

So I'd lean over, dropping tangled braids into the mud soup floating with leaves and swimming beetles, to try to scoop my toads out. They were soft little green things that molded to my palms and smelled like bruised geraniums. They wiggled their long legs and scratched with their funny feet. Surrounded by bumpy skin, their eyes sparkled gold and black in the sun. Tiny pinhole nostrils quivered, squeaking out whispers that tickled my ears. I looked for their ears but only found flat oval spots where I thought ears ought to be. Sometimes I whispered back anyway, and stroked their squishy bellies. After a while, I'd dump them into a metal mop bucket. Scraping the driveway and flattening the lawn, I dragged them to my almond tree. I knew they liked it by the way they stretched themselves up the sides of the bucket.

"Now you be good and stay in there!"

I trampolined onto the warm white bubbly steps I called Swiss concrete and with black fingernails, picked mud out of my toes. On the other side of the steps, in the dirt where it was still dry baked a stone bowl. It was a smooth cupped rock, with a long oval piece sticking out of it. Grandpa said he'd scraped it up with his tractor. The Indians had made it a long time ago. I took the stone out of it and pulled it onto its side. I stared at the dark imprint where it had been stuck in the ground. It was crawling with silvery mini-armadillos. Keeping my hands a safe distance from the dangerous creatures, I rolled the bowl into the grass. It was a plant crusher, good for making potions and mixing mud.

First I tore a fistful of grass and stuffed it in the hole. Then I lifted the oval and pounded. A round clacking echo rose to meet my hands as I caught the bouncing stone. It had a worn down blue iron shine and a hot smell like lawn clippings. I jumped back to the sun-darkened shade and picked hard striped dill sees, geranium petals, and mint leaves. These too, went into the bowl. Clacking and crushing, I happily hummed.

"I need some dandelion fluffs!"

These plus quite a bit of mud extract were hand mixed until it was "done". I scraped out the bowl and patted my masterpiece flat on the hot cement.

Resting where I could see the hard dusty field, I wondered where the Indian lady had sat. Was there grass there? Did she pound acorns? I wondered if the rock made the salty creases in her hands black, too. Did she have braids longer than mine? Where did she go? I didn't know why she left her bowl In the field or how Grandpa knew it was there. I still don't. Lately, I just want to know if it can ever really be summer again.

Stories...

It just occured to me, that instead of spending months wavering over what to write, maybe I should just mash it up and share some stories as haphazardly as our days tend to flow. SO! Let it begin!