I wish my subsconcious could let go and dream BIG while I slept. There are some dreams that are memorable and beautiful - my friend and I both hummingbirds and soaring into the night sky, looking down at the earth and its jewelled lights far below. I can still see and feel the images from that dream.
The dream I had last night doesn't even come close to memorable. I am almost embarrassed to share it because of the sheer unimaginative quality. The dream I had last night may be what separates me from movie stars - surely celebrities never dream such dull and uninspired dreams as the following.
Last night, I dreamt of granola. I was telling someone about the brand of granola that I eat and that the grocery store will sometimes offer a dollar off coupon. I was very animated and eager to share. I really need to stimulate my imagination. There are so many ways that the dream could have been more interesting:
Eating granola while perched on the back of an elephant
Shopping the cereal aisle with the Dali Lama
Driving madly after someone who had spray painted the word "Granola" on my car door
Finding a time capsule filled with granola
Any of the above scenarios would have been more interesting. But no. In my dream I was simply blathering on about my favorite granola and the availability of coupons. How can I supercharge my imagination, friends?
I read in the New York Times this morning that Russell Libby died. I'd never heard of Mr. Libby until today but the headline said that he was an organic farmer and how often does the NYT's recognize the passing of an organic farmer?
Russell Libby was a farmer and he was from Maine. Both of those facts were all I needed to know to read on. When I was an angry teen growing up in Southern California and wishing to be as far away as possible from everyone and everything I knew, I would look to Maine as the ideal haven.
I'd contemplate a map of the States and zero in on San Diego and then look for the furthest destinations. Northern California was tempting with its redwood forests and rugged coast. Oregon, in my mind, was like Northern California to the tenth power and Washington, well, it wasn't far enough away. There was Florida, of course, but I really wanted to keep my experience with alligators and hurricanes to a minimum and besides, people always complained about the effects of humidity on the hair (not good) and I imagined Florida to be a humid place.
Then there was Maine. Maine could be perfect. There was snow and ocean and farms and fishing and Nova Scotia and probably cranberries. I love cranberries. They had great accents in Maine. I'll bet Russell Libby had a great accent.
The thing about Russell Libby, the thing that touched me, was that his interest in growing vegetables began in grade school. Mr. Libby's fourth grade teacher handed seed packets out to her class. The thrill of growing a plant from a seed never left him. The article didn't say exactly that, but I know it's true. I know what it is to open a little pack of seeds with the picture perfect image of a beet or a carrot or a tomato on the front. I know what it's like to spill the contents into the cup of my hand and imagine the potential of each tiny speck. It's magic is what it is.
You never know what is going to open a child's heart. You never know what seemingly ordinary thing is going to take hold and guide their life. I find this thought as compelling as gardening; the thought of the spark that will set one's soul on fire. A child's mind is so like a seed. All of the raw material, the potential waiting to be nourished so it can blossom and thrive. It starts out not quite inert (both the seed and the imagination) and, with the right conditions, it grows and swells until it cannot be contained. What follows is a bursting forth; all of its youthful beauty exposed and fertile. It's exciting, it really is.
I have a small notenbook that I carry with me to write down things that I find here and there. In it, I taped a short clipping from a local obituary; someone that I didn't know:
"Barbara Lewis, his widow, said he'd always wanted to be a pilot. She said his mother told her that as a boy, he would eat his toast into the form of an airplane."
How perfect is that? How beautiful is that? The beginning of self-realization, the thrust and shape of one's life taking hold. These are the things that crossed my mind as I read about Russell Libby. I thought about how lucky he was for the spark to ignite at such a young age. He was passionate. He was an advocate. He had a purposeful life and a family and a garden. May we all be so lucky.
I feel that I have a duty to support Donkey Dash, seeing as I have named my beloved blog after the mulish beast known 'round these parts as the donkey. It's not just for two legged runners but for their canine counterparts as well. Bring Fido along for the fun and exercise!
This is a 5k race on October 20th. I want to see some paws on the pavement, people. GO! GO! GO!