I don't know if this was a dream; yet proving this was real, aside from walking the streets to find ash marks and firework remnants, interviewing neighbors, or researching police reports (if someone had reported the oddity), seems unnecessary. The husband is away for the weekend, my dog is obviously unreliable, and then there's sleep induced night-haze to consider. I think I'll just let it Be.
Let it be.
Yesterday I sat with my sister on a chair lift that slowly propelled us above treetops, above caged animals at the zoo, hovering above a mountainside. There was the oompa music of a carousel, the hush of the wind tickling pine trees, screeching monkeys, the dangling of our kicking feet, and there was peace. We were 10 feet removed from the realities below, 10 feet above the surety of the ground. I kept my pockets unzipped in hopes that moment would sneak it's way into my being a little more easily. I then opened my bag of happy places and rode the thing twice to make sure I at least stored the memory there.
I am not so easily persuaded to restrain from caring about anything and everything of which I can think. I have a tilt towards the highly-stressed, a lilt towards back-aches, and I often give a nod to anxiety. It seems it's just how I was wired. But the moments, being in each moment, that's what sets my mind free to newness, realistic empathy, courage, keeping perspective, growth through learning, and all those other important things that help us be our best selves.
I've clocked 46.86 hours towards the Etsy goal of 11/15, can stitch four or five embroidery variations without looking at my published-in-1979 Guide to Needlework (woh), and can't really remember what I did with my life prior to sewing during nearly every open moment.
Here's to fireworks and the blurred line between dreams and reality.
Gratuitous bear photo.
Jo
