gardening

I have been sitting here for a while now in a hotel lobby trying to figure out why my brain seems to have become a little overgrown. There was a time when it was all so clear: I could look up into the sky and see all the clowns, frogs, dragons, rabbits, and rhinoceroses that there were to see. I could look at a rug and see the snakes and lava and the narrow sliver of yellow that i had to balance on in order to cross it alive. I could transform four blankets, three chairs, and a cardboard box into a castle.

Lately, the clouds are called Cumulous or Cirrus, the rugs are either wool on wool, wool on cotton, or silk, and the blankets are in the closet unless the heater is on the fritz and I can't get the wood-burning stove lit.

Yesterday, I awoke from a morning nap in front of a great window that filled my view and flashed an entire forgotten world in front of my eyes. The landscape was blurred. Plowed fields became corduroy, wheat fields became golden velvet, and the sky was filled with animals.

Somehow, in my shallow slumber, my mind had been slightly pruned and sheared away to a small sapling again. I could feel the little leaves drinking in the sunlight and stretching growing towards it. I could hear my thoughts pour out into my hands and look for some fount, some pen to drain them onto a piece of paper, but none was to be found... no paper and no pen and only my thoughts spinning out into every corner of my being.

I knew they would be gone later. I know I cannot hold onto moments like that, and so I sat and absorbed, letting my skin stretch with the watery weight of the process. I let my lungs open and breathe in the images, the colors, and the meanings.

Sometimes your eyes blur and sometimes a hand closes off your throat just above your heart.

I'd go for a walk but I'm stuck in my chair in a vast sea of snakes and lava and now I'm just looking for that golden path.