basic blues and golden deliciousness

When I research my symptoms, the internet tells me I am super stressed. When I trade my necklace for a tarot reading, the stranger tells me that I am incredibly stressed.

In my dream, I am meeting a group of people. It’s a little windy and I am pulling on my blazer as I walk. I’m not late, but I’m not as early as I’d like and I worriedly imagine most of them seated around the table already. I have a feeling someone I don’t know will be there, and I worry about how that will change the dynamic. As I am thinking this, I see a man at our table. He turns around. It’s Dave. My late husband is dead, but he is definitely standing there. He puts his hands out as if to calm me, as if to explain, but I am already screaming and running in the opposite direction towards awakeness.

The dream dictionary says I am stressed.

When I talk to my therapist, I explain that I cannot be stressed because nothing particularly stressful is happening. From the perspective of what I have been through, I am living a carefree life.

“I haven’t even been to a funeral since November,” I tell her.

I hear the flaws in my logic. I can see right through the holes. Tears pour down my face when the lights go out, and I don’t know why.

Sometimes I can hold onto the thought of a particularly sad thing. I can imagine a topic enough to explain the tears. Most of the time, I only know that I have many different types of sad inside me, like little bits of gravel ruining the smooth valleys of my landscape. Like little bits of gravel, sitting right below all my stuffing, giving me weight. Gravitas.

In my dream, we are living in a store. The shop closes up and the owner doesn’t know, but we stay behind. I walk around looking at the little trinkets. I pocket a little rock from the display. I know my mind is not right, but it doesn’t matter. My late husband stands up and pulls me to him. I don’t make eye contact, I just lean against him like I used to, like two people about to slow dance, but we never move. Without lifting my head, I touch his cheek, ask him, “You’re not really here, are you?” Dave shakes his head, no, and I smile. I know he is dead, I know my mind isn’t right, and it doesn’t matter.

Dave has been in every dream I’ve had recently– mute and dead. I think mute, but maybe just quiet. Most often, I am too afraid to speak to him. Sometimes, I am too tired to listen.

I know this sounds like sadness, but I have had such beautiful moments lately…

They fall fresh on me like new soil, new love, new rain.

It’s hard for me to believe the sadness can push through all that.

When I lived on a farm, there was a story about an orchard that grew over a buried treasure, and the bark of the apple trees had slivers of gold in them.  The trees grew fruit but they tasted too different to sell. The apples never snapped when you bit into them.

It took generations of pruning trees and picking fruit and shifting soil before the apples tasted right. Generations of farming a purposeless golden orchard. Generations of protecting trees from those who wanted to cut them open just to see what a buried thing looks like after it escapes.

This is folklore, of course, but I wonder.

I wonder if my sadness is crawling through roots, chewing its way through bark, screaming from the fruit of my labors and loves.  I wonder what I will have to prune. How long I will have to stay on guard.

I wonder if that’s why I lost my ability to make generations. So no child will inherit the orchard I built on tears.

… but you know… despite everything…
it is a staggeringly beautiful orchard.

You should see it in full bloom. 

It perfumes everything in sweetness and stay.  It holds life.

It holds me.
Even when I feel so heavy I could fall right through to the core of the Earth.

I wonder if the Earth is a type of apple. I wonder if I never left the farm.

I stand in my new world and wonder if I’ve never left anything, just buried it under my feet.

I wonder if my lifetime will be enough to see a change in things.  If I’ll ever pull an apple from a tree I loved tall, kiss it between my teeth,

and hear it snap.

27 thoughts on “basic blues and golden deliciousness

  1. I have people come to me in dreams all the time. There’s a different quality to it when the person is really there; I don’t know how else to describe it, but I know it is that person’s energy and not my own wishful thinking. Dave is here because he knows you need him. He is reminding you in your dreams that his light and energy will always be with you.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Thanks, Mary. It is strange when you can tell the difference in how people appear in dreams. Kinda unnerving, but special. 🙂 I’m glad your loved ones pay you visit.


  2. Your writing is, to me, like settling down to nap in the most comfortable collection of blankets ever assembled, truly generous, warm, enveloping, regardless of the topic. Wonderful, thank you

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Beautiful! I love the vividness of your writing, how much I can actually feel your emotions. I can’t imagine the grief of losing someone so close, but what an amazing way to walk through it. Your writing washes over me and I feel somehow soothed and connected to soul – maybe mine, maybe yours, but connected nonetheless. Thank you for sharing your soul and your grief.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. Hi Rara,
    Once again, a song in lieu of a comment. At this rate, you’ll soon have a playlist! 😁
    ❤️ Radhika

    I don’t know you
    But I want you
    All the more for that

    Words fall through me
    And always fool me
    And I can’t react

    And games that never amount
    To more than they’re meant
    Will play themselves out

    Take this sinking boat and point it home
    We’ve still got time
    Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
    You’ll make it now

    Falling slowly, eyes that know me
    And I can’t go back
    Moods that take me and erase me
    And I’m painted black

    You have suffered enough
    And warred with yourself
    It’s time that you won

    Liked by 2 people


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