Tuesday, 2 February 2010
Dreaming of flying away, with my love, with my children. Far away, through the rainy sky and clouds. Landing ever so gently near a Paris sidewalk cafe where we could warm our hands and our stress-tattered hearts with big cups-that-are-really-bowls of steaming hot chocolate and dip flaky butter croissants and not care about the bits that drip on our clothes.
Dreaming of finding a hidden bookstore, carefully crafted to be invisible to those who rush by on their way to meetings and business and busy-ness. Sinking down deep into an armchair, warm lamplight illuminating the faces of those I love, our laps laden with beautiful books and our minds finally free to imagine what we really want to do with the rest of the day and the rest of the week and the rest of our lives, now finally finally finally free from boxes and chores and plans that never worked out no matter how hard we tried or how little rest we allowed our selves.
Dreaming of seeing that the stories in the books we hold aren't the stories from other lives and other pens, but our stories and knowing, at last, that we can write the rest of the pages with our days and fill the empty picture-spaces with the things we see and the people we come to know and the our-selves we finally meet.
Dreaming of standing on a hillside, seeing the landscape spread before us and the endless roads we can wander and knowing that there is now time to walk and time to stand still and time to climb and time to just sit and watch the pictures G-d makes with the clouds and the light.
Dreaming of drifting off to sleep in a featherbed, the lights of Paris below, the days ahead. Somewhere in the distance, a faint whisper of music offers the perfect score for our dreams of this new life. Dreaming. Dreaming. Of Flying Away.