If We're Here, It Must Be Tuesday

Optional cogitating has been occuring at the oddest times.

For the second time in the last few years, I have been told that I have Stage Three Sleep Disorder. Hmm...and I thought it was just plain old insomnia. The translation of this term is that it is the place (when you are asleep) that the bridge between the concious and unconcious is totally accessible.

I have always considered it the place where I can get both hands on the magic. Funny how many of my story ideas begin with a dream or a bit of a dream.

So...as a writing practice, I decided to try to explain it to my self AND my therapist. (Doesn't everyone do that?)
And now, to whoever is out there in blog land. (Hello, you!) Remember this is magic land, where anything is possible. Anything.



Stage Three Bridge

I walk across the bridge with my arms hanging loosely by my sides, eyes eagerly forward. The landscape before me is exotic and vast. Mountains can be liquid and run like amused rivers; rivers can fly, great swirls of colors whose names I only guess at. Animals can philosophy, matching their steps to mine, and the man I love waits for me in a forest of sapiential trees.

I might feel fear, but I do not. I have been here so often the malleable reality doesn’t faze me. It just is. Like blue skies or green grass in other worlds.

I know the raccoons by name, bears shake my hand, salmon bow in greeting, melting mountains part around my feet, rivers encourage me to recline and observe the land from their high backs. My feet seldom stumble but if they do, azure clouds nestle beneath my arms to buoy me up.

There is one place I am a bit leery of, where the beasts forget my name and growl at me, hackles raised. Where my lover drops my hand and disappears into the weeds, eyes averted. Where the sky is almost blue and the mountains pull themselves together in a semblance of rigidity, begrudging the rivers their narrow channels.

I don’t go to that place often or willingly, but sometimes I must. “Oh…Oh!” I cry. There’s always a room or a deep pool there that I am all too familiar with. Sometimes there are storms—sometimes it’s tranquil—sometimes it’s under construction. It’s the place I check in. “How’s it going? How are we growing?”

I think it gets a little smaller every year, which pleases me. Although I wouldn’t want it to vanish completely-- as I recognize the necessity of each visit; it is the compass rose that helps to define my chart.

This place that moves—at times far off in the distance, but often near the bridge or sometimes beneath it—guides my feet back when it is time to return. I acknowledge its role in my wanderings, for with that signpost I am free for a while to explore, examine, and interact with the enchantment, and mystery of the world across the bridge. There are times I let it go reluctantly, but most of the time it’s okay to find my feet on the bridge going back. I think it will always be there for me, a short stroll away.

For now, it sleeps. See? Just there, it sleeps.