The dreamer’s disease. Fine by me.
Oh dear, in the Silver Street avenue, she is a dreamer still. What will become of her?
When all my friends were dissecting the dead frog – I cried for the loss of the little jumping fellow. Cleary a biologist was not the future.
When others were doing their math – I as staging a ballet in the garage for the SPCA. Someone had to look after the abandoned animals.
Friends told me that golf was not my thing, obviously, as I was picking up pine cones, dreaming of winter and my mother’s Dutch soup.
She still believes in fairies and elves that sew and make magic. In the bunny at Easter, Father Christmas and his gift to the lonely at the festive season. She dreams of great things for her children, for tucking in and stories. For family feasts and holding old hands as they speak of dances in tulle and pretty shoes. She believes in artists who suffered for their art. In flowers … she is a great believer in flowers, and seasons.
And she is not alone. Life may have send those curveballs in their hundreds. Despite all resistance raised the ugly of mankind and greed. In indifference. In broken hearts and broken dreams. Some of them did break, mangled and brick broken. Disenchantment. The practical and must do attitude remain foreign to the dreamer. Be it young, or older, those who dream – of what was, or could be is fundamental to the being.
True dreamers do not dream of millions (though it would help with that lotto ticket) or summers in Monaco – they dream of little things … like sunshine, nestling, a gathering of happy people. They dream of rain on the roof, saving the little fledgeling fallen, of tea to save the moment and every busker, every forgotten, every child given a chance. Of blossoms and crumpets on a grey day.
The nuns gave up on me. There had to be a cause and remedy, they thought. The girl likes cemeteries for goodness sake! The girl runs and dances in the garden during break. She builds houses from sticks and engages in witchery. The adult dreamer cries all the time. In the movies, at songs, just because the world is beautiful. And loves despite it all – loves snow, her children needing her, lovers and weddings. Best friends, coffee, missing all. She is the writer, the baker, the fetcher and believer that Paris is the city of love, still.
To say she was useless at fighting for the first spot, is true. That she was useless at being the competitive, the originator, the driven, is true. She choose to dream of mud luscious puddles and hated seeing ‘the kill’. Dreamers stay clear of aggression – of ‘that’s life’ for it is not their lives – love above all, is.
It is the best disease to have in life. To be a dreamer. It can be infectious in it’s own way.
Where are those nuns now I think. I hope dreaming that one little girl, now a Silver woman, stills sees the world in the most optimistic, though a veiled, humbalicious, magnificent, light way.