Before we get going with this week’s newsletter, I want to note that we’ve officially reached 100 (actually, 101) subscribers here at A Thin Space. Thank you, thank you for your presence here in this space. I write to get words out of my head so that they don’t clog up my brain; I write to articulate my internal experience; I write because I love words. But I’m not sure I would write at all, if I couldn’t share my words and experiences with others. My hope is that you find something kindred in what I write, a certain knowing or understanding that invites reflection, comfort, and companionship. Thank you again!
Poetry
Here’s John O’Donohue’s “For a New Beginning,” and a reminder from me, to you and to myself, that we are always beginning.
Journeying
My dreams fall into three categories. Those that are the result of well-traveled neuroses - I am late for a class but can’t find the building it’s in, I am shouting at my mother, and she is responding with platitudes or other dream induced nonsense. Those that have no obvious connection to anything in my life or even the world, or at least, I very much hope so - giant hamsters, upside down rooms, my children in a race to see who can knit the biggest blanket. And those that leave me paused when I wake because they have taken pieces of the known and the unknown and created an opening through which to see my life free of conscious fabrication. I had one of these dreams a few days ago while staying with my partner at a small cottage in the country south of Omaha. Fallow winter fields skimmed with snow surrounded the cottage, along with a windbreak of trees. The sun shown infrequently during our time there, the color of land mirrored in the sky so that we inhabited a bowl of pearlescence halved by the darker forms of trees and winter shrubs.
On our second morning, I woke out of a dream about a cramped house. The house contained a series of small rooms placed one after the other with numerous incoveniently wide doorways. The whole place seemed to be a breezeway with very little room leftover to actually stop and live. In the dream, I was attempting to run part of the house as an Airbnb, but it took up an awful lot of space. Another part of the house seemed to be an office of some kind. I was trying to paint one of the desk tops grey as a way to save money so that we did not have to buy a new one. Similarly, in the Airbnb kitchen, I had carefully covered the cabinets with matching grey contact paper to freshen them up without replacing them (although my waking self wonders how contact paper would accomplish this). One room contained twelve dining room chairs. I asked one of the office workers if she thought we could move a few of them out to get some more space. I wasn’t upset with these tight quarters, rather I was being creative and working within the parameters given to me. Then I got a notice on my Airbnb app alerting me that the company had selected my house for a renovation. I had a certain period of time to accept their offer. I pondered this news, wondering if the notice was a scam. Should I say yes?
Before I had a chance to reply, an HGTV worthy host appeared at my door with a construction crew, who quickly began work on the house. They didn’t seem very interested in the downstairs, but instead began demo on an upstairs I hadn’t known existed. At this point, I understood that the house had belonged to my maternal great-grandmother and that I did not want the workers to remove some of the reminders of her. So I climbed the newfound stairs and discovered myself in a huge vaulted space completely bare and painted white. I walked toward the other end of the pitched roof. The upstairs didn’t appear to have a wall at this end, maybe the renovators had removed it, because I passed right through the house and into an outdoor space with concrete steps, potted plants and a few people. At this point, I woke up. Still hovering in the thin space between sleep and consciousness, I stared at the white ceiling of the cottage and absorbed the unexpected expansive space of my unknown attic. As I grew more cognizant, I turned to find my phone and record the dream’s already vanishing details.
The dream continues to hover at the edges of my waking self, a talisman, a portent, a showing. I am achingly familiar with the cramped, badly designed house containing so much that does not serve it. I understand the particular version of creativity required to function within the seemingly immovable. It is a creativity stunted by what it believes cannot be changed; but it is creativity nonetheless, and it works to craft a habitable world within its confines. I am also familiar, albeit less so, with the surprise second story. The sudden influx of light and air that catches breath and makes you wonder at something heretofore hidden from view yet present all along. My dream illuminated the constricted spaces my ancestors, my great-grandmother, and I have occupied, mentally, spiritually, emotionally, and physically, and have survived. And it revealed the spaces that have existed alongside the ones I know so well, locales of possibility and hope, where creativity has room to stretch its legs, to breathe, and grow. Here, at the turning of the year, this dream is a gentle tap on the shoulder, a reminder of what already exists in me and also of what is emerging, an infinite attic, a future lived into from the present, and the beautiful unimaginable made real with each step.
Gardening and Making/Mending
During our time at the cottage, my partner and I took a long winter hike at a nearby state park. At this point in the year, my definition of gardening is at its broadest. In January and February, any encounter with the plant world gets the gardening label, which is why our hike falls into this category. This particular park has miles of trails. Unfortunately, the ones we were hoping to hike were closed for hunting. As we were both wearing shades of green, brown, and grey without even a hint of orange, we chose a different route. I say the park has miles of trails and having hiked them, I would hazard that this is due to the amount of criss-crossing and doubling back of said trails. We found ourselves retracing our own tracks multiple times. At one point, my partner said, “we just need to go straight,” to which I replied, “left straight or right straight.” Despite (or perhaps, partly because of ) the tangled trails, we enjoyed the time to talk, breathe hard, laugh, and be confused and somewhat lost together. Isn’t a long, intimate relationship just that? A series of twisting and befuddling paths you walk together, struggling, arguing, celebrating, all the while creating a shared life.
I fixed the wonky mitten and have begun the second. And here’s a long languishing and finally finished crochet pillow. I finished the cover at least a year ago out of some super bulky yarn named, for obvious reasons, “candy store.” Later, I decided that a thrifted blue Oxford shirt would work well as backing because I wouldn’t need to worry about creating an envelope for the pillow to slide in and out of; instead, the buttons would serve this function. I am very happy with the finished product and smile everytime I see the back. The pillow looks well fed, or maybe, like it has spent a bit too much time in the candy store.
Dearest Emily...I so loved reading what you have beautifully written about here, especially your dream and what it has gifted you with. The pathway of listening to and exploring our dreams is one of my favorite. Thank you so much for sharing with us! Love, Joanna