Everything Old Is New Again

Where does this tenderness come from?
These are not the- first curls I
have stroked slowly- and lips I
have known are- darker than yours

as stars rise often and go out again
(where does this tenderness come from?)
so many eyes have risen and died out
in front of these eyes of mine.

and yet no such song have
I heard in the darkness of night before,
(where does this tenderness come from?):
here, on the ribs of the singer.

Where does this tenderness come from?
And what shall I do with it, young
sly singer, just passing by?
Your lashes are- longer than anyone's. ~Marina Tsvetaeva

I'm such a control freak and so stubborn to boot that my subsconscious often takes advantage of the only opportunity it has-- the knowledge that I have little choice but to get horizontal and check out for a few hours every night. I'm talking about sleep here, people. Although, I'll be the first to admit that I use that other sometimes horizontal activity to escape at times too. Anyway, that's another post.

I learned at a very early age to pay attention to my dreams. I have worked through riddles, fears, and problems while deep in slumber. Composed a poem, exchanged tearful good-byes, written letters I'll never send, said the words out loud that I'm too afraid to whisper during the waking hours.

I'm at my realtor's office, signing a contract to purchase a home I have never even seen the inside of. Oh, I have driven by it many, many times and fell head over heels in love with it and all its curb appeal. The perfectly manicured lawn, the breathtaking flower garden, a mix of wildflowers, rambling vines, tea roses, lanky sunflowers, and peony bushes... the big, welcoming tree inviting me to spread a quilt, languidly stretch out with a book (gorgeous words sandwiched between the first page and the last) underneath it's blanket of cool shade.... the house is quaint, it's mysterious, it is a poem, it's meant for me. I'm certain.

Congratulations are expressed and the keys to my new home are pressed into my palm. I am giddy with anticipation as I take my first shaky steps up to the front door. My heart races as I turn the key into the lock and the door creaks open, throwing skinny strips of sunlight across the gorgeous pine floor. At first, I excitedly run from room to room, thrilled with each new discovery, the next surprise awaiting me behind every corner. I love it! It's perfect! Beside myself, I stop. Plop down in a rocking chair that I remember from my grandparents house and gently rock myself. With this pause to catch my breath, comes the realization that this is only the first floor. There is still the second story to explore.

As I ascend the creaky staircase, I feel my elatement make way for trepidation. The upstairs is decidely different. It's full of shadows and dark corners, it is musty, lonely, unkept. As I feel my way from room to room, with unsure steps and compromised vision, I begin to reconcile this upstairs with its downstairs counterpart.

"Oh, I only need to air it out, open some windows, let in some light. This house is much bigger than I imagined...really, too large for me. I could be happy making the downstairs my home and not have to live in these rooms at all."

But, I know from past experience that this will never be so. I cannot ignore the upstairs...further neglecting it, pretending it doesn't exist, loving and nurturing only the first floor is not an option. The house must be cared for as a whole. Otherwise, slowly but surely, the second story will overtake the first.

And so, I must make a decision. Will I be able to embrace the house as a whole or do I give it up to someone who will be better suited to all its idiosyncrasies?

As I lay in bed, turning this dream with all it's vivid imagery over and over in my mind, I felt my heart begin to ache. Remembering lost loves, loves that never came to be due to circumstance or fear, loves abandoned, love not yet recognized... I see each one as a snapshot in black and white, a poem, a shared moment of silliness, a hope.

My heart leaves no room for bitterness, it seems. It is always hungry, always open, eternally hopeful.

Comments

[MistressMary]

Oh, Lu. That's so lovely, sad, and optimistic all at the same time.

[Paul Sveda]

Hey Lu,

Glad that perhaps all the missed opportunities have no created a heart of regret and sadness in you, but rather your wonderfull optimism that you express so well! Wonderfull post.

Cheers

P.

You shouldn't just stick to horizontal positions for the fun stuff, and I am not talking about sleeping! :)

[Vicki]

Oh, yeah, yeah. Even your subconscious is beyond the beyond of creativity. You ever been in therapy? :-) I love seeing people who know what their own dreams mean- saves me work.
Me? I just dream that I speak and read fluent French and I'm playing a most difficult piece by Mozart on the piano. Can't do either. What's that mean?

So, how goes it, sweet Lu? You hanging in there?
Do you really need a new house? Maybe just a room of your own...beautiful post. xoxoxox

[Keb]

I read that and it means so much to me. Especially right now. You are a good woman Lu. Thanks for being here for me to read right now. Keb

[GraceD]

praise to you, dear lu, for your open heart.

i send my very best, always.

xoxox
grace

(keyboard is fucked up. small caps until i get my notebook buddy into the computer hospital. but hell, you like ee cummings.)

[trusty getto]

What a beautiful, instrospective post, Lu. As life ebbs and flows there are compromises to be made and positions to be held fast. Only you can know the answer.

I'm an "accept the whole" kind of a person, which frankly has gotten me into my current spot in life. Maybe I ought to be more of a "hold fast" to my ideals kind of person.

Hmmmmmmm. You've given me something to think about, Lu. Thanks.