Borders Journal Archive2

11/06/06

It stands there on top of the hill as a monolith to my dreams. As the dark clouds roll through the massive darkness of the sky, they slowly begin to frame it with bleak precision. I can feel the wind on my face, and close my eyes to hear the soft whistle it makes as it blows across my ears. Its fingers gently move my hair across my neck and tickle my chandelier earrings. It whispers softly across my face and tells me tales of beauty as it passes. And all the while I stand perfectly still so as not to miss a moment. I’m even afraid to breathe.
I open my eyes again to watch my monolith in the fading light. Its bare arms stand against the sky and clouds like a skeleton dancing in the moonlight. I move slowly toward it – if only to be closer to it, afraid that it may pick itself up and move away at any moment. It turns to look at me. Of course it can’t see me because it has no eyes. No legs either. Just arms, waving and silent. No, silent is a bad word, because those arms sing as they move. Their rustling and crackling sound like a solemn melody that mourns in the darkness. It feels sad, but it doesn’t make me melancholy. The sadness lifts my heart, and makes me feel lighter. It makes my mouth turn upwards involuntarily. I love the sadness it makes. It makes me long to be even closer to it. As I step closer to it, I reach out my hand to touch the rough and mangled bark of its trunk. I can’t reach it, and so I continue forward. Just as I touch the prickly deep-brown surface and feel the sadness even stronger. It makes me want to reach out and envelop the monolith into my arms in comfort. I know this is foolish, for it feels no comfort in its cold hard limbs. No warmth can ever seep through its bark because it is too thick and tough. But just as the knarled bark gives off warning to all around it, the beauty of the branches invites you in.
It is at the moment when I’m wishing to comfort my tree when I realize that it is not the center of my dream. I hear laughter and turn to see its source. Behind me lies a vast expanse of beautiful solitude. A verdant meadow stands before me. Its gentle hills and vales roll in ripples across its back. I small brook is winding its way through the valley. I realize this is the laughter I heard. The brook is the life and vitality of the meadow. It breathes excitement and joy into this place as it moves quickly across its expanse. I’m almost sad to see the brook there, tossing and rearranging the solitude that my tree gives off and making it excited and unsettled. I turn back to my tree to draw peace from its unchanging shape and find that it is twisting violently in the wind. Just as I see my tree twist, I feel the culprit move across my face and through my hair. It is no longer gentle, but violent and disturbing. It screams through the branches and slaps me in the face over and over again. I lift my arm to shield my eyes from its effects. I close my eyes against the angry wind and suddenly its gone. I open my eyes to see that I am alone in my bed in my quiet room. No wind, no laughing brook. Just me and my bed and my blue night light. I can’t decide if I’m glad to leave my dream-place, or if I’m sad to let it go. It was so disturbing and so wonderful at the same time. What made it so violent in the end? Was it me, or that horrible laughing brook? Perhaps I’ll ask it the next time I come to visit.