Mondays and Hay

I am writing a blog by candlelight.

It's a bit exciting and would probably more so be if I were using pen and paper.

The house is quiet and dark.

In the dark I am a hopeless dreamer. 

I would be simple and carefree, laying on a mound of hay bales eating an apple with a dear friend, reading literature.  I must interject here that there is something so special about a barn full of hay. Oh the places you can hide! You can find a tiny corner where the sun peaks through the holes; you can sit and spread out your skirts and feel the scratchy hay and warm sun on your bare legs.  The smell is dusty but sweet and it feels delicious but uniquely forbidden. 

I would be courageous. In the face of opposition, I would be strong.  I would fight for the weak because I fear nothing.  It's not true, of course, I fear, but in dreams, actions, intentions and outcomes are perfect.  It feels powerful, unlikely, and lends a sense of impracticality.  Having no fear is dangerous and lacks imagination.  It is the balance of fear in tension with purpose that makes passion rise. 

I would be an accomplished musician.  With long, brown curls and a beautiful black lace, floor length dress, I would perform before a large audience.  All my passion would come through my arms, fingers, breath and crescendo with deep, evocative soul stirring music.  Nightly I would be removed from Earth and my soul would be carried along to the stars with melody and lyric.  This is not forbidden or dangerous.  This is beauty as is only given to a few.

I like watching the candle flicker and dance.  It does only as it can to survive and keep flame.  It bring me to reality that I am sitting up in the dark, writing. 

I'm not anything so wonderful as I imagine I might be. 

But the whole of writing is to dream and inspire.  To peak inside a reality and feel it wash over your senses and ingrain itself in your being. To live another life if only for a few moments.  To  taste abandonment which is so distant in the monotony of today. 

A mini present for Monday.  Picture yourself in a grey, weathered barn.  Hay bales stacked to the ceiling.  Climb up the ladder and swing yourself over. Crawl on all fours to the corner.  You will find a little space to squeeze between a bale and the wall.  Pick a friend that is waiting there just for you.  As you approach, their face lights up, as they simultaneously hand you a crisp Gala for snacking.  Here you will spend your Monday afternoon. Unplugged.

Your heart as only you can give, offered.   Your dreams quietly spoken and safely tucked into the bosom of another.  It's okay that nothing changes.  It's okay if none of those dreams come to fruition. 

You have tasted abandon.  Freedom. In the middle of a Monday. 

This is the gift of writing.