On Rest, and Playing Hopscotch Between Worlds

"His voice and lilt, they carried me off, in dreams that coiled like snakes, and squeezed me from this mortal toil to swim the night ‘til the dreamer wakes." - from "To See Without Eyes" - S.R.

Please. Allow me to open The Goblin's Reliquary for you. And thus, I light the candle that will hold you in the safe embrace of warm firelight while we spin the threads of story.

Deep breaths.

I have been so in and out of sickness these past two weeks that I didn't think I would be able to write anything for my second newsletter. I've barely been able to work on any stories or poetry in that time frame, seeing a couple of submission deadlines close whilst I am laid up in bed, sleeping away the hours, and nursing a bottle of electrolytes. It is always a great letdown for me, if I am being honest, to be so close to finishing something, and to be scratched by the sword of illness, only to rise again when so much time has folded away. Sometimes, in the worst of those moments, even thinking of the channeled effort of creativity is enough to tire me out.

This week, it was my plan to spirit an essay to you on the subject of dream-guarding, or to stand in defense of the lives we envision, and the intersection of that idea with the classic 80's film, “The Neverending Story”. But, it must wait, and simmer a little longer in the ether while I tend to these issues that I have been facing as a result of chronic illness, in combination with the unfortunate side effects of a long-term medication that I've been taking. These flare-ups may rear their ugly heads from time to time, they may interfere with my schedule, and in the grace of radical acceptance, I must so declare: “such is the way of it”. For now, it is my plan to send out these missives to you every other Sunday. Even if it's a little poem. Even if it's a small mote of curiosity to add to your crown as you venture the day.

Being so dreadfully fatigued isn't all bad, though. I mean, it is, but hear me out. My best friend has always described me as someone that is "half-way in the dream world", which I'd say is a fairly accurate assessment. Some of my work is quite literally written with only one eye open. Which reminds me of the old mystic motif of the cats having one paw in the spirit world. For four years, however, I have been intentionally practicing mindfulness, imbibing upon the old wisdom of teachers such as Thích Nhất Hạnh, and through countless hours listening to the dharma talks and meditations given by the dedicated monastics of Plum Village, in France. But, that is only because if I am to ever function even somewhat normally, I need some semblance of a practice to ground myself in the earthly realm. A feat, I must say, that has proven extremely difficult at times. Still, I persevere. One has to, you know.

You see, I have always been a tired boy. My mother gleefully relays stories about my childhood, leaving me alone in the living room to tarry about the whims of my imagination, only to become frightened when she is met with a crack of sudden silence. Rushing back into the room, she'd find me slumped over, carpet etched into the side of my face, dozing happily at the center of the magic circle of toys that I'd cast about myself––my stuffed animals standing ground as edge-keepers and watchtower guardians. When you allow yourself the solace of rest, you have the opportunity to play hopscotch between worlds, to dance, still-tethered, on the rings of Saturn, flirting with the edge of eternity––something, evidently, that I've been doing since the very start.

Maybe it's not the adventure that is most easily shared online, maybe the memories of it might be as fleeting as shadows. Maybe there was a time in our collective history, where we each may have embodied the role of “Seer”, divining the unusual scenes and symbols of dreams with our friends by fire light. Or maybe, just maybe, it doesn't even need to be any of these things at all as I perceive them, and it can just simply be a medicine, ancient and wild-grown by the body, administered in appropriate doses when little else, alone, would be enough.

If you need it, please take this as a permission slip to allow a little more time for yourself. The people and things in your life that “need” you will be made all the better by you showing up with a few more stars in your eyes, and just a little more moonlight in your pocket. Rest is not unproductive. Rest is not lazy. And, in a landscape that is always demanding more from us every day, despite what they will say or try to sell to you, rest is never obsolete. To rest is no less valid than any other aspect of life. In a world that is constantly at war, constantly commanding, constantly cresting trauma on a wave of despair, REST IS RESISTANCE. Never bargain away what cannot be replenished. That includes rest, nature, youth, and time.

And if, perchance, you do venture into the land of dreams, catch them if you can––winged things that they are. Consider collecting the strange visions, keeping them in a dream diary, or in the notes on your phone. You'll remember them better, they will fuel your creative endeavors, your introspection, and you might be able to divine a thing or two from the curious symbolism. Try it! When the astral haze is fading, run you away, over the mist-laden moors toward daylight; smuggle a few embers 'cross the threshold to the waking world with you. If we must travel that bridge and that land so often, we might as well steal back a little bit of fire from the gods, carry it with us, yes?

Oh, and if you see me out there among the stars, say Hi, will you?

I hope that you can find some rest when you need it, and moments of beauty every day in the weeks ahead. And, don't you worry, I'll leave the candle burning for you.

Word of The Night: Dormiveglia (n.) - the space between sleep and awake, or, half-sleep.