I had a dream, not too long ago, that I stood beside an old woman and I listened to her sing. I helped her gather fire wood, while singing. We built this huge bonfire, this pyre. I sat down at her feet and silently we shared a meal. She took my hand and kissed my cheek. I walked into the fire all by myself. I was smiling, blessed out, when I did this. I burned, in the sweetest agony imaginable. I had to burn away the me that was still left-over, the me I no longer desired to be, the me that no longer served my needs or met with my approval or sympathy.
This morning, when I awoke, I knew I had dreamed of the old one again. My eyes were nearly crusted shut with tears shed in my sleep. There remained a bitter taste of sand and ash upon my tongue. No amount of brushing or gargling could send it away. My back ached terribly, as if in my sleep I have wings and I spent the night high flying and carrying unimaginable loads. I awoke feeling almost blinded when I was able to open my eyes finally, after wiping the dampened crusts away with a warm wet rag. My thighs were tight and tense, as if I had spent the night climbing mountains while shoving rocks ahead of me the whole trip. At least going down the other side doesn’t seem to have hurt me, too much.
I sat down to write my morning pages, something I do not always do. In fact, I very rarely do it. I set out this morning intending to program my writing to be about that unknowable dream. I can do this, sometimes. It is similar to lucid dreaming, only I am awake. Somewhere between lucid dreaming and automatic writing. Here is what I came away with at the end:
She was there again, the Old One. She comes to me sometimes. More often than I think. She teaches me in my dreams. It is more than the only time I can listen; it’s the only time I can hear. She takes my hand and leads me out into the fields. We walk for a very long time. She sings. She always sings. Her songs seep into the pores of my bones, deeper even than my subconscious. This goes deeper than my soul. This is generational knowledge, history passed from one century to the next, almost beyond genetic coding.
I see a field of animals approaching. It is a strange herd. Not animals I would put together in my own field, for their own safety. There are goats and sheep and vicuna and llama and alpaca and camel and ponies and donkeys and horses and yak and cattle and so many other animals. ‘Choose.’ The old woman tells me. There are so many colors and textures, so many different personalities. Which one is right for me? I ponder. I look at them; I look at her. ‘Can I choose more than one?’ She nods, smiling. She hands me this pair of shears and a basket. I take it I am to fill the basket. I go here and there, clipping a lock here, taking a few ounces, as discretely as possible, from there. I find this huge fat tortoiseshell rabbit, gnawing on what to me looks like a dog’s chew bone. I don’t use shears on the rabbit. As I have no comb, I use my fingers to gently tease out bunches of the long silky multi-colored hair. It all goes into the basket. I cannot believe the basket holds so very much, even though I know I am tamping each stand into the basket, without doing it as hard as I can. I think the basket should be overflowing, but it is not. I do not know how long we spend there. The time comes when I want no more of it, docile and pleasant as all the creatures are. The smell of timothy grass is tickling my nostrils. I feel rain coming in the air.
I hand her back the shears, but carry the now burgeoning basket myself. She sings us back to her house. The smell of warm freshly-baked bread welcomes me in. I am Home; nothing else says home like bread made from scratch, much less having it fresh out of the oven. She bids me help myself to the fresh bread, and even to freshly churned butter she made herself that morning. Ice cold water from the well captured in a metal cup completes my fulfilling meal. I have never felt so good, so safe.
The old woman has been busy. She is separating and cleaning the wools I cut. I watch as she busies herself, always humming, singing under her breath, as she washes and combs out, begins carding the wool. I sit at her feet, a devoted student, once she threads the fiber into her spinning wheel, I have no idea how. All I know is first there is a pile of fluff and suddenly her feet are thumping, her voice is ringing out, and she is spinning the most beautiful glittering yarn I have ever seen. All for me. I am so humbled, so honored. It takes every ounce of restraint I have to not burst into tears. No one has ever shown me so much love before, not since I was a young child and my mother made me piles of doll clothes for Christmas. All by hand. Well, by machine, but still. She even made me outfits from the same material, so my doll and I would match. That was the greatest and best holiday I ever had, because she worked so hard to make me those clothes, because she loved me. That is the feeling threatening to cascade over me now.
I cannot tell you how long we sat there like that, her with that rollicking voice and pumping feet just going to town, while I sat there spell-bound the entire time. I knew that it took a great deal of wool to make a small amount of yarn, but when she was done, there was a huge fat spool of thick bumpy homespun yarn. In so many different colors, all blended together in a great harmonious strand.
She sent me out to pick up some twigs from the ground outside. She said to trust my heart and my instinct. I did as I was told. I brought in six sticks, each roughly eight to ten inches long. ‘Perfect!’ she cried when she saw them. She whipped out a little pocket knife, sharpened the end of a couple, scrubbed sand up and down their lengths and, much to my amazement, she settled into knitting. She sat in her big comfy rocker, swinging back and forth. Me she had read from a this tremendously wide book, with thick pages, hand-written with the most amazing and delightful tales, none of which can I retell now, even though I know they live on within me as well.
I had to stop several times to fill her cup, or mine. We had gone from the crisp clear well water to darkly brewed black tea, along with yummy slices of bread, slathered with more butter and sweet nearly black honey. She still hummed, even as I read. It was the most incredibly nourishing time I have spent anywhere, more than food or nutrition. This fed my soul, my heart, my tiny little child hidden so far away inside for too long.
After I had read enough of the stories in the book, she and I shared conversation, described relatives, discussed herbs and flowers. Talked about clothing, animal husbandry, personal security. The actual meaning of true love. She knitted with amazingly fast hands the whole time. She somehow managed to eat, even the sticky bread, as she continued to knit. It was a wonderment to me. I wish I had such talent. Maybe I do and I simply do not know it, or recognize it. Not in myself.
‘Done,’ she announced with a joyous cry. She had me stand, wrapped this stunning cloak around my shoulders. It was long, luxurious, so simple, so elegant. It trailed along the ground a good three or four inches. There was a hood to draw up over my face if the weather grew inclement. There were twisted yarn tied to secure it shut at the throat. There were even pockets, a series of pockets, large and small, some inside the other, hidden on the inside, within easy reach of my over-eager paws. I was so happy, I was bouncing up and down, laughing and teasing and so marvelously grateful.
She took my hand and out the door we strode. She walked me along, through the woods, into the hills. She whispered some secrets in my ear, things I cannot here recall, and she gave me a nudge in the right direction. There was no path, per se. Maybe an old deer run, if that. I decided to make my own way. The cloak of so many colors blocked the thorns and the brush and the normal entanglements. Even my hair stayed leaf and twig free, for once.
I awoke long after my journey Home ended. I don’t know for certain what that means to me, or where that journey took me. Hopefully, I shall recognize it when I find the way once more. My cloak is still with me, in the light of day. I can feel its safe heady warmth, smell its woodsy outdoor smell. I feel it protecting me. I know I can do anything.
Posted by KnittingJourneyman 
Posted by KnittingJourneyman 
