I went to bed last night with a fever. With a headache. Not exactly a vision of sugar plumbs. My head felt like a Violet Beauregarde turned bubonic blueberry. Rolled away, all motion sick and wondering if the little wholesome food I’d eaten would stay down. Stay down with homestyle hot turkey, and memoirs of a heroic Mandella. Invictus memories of handsome Matt Damon. Down, and still down for him. Thank God for being down sometimes.
I slept, and slept, and slept. Unlike me. Through early morning routines, and footsteps across hard wood floors, and opening and closing doors, and stoking fires. Rolled over toward my husband’s closeting, questionioning voice, “Will a purple tie go with a green sweater? I think I look like a green sweater. My ankle still the purple tie.
Pause. I stretch my mind to think from a fuzzy place. Whisper through closed eyes, “The meeting of North and South Summit,” Smile. “Ahhh. It doesn’t matter he says,” in a kind of style ignorant disgust that lends to color blindness. He doesn’t let this keep him from his worship. I am glad. I am trying to do the same from a SERTAn pew.
He’s right about this thing not mattering. Somehow I think even rivalries must follow rules. Rules. Rules. Rules. They have to stop. Rules and rivalries. Leave differences at the chappel doors… UNITE especially at Christmas.
Forget the pains. I would hope. Ask. Believe. Receive… these things of Christmas. All of the best gifts.
I do. Try. Wake to someone’s gentle touch. Delanie. In as much as my daughters are readying for church, I am not. My youngest is borrowing jewelry, or taking the loyal, purple swim bag hairdryer. She asks, “What are you doing in bed?” I try to feel my head, though for fear, I don’t want to. Breath. Wonder. Inhale in a big way. Exhale, “Am I dreaming brownies?”
Pause. I can not hear her. Wonder if she is gone as fast as she has come. She is still there. Smile.
In the other room I hear kitchen noises. Pots and baking pans clanking. Dish washer emptyings and loadings. “Devon made brownies for Young Women’s,” she announces. I smile another small smile in knowing the fever has broken, as if like a spell, by Delanie’s love touch on my arm and forehead. Her outreach, and soft serve soothing words. By Mark’s long suffering love, and keeping the home fire burning. By Devon’s love for friends and passion for baking. I know I am blessed in this and so much more.
I think I am living the dream. That waking to brownies smells and feels a lot like what going to Grandma and Grandpa Jensen’s house in Magna was like in childhood. In rock collecting, playing dominos and eating Ranch burgers. Like going next door to Mark’s mom’s for years and years in her mothering and raising me to near adulthood. In her grandmothering my children. In her support. In allowing me to become a teacher.
Home was next door for many years. The years I sometimes took for granted in being blind, and mostly seeing her the mother-in-law. Really more the mother to me than my own sick one. Coming home to hot, fresh, buttery bread at the bus drop off, and Hallmark holiday movies on the weekend and most any day. I am living the dream in waking, and in remembering Glenna.
I am “Living the Dream” some Saturdays or Sundays at school. Even when there are no children, it feels like home. I venture through dark hallways toward the inner sanctum office and workroom. No longer greeted by taxidermy. Bow in passing my Lord, Aslan. Also the mermaid, and laughing Seussical friends. They look down at me with night vision. Echolocation. David is up to no good up there. I imagine him covered in paint goodness. Hand prints everywhere. No scoldings.
All around me is goodness. I am filled with sweetness. Third grade gingerbread houses circle the library like a wagon train of Neccos. I am intoxicated in huffing these delicacies. In walking the Brave Way, as if from the end of a friendly smoking peace pipe, I expect to see dancing wolves and Tatonka join the fanciful bunch. A story painting, opera, or novel yet unwritten.
I can not see, but I know this is there. Like the faith of a child. I see differently when seeing from the heart and anything is possible.
Walking dark Christmas halls is like waking to brownies, I think. It is like waking an inner child. I smile in loving this tradition of parent and child connecting and creating. Think our form of public education is right on mark in this thing. Smile. If I could only explain this to some people. Parents. Home schoolers. Politicians. My sometimes stressed out self. No standardized test will take away from this because love can not be measured in this business model way.
I am waken by the Sunday muse as if a Tribune. A coveted news paper has been tossed my way. Full of color commics, and toyfilled ads, and travel, and Religious offerings, and Art scenes. In my mind and dreams I have been delivered the story in breathing brownies and writing opera lyrics for the last hour or so of sleep. I think I can wake up now and begin. Gently reach for Mac under my bed. She is a dear secretary I long to embrace in healing.
I think I should have a name for her as well and so I gift her one as sensibly as I gifted one to Pearl, my car. I tenderly make reintroductions, as she has been sleeping too. Readying for another WordPress. Now I can begin to continue. Opera will certainly ensue now as I am living the dream. Machelle will be my partner in good deeding, no doubt. In living the dream I am not alone.