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The Dreamer & The Fawn

My grandmama (on my mother’s side) wrote a beautiful poem about a young man from long ago and a love that they shared yet was never spoken of. It stays with me, here and there I’ll see it among all her writings, letters and stories. When I think of it, as I find myself now, I always wonder why… why they never told each other how they truly felt? Never the right time perhaps? Something or someone always getting in the way? I suppose I’ll never really know… I can only hope that now on another plain they have found a way to exchange soft words and not far off glances, glances inevitably blocked by “the timing just isn’t right.”

Does one ever truly have the courage to risk breaking friendships that are so elegantly intertwined? Those that seem to stay in a land where time stands still, each moment filled with laughter and promises of forever never coming to pass.

The poet who speaks with flowers and words scripted upon stones hidden far away. But is it only a romantic fantasy? A stable boy finding his way to the princess, though worlds keep them long apart.

How do we dream up such things? Is it not because of the heart. The heart which through shadow and dark passage can only speak the truth, untainted by jealous thought and fear, the heart a peaceful warrior always steady, always strong. The candle in the wind.

“Bring me a rose any day and smile sweetly, I’ll remember, through star cast nights when the winds whisper ‘always and forever’, I’ll remember…”

“Wait for the pass to open when winter is finally gone, but be wary, sweetheart, of waiting far too long. The spring will come then go, the grass will weave and frosts not so tender hand will grasp and tear, another winter has come and for what? To leave one waiting… and springs perfect timing yet again to come, missed, now gone…”

For all my thought-filled wanderings I’ll leave your mind to play with this.

Be wary sweetheart. ‘Alone’ is ‘long’, when robbed of ‘A’, ‘E’ and followed by ‘G’. … and love is hardly this sensible… Be it always tender and strong.

-Said the wayward dreamer to the fawn.

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Correspondence, magic and the dreamer.

As I attempted to organize my (very) small room today and sort some of the many things I’ve inherited from my Grandmama Moo (I have been very lucky to inherit two beautiful little writing desks, one from my step grandma and one from Moo), attempting to sort the massive amount of writing materials into my two desks had me beyond overwhelmed, I hadn’t even begun to understand the beautiful collection of writing materials that Moo had, still I’m in awe, she had the most wonderful collection of postcards! Some to send out to friends and some for her own personal collection which is sorted into binders beautifully.
Even before I was a teenager I had discovered my love for writing and much like Moo my love for sending and receiving beautiful cards via snail mail, an art form and a hobby that has been abandoned by many nowadays and very much so by my generation… to my utmost despair.

The depth of the loss of my Moo slowly has been sinking in, it’s layers, constant layers that one has to find a way through over what feels like a very long time, in my experience sometimes years…. And so it has struck me that I have no one to write to anymore, Moo and I had an extensive history of correspondence and here I have her ‘writers dream of a collection’ of correspondence materials and no one to write to…

Moo and I would write about the trees, the sunsets, the flowers on her patio, how she loved the sea, magic, romance, cherry blossoms and our hopes and dreams in life, we had a language, a heart connection and a mutual love for the written word that I felt no one else truly understood, it was our soul food and corresponding with each other kept our dreams alive.
Of course it’s been sometime since she was able to write, the last year really she couldn’t manage, her eye sight and weariness made writing difficult, she often would have one of her grandchildren help her to respond to friends as it was easier than struggling to herself.

Denial, not wanting to see the truth of her age and the reality that she was not going to somehow recover from things was something that I struggled to accept, when someone has been in your life for always it’s hard to imagine them not being there, it’s still hard and likely will be for sometime.

I can’t stop writing, not ever, somehow I will find a way to forge on and though there will never be another Moo to dream with, perhaps through time I can find a few to write with and continue my Grandmama’s passion… weaver of stories… Until then I shall write to her, I shall write to her here and share with you dear readers the way Moo and I saw things and how that magic picked us up and carried us throughout our days.

"Not all those who wander are lost" J.R.R. Tolkien

“Not all those who wander are lost” J.R.R. Tolkien