Right in the middle of the dream, right when its bright and sunny, right when it’s bold and clear. This elephant appears, trudges; smudging everything around the edges.
There are some similarities, I guess. Between me and him. He holds his head high, like me. He’s robust, like me; he has a long memory, like me. He’s strong, like me. But why ruin my perfectly good dreams?
The day goes, work slowly trudges, day dreams are stunted and in moments when the sunlight peaks through the clouds of winter, there he is.
Larger than life, but not pretty; I guess majestic, but he is smelly, dirty, and hairy.
He walks across my dreams and smudges the edges, because he can I suppose.
I look around me at the end of the day and an itch starts in my fingers to write. Write something. Anything. And I clean the house, clean my mind, clean the sheets, clean the bathroom floor, the toilet, the bathtub and around the sink while I’m at it. I need to clean some more, get the vacuum out and get in the corners, really get this place clean. Then I could rearrange something.
I have ways of procrastinating that could keep me busy and away from this keyboard for days, weeks. I have ways of turning all that time into a fear that could keep me away for months; and I have ways of turning those months into years.
Oh, I could still call myself a writer during that time, opening a note book and scribbling some pithy poetry to give the illusion that I’m…a writer!
Instead, there must be an instead.
I find instead in this book I read, Bird by Bird. It said that in these procrastination moments, there is a little creature in the basement of myself who is figuring out my shit, shifting through the piles of things I throw down there in the coal shute. He is doing his thing, and I’m not supposed to rush him, and do my thing. Which is to write; write even nonsense the book said. If you must write nonsense then that’s what you have to do. Not even have to, it’s just what you do do.
So here I am, cleaning it all and waiting; and while I wait, I have this elephant.
He showed up in a moment, in a dream. He wasn’t there at first, at first there was weightlessness and sun…and then suddenly, an elephant.
Why this elephant? What does he have to show me?
So I looked into it. Just so I could keep writing, just so the words keep coming while my little gremlin in the basement sorts and gets ready to hand up ideas and inspiration to me. I won’t rush the little guy. Hate to do that.
So Elephants, the elephant that runs cross my dreams.
Elephant trunks can get very heavy. It is not uncommon to see elephants resting them over a tusk. I forget to do that, rest my heavy burdens that I carry with me over my tusk; I forget to rest my worries. I forget to give them up, instead I carry them on my own shoulders and let them get heavy, I let them burrow me into a slump. I forget to remember that my tusk is a part of me, and it can not be gotten rid of, but it can be rested. I forget that.
Elephants cry, play, have the capacity for memories, and laugh.
I forget to play and laugh. When did I begin to forget to do those things?
Elephants are sensitive to fellow elephants; if a baby complains, the entire family will rumble and go over to touch and caress it.
Elephants have greeting ceremonies when a friend that has been away for some time returns to the group.
Elephants grieve at a loss of a stillborn baby, a family member, and other elephants.
Elephants don’t drink with their trunks, but use them as “tools” to drink with. This is accomplished by filling the trunk with water and then using it as a hose to pour it into the elephant’s mouth.
I looked up Elephants who walk, uninvited, across dreams. The internet said something about how dreaming of an elephant can be linked to the memory, pointing to something forgotten in your life.
So there it is, maybe I forgot how to live for the moment. Maybe that is why he is so persistent in walking across my dreams lately. Or maybe that little gremlin in my basement, sorting through my crap wanted to introduce himself, perhaps he’s an elephant.