Just a Poor Ghost

“Take me to the land of lovers where flowers bloom with love, birds sing with love, and hearts long for hearts. ”

–Debasish Mridha

I must admit, I have neglected the blog as of late. Part of it has been due to writer’s block, which I struggle with often. But the other part has been life in general, and juggling hobbies. I somehow try to fit music, writing, drawing, and poetry all into a life that is already full of mom and work duties. I make it work, I suppose, but the piano has been winning out a lot lately, much to the chagrin of my guitars.

Then there’s the dreams themselves. I’ve gone into another period of deeply dreaming that is much too personal to share now, if ever.

And now, in the midst of finals week, worn out, and with a tuckered out kiddo passed out in bed, I finally felt I had something easy to share. Something to at least break the silence, anyway. I was actually sitting at the piano, languidly pecking out the notes to a very lazy, half-hearted rendition of “Jingle Bells” when I finally decided to hit the computer keys instead.

This short little dream in particular began with me standing in the foyer of an old Victorian house. The walls were a creamy shade of white that played well with the natural red oak of the floor. The decor was simple and elegant, but that was not the draw. What grabbed my attention, instead, was the view from the foyer that went straight to the back of the house, through a narrow hall. At the end, there was a small set of french doors, and through them, I could see a yard, and beyond that, a river.

I walked down the hall, feeling very familiar in this place. It felt like somewhere I’d been before, yet unlike anywhere I’ve ever visited at the same time. When I made it to the French doors, I threw them open at once and walked out onto a brick veranda.

The yard that greeted me was gorgeously kept. Large, flowering bushes skirted the house, lined with little rows of smaller flowers. Roses, peonies, camellias, daisies, begonias… The flowers were an endless technicolor blanket that flanked the house and ran along the length of the yard, all the way to the river, giving the illusion of being in a walled paradise.

As I stepped off the veranda and down onto the lush grass, movement to my right caught my eye. Two hydrangea bushes were planted just beside the house on that side. At first glance, their bright blue flowers looked like ordinary blooms, however, as I approached them, I noticed that the flowers weren’t totally flowers.

Each bunch of blossoms had a pair of eyes that watched me eagerly, and as I peered more closely at them, I could make out more features. The elegant curve of a neck, and a fluttering and fanning of feathers… Each hydrangea bloom was actually a peacock, with the multitude of petals serving as their great train of feathers.

I giggled in surprise and many of them tittered out a a shrill cry, jumping from their bushes and flocking to my feet. Within a moment, I had probably a hundred of the little bird blossoms circling my ankles, cooing and preening in shades of cerulean, turquoise, and even magenta.

One particularly plucky individual pecked at me, and I scooped it up, cupping all of the feathers and petals in my hands. It looked up at me, curiosity on its face. I smiled at it, and it cocked its head to the side, then craned its neck up to get a better look at my face. The other peacocks looked on, entranced.

Just then, I sneezed, right on the poor creature.

It screeched and flapped its flower-feathers at me before hopping out of my hands and back to the ground. The crowd stared up at me for a moment with beady, black eyes. Then, very clumsily, they all teetered and tottered back to their bushes and hopped back to their branches. If looks could kill, I believe I’d be murdered by the bush.

“Well then, I’m so very sorry!” I said, laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

I looked around at the rest of the yard, turning my back to the little peacock hydrangeas. The river wasn’t too far off, though the sun reflected heavily off of the water’s surface, nearly blinding me.

In the searing light, through squints and blinks, I could make out a figure. Someone I loved, standing at the river bank, dressed all in white.

He waved. I waved back. He beckoned, and I took a step forward, fighting to hide the smile creeping across my face.

And then, as I walked to the river and felt arms encircling me, the dream faded out and I was awake in my room, no peacocks in sight.