Category: Storytelling

Dream the impossible dream.

~ TiffanyCreek

A friend of mine, interested in reading Don Quijote de la Mancha, wondered if anyone wanted to join her in the quest. Being a good friend, I said “Yes!”  In the vein of a true masochist I delved into the pages of this very old book, and reintroduced myself to the genius of Miguel de Cervantes – to his complex use of the Spanish language and natural wit to recreate the dreamy character, Don Quijote de la Mancha.

I remember the story fairly well.  DQ, off on a mission to reconstruct his life as a knight in shining armor, is in reality the opposite from what he conjures in his mind – a middle aged decrepit old man who has gone mad reading too much literature: stories like “El Mio Cid” and “Amadís de Gaula,” depicting heroes of the Spanish Medieval Age.  Don Quijote emulates everything about these characters, and aims to be like them.

In chapter two, Don Quijote, departs from his humble abode to travel under the heat and dryness of the day.  Cervantes satirically wrote: (my own translation)  “The sun ardently beat down forcefully, enough to melt the brains of anyone, if they had them at all.”   In his travels, DQ comes upon a castle, and of course he arrives wondering why he is not received with regal pomp, and circumstance.  In search of a place to rest his head he’s greeted by the keeper using words reminiscent of the piqued sarcasm of Cervantes, and paints a picture of life that is far from luxurious:  “the beds of your honor will always be hard rocks and your hours of sleep, forever wakeful.”  It’s a warning of the worst to come, for the knight-errant who just began his journey, carries only visions of grandeur in his head.

DQ continues his journey in Chapter 3, riding his skinny horse named Rocinante, on the look out for his fairly unkempt princess, Dulcinea. Soon he meets his fat and faithful side kick, his ‘escudero’ Sancho Panza.  Sancho is a faithful companion. Traveling with Quijote throughout the story, Sancho tries to convince his lord of Reality, but the hopeless Don Quijote insists on dreaming the impossible dream.

My friend and I soon concurred that perhaps we wouldn’t read the WHOLE book, in one fell swoop, for we have much else to do, but we’ll honor Cervantes in creating this great masterpiece, and plan to return to the story, in some shape and form, for to abandon Don Quijote is to abandon the truth he sought.  So like Sancho Panza, we will in spirit accompany Don Quijote through his journey, to pursue the impossible dream, for it’s the journey of all of us, and aren’t we all together, in this quest?

 

Philadelphia, Frozen in Time

~ TiffanyCreek

Time has a way of playing tricks on the mind.  It was only three weeks ago that I passed through the City of Brotherly Love on a frigid day in January.  It seems like ages.

Inspired by the solid steel and concrete, of the urban landscape, I took the photo quickly, from moving traffic.  I was on my way to visit the new  Museum of the American Revolution.

The image sits in contrast, with the idea of fleeting time.  It is symbolic of the ongoing Revolution, in the U.S.A.

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Raspberry Farm

~ TiffanyCreek

Being away from home can be disconcerting at times. Especially when it is frequent.  I love to travel, but I also like to be home.  I guess I’m kind of a homebody at heart.  When the opportunity presents itself, however, to go somewhere else, I generally seize the moment.  I always think, ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ and no matter what, after going away, I more and more realize that if I don’t do something when I can, I would undoubtedly regret and wonder what I had missed out on. I don’t want to miss out on anything!

With all that said, it’s always good to come back, to sleep in my own bed and to be in familiar surroundings. After 35+ years in New England I would say I have become somewhat of a Yankee, though you can’t take the Midwestern soul out of my core.

A visit to this Raspberry Farm put my mind in motion about how good it is to explore the places in my own back yard.  I stopped in on the way back from errands.  I’ve passed it frequently and always wanted to pay a visit. That I did!

I went into the shop with the big ‘Welcome’ sign up. Generally, this is a place where you can pick your own, but on account of the rains the night before, the patch was closed, so instead, I bought a small box of raspberries and some vegetables, tomatoes, raspberry jam made on the place, and some local honey.  I even grabbed a few recipes they had hanging on the door.

On my way out I thought to ask the saleslady if I could take some pictures of the farm.  It is impressively well run, and obvious the owners put their everything into keeping it nice for the public.  The pictures show how well run it is.  Curiously the varieties are given French names, as you can see in the photos.  Prelude is the only raspberry bush still producing.  It gives two crops of fruit, one in the early summer, and again in August/September.  I presume in October, they die out.

I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful blue sky and white fluffy clouds to bring out the late summer cheer of the the day.  Bittersweetly the Autumn’s tune was playing in the air.  Must enjoy the days, as short as they may be getting to be, and take in the transitions of a new season to come.  They all have some beauty to share.

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Lost Image

~ TiffanyCreek

Once upon a time, there was a young Asian girl, who wore her long hair pulled back in a pony tail.  She had bangs. One summer day, she was feeding the birds at a city square. Leaning over slightly, her left hand held a bag with food; with the right, she gently tossed the seeds to the grey doves.  They eagerly gathered at her tiny feet.

On this day, her jersey waisted turquoise coat clashed with the bright green grass, growing where dry parched soil allowed.  It was in the afternoon.  She donned a pretty white crinoline skirt trimmed with a pink ribbon along the edge, which fell at her knees. Her tennis shoes, matched the trim on her skirt.  The fine spectacles sitting on her olive-toned skin, glistened with sparkles.

She was happy and beautiful!

A short distance away across the drive, there was a barely perceptible figure of a man, supinely stretched out along the grass.  His head lie northeast, and his feet together, southwest. Completely still, he went unnoticed, until… the soon to be lost image, appeared on my screen.

The girl, disappeared!

 

In the quiet of the night…

~ TiffanyCreek

…in a place called Stow-On-The-Wold, the sound of bells chimed twice, and again, five times.  Oh! What it must have been like when this sound kept time for the people of the village.  Was I in such a deep sleep they couldn’t be heard upon every hour?

Earlier in the eve, venturing off down the village, a friendly footpath was found.  The trail lined with Queen Anne Lace and trees, crossed through the woods from one road to the other that ran parallel.  It was getting late, but the day after the solstice placed the sun higher in the sky, giving plenty of light.  With so much light, the ticking of the clock and passing of time hardly matter in the evening hours.

Continuing on to the village, through a narrow passage along the Baptist church established in 1852, there was a courtyard, with a wall. On the inside a row of tombstones were lined up along the perimeter.  Some were huge, incised with well defined letters, others were so terribly worn away that only a few shapes of the cursive could be made out with the human eye.  I ran my hand across the surface hoping I could make out some name or date, but no.  Then, down the road there was another cemetery, quite large in size, closed until the break of another day.  The 23rd, came to an end.

Now, in the morning, the cars can be heard rushing by the window of the room, which lies a bare foot from the road.  My wild imagination makes me fear the possibility of a drunk colliding in the night with a car.  One more here, I’ll just put that out of my mind.  I will listen for the bells to ring once more.

 

“A Day In The Life of Luna” ~ Revised

~ TiffanyCreek
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Luna, at the Sea

Made a journey down a winding road, to see an old friend and a dog named Luna. Near the coast we stayed.  We listened to the not so distant waves come and go, in a rhythmic way.  The smell of salt was in the air.

The next morning, on a walk at the beach, the tilting fence post glistened in the sun, with sand at its feet. Budding rose bushes, splattered bits of red color upon the dunes.  The dynamic sea awaited the hustle and bustle of beachgoers, after Luna and her friends had their play.

In the afternoon, the sun beat down. Children frolicked at the shore with mother and father at their sides, building castles in the sand.  They felt unfettered, by the rough canine play, of the early morn.

What did Luna think, as she lay at home sleeping, mid-day?  There, she was dreaming of her four-legged pals, from whom she would steal balls and sticks, as they raucously rolled in the sand.  Then, swim!

In the hours, when the night had fallen, and twilight awoke, daybreak returned to summon Luna out to play.  Alone, she could not go. She rose, wagged her tail, and sniffed and licked the face of my sleepy friend.  She was begging to go to the ocean, where she would find her friends again; and so they did.

With every journey, there is something to be learned. On this one, it was knowing a day in the life of Luna, and the simple pleasures it brings.

 

 

“I cannot not sail”

~ TiffanyCreek

While the grogginess of waking comes over me, on this gray rainy morning in early October, an autumnal mood hangs in the atmosphere. Yesterday, we were forewarned of the coming of Joaquín. Beware! A huge hurricane was riding the waves of the sea!  Relieved, we were spared from another big one.

With the season in our midst, I remember the occurrence of Hurricane Gloria, at the end of September of 1985.  Coming from the Midwest, this was the first hurricane I experienced in my life.  Similarly, my husband came from the Ring of Fire, where earthquakes are the norm. In light of the newness of it all, fear was not on my agenda, having lived through many a Wisconsin tornado and blizzard.

The morning before Gloria’s expected arrival, on the advice of a vigilant neighbor, I hurried out to buy batteries, only to find every store, wiped out of supplies. No new batteries, and no duct tape, to secure the windows. Making do with the Duracells, found around the house, I prayed the panes wouldn’t break. Well, the storm, a lesson in science, was proven to be an all day process, moving into the next. As I stood, looking out the divided lights, I saw the trees bend and sway back and forth. They moved 180 degrees, from one side to the other, like sticks of licorice. The daunting speed of the wind caused the trees to crash to the ground around the house. One, two, three and another, uprooted from the base, they fell with a huge thump. The house was being spared, except for the electrical box. Without warning, a trunk like branch from a tree fell on the wires extending to the street, and the metal case was abruptly severed from the clapboard siding, strewing live wires all over the ground, outside.  Then, an incredible stillness enveloped the air as the eye of the storm passed overhead, only to be followed by a more gently flowing wind. Nearing the end, Mother Nature had orchestrated a tremendous performance, with her emissary; The great and powerful Gloria!

Life was disrupted for several weeks into the month of October.  The clean up was slow going, and the crews worked morning and night to restore electricity. The public waited patiently, as fleets of trucks, were sent from Quebec. They were like the Messiah, coming to bring everyone out of the dark.  A heavily wooded state, storms inevitably pose a problem for Connecticut, and its residents can pretty much expect to cook with propane, and burn the lamplight oil.

Well, we survived. I look back, with gratitude that I had no small children to watch out for, and, there was no loss of life, at least that I know of in Connecticut, or New England.

Sitting on the Atlantic Coast, we wait patiently, and ponder, as hurricane season descends upon us. Will the brewing storms perish at sea, like Joaquín, or should one  “batten down the hatches’, before it’s too late? In my quest for enlightenment, I ask myself, “What kind of a sailor will I be in the next storm?  Will I have duct tape and batteries, and jugs and jugs of water?  Will my bathtub be filled, and overflowing?”   The question is not; Will another storm blow in? but rather, How can I ever be prepared? Having not the answers, with affection, and humble regard for the unknown, I recall the beloved words of E.B. White. “I cannot not sail.”