Dream the impossible dream.

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?

 

The Same Way

The Same Way

People don’t  always see things in the same light.  Reactions will differ, from something to nothing at all.  Even in seeing a blade of grass. The same blade of grass in a sea of millions of other blades, an observer might ask: why are you looking at that blade of grass? -singular, like yourself. – And if you choose to answer them they still may not understand.  You simply have to move on.

On the road again

 

Traveling is an adventure.  When you have a destination in mind the getting there can be wrought with interesting sights, such as these urban landscapes.  The living spaces stacked upon one another in the apartment building of the Bronx seems an inhumane way of existence.  Growing up in a small midwestern town, I was amazed when I went away to college and met people who actually grew up in New York City.  Their way of life fascinated me and my social mind wanted to know the ins and outs of their daily lives.  The image recalls stories I found in books my mother brought home for me when I was in High School, like “Manchild in a Promised Land,” by Claude Brown.  It was about the struggle for one young man trying to make something of himself, amidst the violence and adverse living conditions in Harlem.  A fight imposed upon an adolescent like myself, for the simple reason he was black.  I admired his persistence and desire to be something other than a casualty in the street.  Memories of the past, and experience in the present converge. I was inspired to take these photographs, while our car sped along the interstate on the way to JFK.

David and His Violin

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Meadow

The decision is made! The drive to move on in search of a new horizon will happen.   New land with predictable contours, for plowing, planting and cultivating, will be had.  The last winter in Wisconsin had settled in for the Garland’s. On a visit to Grandad McClintock’s, in the dead of winter, where family gathers round the fire and the romantic Uncle David plays the violin with his Celtic fervor, and mother sings along, dissent is heard by the news that the Garland family will be settling in Winneshiek on the edge of Looking Glass Prairie. Going to Iowa!

Grandpa McClintock doesn’t want to see his daughter go. He says, to Mr. Garland,

Ye’d better stick to the old coulee, ‘…a touch of sadness in his voice.’  Ye’ll find no better here. …ye belong here. It’s the curse of our country, -this constant moving, moving. I’d have been better off had I stayed in Ohio, though this valley seemed very beautiful to me the first time I saw it.

The conflict between staying and leaving continues, as the mother in singing, “O’er the Hills in Legions Boy,” is subdued by the prospects of separation, and her husband, the ‘explorer, pioneer’ can only see the opportunities ahead, in a new land. Hamlin says, “life is a struggle, love a torment,” as the mind set for preparations is formed.  Even Grandpa  knows deep down the heart wrenching feeling of leaving your loved ones behind.

Hamlin’s autobiography is beautifully rendered in a poetic language, imbued with contrasting tones of light and dark, reminiscent of the true romantic spirit of the author and the times.   His descriptions of the land, and the mood they cast are indelibly etched in his memory. It is in his darkest poetic thoughts, where true meaning is found.

The reader is constantly reminded of the perspective of the author of “A Son of a Middle Border,” looking back in time. Remembering the bittersweet experience of being torn from the land of his blood, and his undying search of his childhood roots.

It all lies in the unchanging realm of the past-this land of my childhood. Its charm, its strange dominion cannot return save in the poet’s reminiscent dream. No money, no railway train can take us back to it. It did not in truth exist-it was a magical world, born of moaning winds-a union which can never come again to you or me, father, uncle, brother, till the coulee meadows bloom again unscarred of spade or plow.

Isn’t it what we all yearn for, to return to the ‘impossible past’ and relive the sweet magical scent of the fragile dreams that never really were?