Dream Clouds and Bridge Thoughts

Inside my mind, I like to conglomerate my blog-readersphere into one person.

This Reader Of Mine reads my blog while sitting in his living room. He lives in a generic American state that is mostly flat and completely snow-covered. He sips his mint tea at night, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes after trudging to and fro all day long. The monotony is getting to him. The snow is getting to him. He tries to think about something wonderful to brighten his evening. His mind drifts to dreams. He dreams of other places, because there are so many in this world (and even outside it). He wonders, though, if adventures are real, not just things of childhood.

I think that I am really writing to myself, two years ago, when I add new blog-posts about my life here in Spain. On days when I would march to the library, among snow drifts, as the wind whips hair out of my braid, I would dream of somewhere else. Not that winter is bad. I love it, truly I do. But wind blows in my memories of dreary days. That I just can't help. Monotony and wind and dreams of somewhere else.

When I got to Spain, Consuelo gave me two keys, one to the Apartment building and one our own 9th floor flat. They felt kind of awkward in my hands, as I've never really used house keys or dorm keys (In Alaska, I lived in the boonies. Concordia is relatively safe, plus Erin and I were really much too lazy). I didn't pay much attention to the somewhat filthy key chain that linked these new tokens of urban-living until a week after I moved in.

(However, I've guarded those keys with my life. Consuelo often compares me to "Mickey", the previous American girl who lived with her. According many of my friend, this is typical of Señoras. Anyway, Mickey was pretty much the bees-knees. HOWEVER- Mickey lost her keys. I WILL NOT LOSE MY KEYS. I WILL beat Mickey and Consuelo will talk about me for years to come. Ha.)

Back to The Key Chain.

The key chain is small and white and shaped like a cloud that has drifted over Nebraska on an early May afternoon. I was walking across my beloved bridge, el Puente de Isabela Segunda, as the sun descending for a late-afternoon dip. I casually looked to make sure I still had my Tickets to Victory (my keys). I realized that the cloud had elegant cursive writing on it, which I had never actually read before.

The cloud says, as follows:

"Blue * Bay

For Dreamers Only!"

I have no idea what that means.

But I'm used to being confused here, inside this adventure

of language

and of culture

and of orange trees.

"I am a Lady in Spain" and, this is a place,

if there ever was one,

for dreamers.

("I can be anything that I see").

So please dream on, Reader of Mine, inside your snowy house. It is not in vain, it is not a worthless pursuit. Plan something wonderful and do it tomorrow, even if it is just to paint a picture or buy hot cocoa or go to the Coffee House in Lincoln. Pray a lot. And Find your Blue * Bay.

Today I walked across the bridge again (But this time, in my new boots, thank you very much. Adventurers need good, leather boots, right?). The sun glittered down into the river below. I've seen icy-snow sparkle and grass shine, wet with dew. But this was different. This was golden water and blue light.

The stuff dreams are made of. At least, my dreams.

I blinked my eyes and it was still there and I was still there and a Spanish family walked past me in a hurry.

I realized, today, that I have found my Blue * Bay; I am living inside an golden-blue adventure that smells of orange tree blossoms and sounds like the word elegante.

And so, Reader Of Mine...

God made a Blue * Bay for you too.

What will yours be like?

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IMPORTANT NOTICE:

*****************************

I realize that I could google the heck out of the phrases on The Key Chain and find out its origin.

I do not want to do this.

I do not want to know any of that.

I like to dream and imagine and live outside reality, sometimes.

So I ask that you not comment on this post regarding the real Blue Bay. It's supposed to be a metaphor, people. Honor the figurative language of Prose.

Thank you, dream on and pray hard.