Woman, 66, Missouri, USA
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly
Into the mystic.
[. . .]
I wanna rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
Then magnificently we will float
Into the mystic . . . Van Morrison
I lived on the north coast of California for 40 years. In those four decades, I rarely lived out of hearing range of the ocean. I could not see it, but I could hear it. On calm days, it was subtle undertone; if you have ever held a seashell to your ear, you know what I mean. On days of extreme wind, it was loud roar, assertive and powerful. Sometimes, the wind was not even local, but it still pushed waves from far out at sea, huge waves, big enough to lift tree trunks and throw them to the beach.Full Bio
On clear evenings, I used to stand on precipice of the sea cliff. The ocean was a bowl, the lights of crab boats looked like faerie lanterns floating on the calm waters. On many days, the fog drifted in, sometimes in wisps, and sometimes, in blankets. Other days, the fog was faster, driven by winds not strong enough to clear it, but enough to drive it inland for miles.
But it was on those clear evenings, just as the sun was setting or just after, the last rays making the ocean opalescent, that made me long to sail into the mystic. There is no true mystery but the mystery of the mystery. We yearn for that which we have not seen but which we have dreamed. We make our myths, and we yearn for that which has passed. We yearn for better times. We yearn to be happy.
There are poets and those who would be poets who merely string rhyming words together. The opalescent ocean is a poem; the white cat walking across the green field is a poem; the baby’s laugh is a song.
There are the dreamers, those who see the fantastic and the wonder, their worlds filled with colors and what ifs. There are those whose only dreams are nightmares.
There are the storytellers, those who take the dreams and speak them into existence; they spin the yarn and knit it into the colors of the dream. Then, there are those who speak in monotones and who watch TV.
My spirit is that of the gypsy, but my feet are not. I am not a poet, but I am a storyteller. I dream: sometimes, they are nightmares and other times, they are of a green world or a blue fluttering bird that is not a bird at all, but a small, blue tiger striped kitten with wings.
I have no interest in the monotone speakers; no interest in those whose only dreams are nightmares; no interest in those who have no understanding of what it might mean to sail into the mystic. If you have never experienced hiraeth, it is likely you will have no clue.
But it is all perspective, all is relative.
And it still stands that if you voted for Trump, do not bother to contact me. I am not tolerant of men who think it is appropriate to grab women's crotches nor will I tolerate sexism or racism.
Color is the spectrum of the rainbow, not a "type" of human.