To paraphrase another crooked president, let me make something perfectly clear: If you are a Trump supporter, do not both sending a PM to me.
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 a subtle undertone; if you have ever held a seashell to your ear, you know what I mean. On days of extreme wind, it was a booming 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.
On clear evenings, I used to stand on the 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 of 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 there are 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.
One does not need to believe in the supernatural to seek the mystic.