Day 339 - For the Love of Fantasy

The girl listened to the quiet hum of the empty house from where she had lazily flopped on the aqua green sofa, her head bent awkwardly against the square arm. She could feel the stiff leaf pattern of the upholstery pressing into her arms and legs, the fabric as rough as a worn down bristle brush. The sofa didn't belong to them. In fact, there was a lot of mysterious furniture in this house that didn't belong to them. They had brought with them little more than a few wooden boxes of household necessities, a modest assortment of decorations, and a simple wardrobe adequate enough to clothe the five of them.

Now there were six of them. She could hardly believe it. She had the brother she had always wanted. The girl didn't know how long she had wanted a brother or why she was so sure that he would one day be her big brother - she just knew that she did...and that he was her big brother, even if he was just a tiny baby in a cradle now and she was almost nine years old. She flinched a little as the furnace kicked on and the basement sent up a creaky moan through the floor vents. Her eyes moved to the nearby french doors just to be sure that she was still alone, although she could see little more than the reflection of the paneled living room walls in the glass panes.

"You're fine," she muttered, "you read too much Nancy Drew is what..."

But even as she thought of her wonderfully brave and smart heroine, her mind eagerly dove into her favorite fantasy. The diamonds.

Right over there. Toward the end of the living room. There was a tear in the dark-colored carpet. Shaped like an L and not just a small tear, she was sure that beneath that seam in the carpet someone must have hidden something there long ago. A treasure. A velvety, musty pouch of shimmering diamonds. Maybe even a brilliant red ruby, as large as her baby brother's fist! Sometimes, she idly picked at the tear in the carpet to see if she could divine any clues. But she was more fearful of angering her parents...even though she knew that they would, of course, forgive her when she unearthed the jewels.

Maybe there was another way. The basement was immediately below and filled with curiosities.
Abandoned file cabinets filled with cataloged cards. The girl often rifled through the cards, hunting, searching, reading everything she could get her hands on - all to find the treasure that she was so certain must be there, somewhere.

But she never did find the diamonds, or the ruby, or any other hidden wealth.
She didn't have the proper time to solve the case before they moved again.
And as badly as she wanted her parents to not be poor or sick anymore, the girl was not able to save them from their unhappiness.

* * * * *

The four of them sat very still, unable to really take in what was happening. 

One minute the tires of their old van had been slowly grumbling over the crunchy gravel road and groaning at the lurch of the pot holes as they meandered back into the mountains toward their home. And then there was a blur of shouting voices from people running toward them on the road and brakes and reversing until the girl's father had eased the van precariously near the shoulder of the road where it dropped off steeply into a forested abyss.

And then her parents were gone.

Down into the abyss, scrambling some 200 yards or feet or miles or inches of rocky shale and sharp boulders.

Down to the truck that had strayed too far from the safety of the mountain and plummeted over the edge.

Down to the man with a violent gash in his head and beer cans strewn everywhere from the cab of his truck.

Down to the place of the dead.

The girl didn't know any of this, but she felt it as she looked at her younger sisters and her little brother. What would happen if her parents didn't come back? What if they died too? How would she take care of her siblings? But instantly she knew.

She too, would have to climb down, down, down to that dark valley of death, to her dead parents, and retrieve...

...her father's wallet.

That would be the first thing she would do.

She couldn't drive the rest of the way home, but they had bikes. She certainly wasn't old enough to work, but she knew how to. More than that, they needed money. Money was very important if you wanted to survive.

* * * * *

Church camp had been the highlight of her summer.

It hadn't been easy. After all, she had almost put her eye out by falling off the rope swing.

The girl had known she was terrified of the swing before she even tried it, but she made herself do it. She had to be tough! Be brave! 

So she valiantly grabbed ahold of the rough knotted rope, squeezed her eyes shut, and swung for all she was worth.

However, she didn't know to keep her elbows tightly bent against her ribs. She let her arms go too long and her hands couldn't hold on. Halfway across, she fell. The next thing she knew, she was picking herself up out of the creek bed in a dazed confusion. Instinctively, her hand moved to her face and when she saw the blood on her hand, she began cry. 

Loudly.

In a panic.

Her camp counselors rushed to her side and arrangements were quickly made to take the girl to the emergency room where she bravely received six stitches and an eye patch. She returned to camp for the rest of the week with her counselors close beside her. So, really, the week was perfect. The girl couldn't remember ever having received so much lavished attention before and she greedily drank it up. By the end of camp, she was hopelessly in love with her boy and girl counselor. They felt like her family and she hated the thought of going home.

A before pic, obviously.

But home she went.

It was hard going back to the humdrum of stoic responsibility and moral necessity of her regular life without them. She felt heavy in her heart as she walked slowly, tediously from one obligation to another. Then one day not long after, she made the mistake of watching the movie "Dirty Dancing" while she was still weighed down with sadness. And somehow, the passionate humility and brave tenderness of Patrick Swayze unlocked the flood gates in her.

With interminable sobbing, she filled one of the large family cotton handkerchiefs with tears and snot and anguished groaning. She cried because she missed her camp counselors. She cried for her loneliness and how badly she wanted to be rescued from the corner just like "Baby." 

The girl just cried and cried and cried. 

She really didn't understand her sadness.

Only that "Johnny" was something she deeply, deeply wanted.

* * * * *

These childish memories are comforting in an amusing sort of way.

(It's okay if you laughed. You were supposed to.)

Of course, these memories are not completely factual. They are only what my mind remembers of these fantasies, with only a few added embellishments. But lately, I've been wondering about the charming childish goodness of fantastical imaginations...versus when extended daydreams become lifelong disillusionment.

Fantasies...daydreams...imaginations...they are all born out of longing.

But what if those longings are seldom touched? Or acknowledged?

The more time goes by and those longings are neglected, they become wounds.

Like bed sores for the patient who is not properly touched, and washed, and salved, and held.

As those wounds deepen, so do the fantasies.

And a vicious cycle develops where reality is more and more mismatched to the needs of the hurting heart.

What if, instead, the fantasy was made real just a little? 

What if the girl felt the fear of death but then asked her parents what would happen if they died? What if she had learned who would take care of her? What if her fears had also been hugged and snuggled and pulled into a togetherness of warm arms and faces?

Does it make death stay away?....no.

But does it make her feel safer knowing that she doesn't have to face death alone?...maybe.

I know that my fantasies of love and belonging are my own creation, born out of some circumstance. And I can understand a little more why these fantasies metastasized to the point that real-life was seldom good enough or lasting enough or real enough. Why for so long my expectations were way too high. And then why, when desperation overwhelmed my expectations, I seemingly abandoned all standards for just the tiniest sip of slaking my thirst. 

Maybe there are parts of my childhood that could've been less lonely, but I'm all grown up now. I have children of my own and I have to grit my teeth against my own wild urges to throw myself headlong into the next sand mirage. I am traversing a desert of my own imaginations. I want to throw caution to the wind and chase after the fantasy (and the slim possibility) of the oasis, but right now setting up camp next to a deep well is more important than a lush paradise. I have to stop moving until I have my bearings and my strength again. Someday I will leave this nomadic wandering behind and find my home at last.

Or maybe I will find a home here.

Right next to this well.

With my children.

Weaving our jeweled fantasies into a magical tent,

And inside a luxurious bed, 

Covered with lots of pillows 

And hugs and snuggles. 

Maybe then my oasis will find me.