I was born and raised on a farm in the middle of NC. While I have always enjoyed stories and been drawn to the mystical, I spent a lot of years without managing the focus to bring the two interests together in any meaningful way. So what happened? Well . . . sooner or later the Powers That Be call a person to stand for the reason they came.
Personal lore is a dubious drink, for the flavor changes each time you bring it to your lips. Given enough aging--from my own experience--the product is more fiction than fact--but what fact is not ripe for becoming fiction?--I find that if I scrutinize any moment's ramble of my past, the story often breaks down into a mix of dreams I've had, past conversation, and maybe something I read or heard. A person might say that something such as daydream is not real, and certainly not biographical. I would have to disagree. How can one come to an understanding of the tangible without the ethereal?--Personal myth.
In dream, I found myself looking next door, up at the 2nd story sleeping porch of an older home on a tree-lined Southern street. There I saw a circle of nine basinets. In each basinet rested a white swan, head tucked down. After taking a moment to consider my location and situation, I returned my attention to the porch to find the swans had become nine brightly dressed old women wearing wide-brimmed Sunday sun hats (my muses, of course), standing side by side, smiling down on me and gaily talking among themselves.
Dream is fever to the conscious mind, inducing illusion. Illusion? Or, enlightenment? They are one, except by perspective.
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