The Pressure of Dreams
The work never stops on a farm—especially an old farm, with ceaseless renovations and repairs to see to. Leaking roofs, aging doors, gardens and trees—firewood to cut and stack—chimneys to sweep and water pipes prone to spontaneous eruption. The elements are punishing, the labor exacting—but the satisfaction in finally completing a prolonged and arduous project is unrivaled. We build and repair and plant and harvest under the curious gaze of the horses and goats. The flies in good weather are a menace, as is the deep mud in the rainy season—but even with eyes full of gnats, or the wheelbarrow mired in muck, there is nothing that induces me to dream of another day working in an office. Even when my right elbow begs for mercy, the pain is more welcome than spending eight hours in the soul-crippling neon light of an air conditioned building, watching the clock and dreaming of the sound of wind whispering in the trees.
It is growing hot, and having just finished evening chores, I look out into the courtyard from the cool embrace of a room I helped renovate last autumn. It was once a wood store, and is now a charming guest room, and the window to my right offers a portrait of the day. A gray dog sleeps in a patch of sun; below the stairs leading up to the attic, a large stack of firewood rests. It will cure in the summer heat, making ready for next autumn when the rain and the low clouds and icy nights return. Beyond the large, red iron doors in the eastern wall, which lie open, I can see the orange trees in the front garden—the green leaves glowing in the late afternoon light, exposing here and there ripe oranges that continue to drop unheard to the dusty ground below. A dove sits on the wall, above the red doors, and from the far side of the valley to the east peacocks are raising a racket, drowning out the hum of bees and other insects, lost in the shadows beneath the shrubs and tangles of all the wildness that crowds in under, over and through everything—every tree and shed—the barn and house and stone fences. Even the most seemingly delicate flower seems to me stronger than almost anything made by human hands—and certainly far more determined than even the most ambitious among us.
I have been rereading Howard's End, and it quite naturally has me thinking of houses—of homes; has me thinking of what they reflect about their occupants. Seven or eight years ago I was sharing a house in New Mexico with roommates who had allowed me to take charge of decorating the common areas. All of us were away one weekend, and when I returned home several days before anyone else, my first thought on stepping into the living room was: have we been robbed? After carefully examining the house I realized that—no, we had not been robbed—it was simply how I had decorated the house. My own personal aesthetic tends to minimalism, only I had not fully understood just how minimal that personal style is until wondering if someone had broken in during our absence. When we first moved in we painted nearly every room of that beautiful old adobe. The kitchen was a bright sunflower, and the living room had three oyster walls, and one painted the color of new bricks. In the morning, the sunlight came in through the one window in the living room, bounced off of the oyster colored walls and illuminated the deep orangey red one, which in turn cast a blush back into the room. In the late afternoon the window to the south inundated the kitchen with boundless light, and the jubilant sunflower spread out, lighting up hallways and bedrooms. We had not been robbed, I realized standing there, watching the light flood in from the south, the kitchen walls blazing with unabashed cheer—we simply had room to marvel at the day's progression—the changing of the light—every day, and every day it was breathtaking.
Life—building our lives—is a ceaseless series of tasks; an endless progression, shedding old selves—old longings and dreams, opinions and closely held beliefs—old versions of ourselves as we move forever towards an uncertain, though vividly dreamed future. I have long dreamed of a farm of my own—a small house—a small shack—I could make, in some fashion, my own. Enough space to plant many trees and to grow vegetables and watch the seasons, year after year. I also dreamed of small but elegant homes in the city—pots of flowers on a balcony scarcely large enough to accommodate a chair—gauzy curtains swaying in the breeze as the sound of traffic drifts up from the busy streets below. I wake and work and wonder about the future. I work and wonder when I will finally be conversing in French or Portuguese and find that, suddenly, without realizing it, I have become fluent. I work on myself the way I want to work on a home—making a nest of myself—a place where my future is tended—where my future will grow wings and learn to fly. Someday I will unpack my books and clothes and sacred things and know that this is where we will be, possibly forever—possibly for only a few years—perhaps only one. The future is always unknowable, yet the dreams persist. I wake and work and dream and all around me spring paints the countryside in explosive celebration—the carpets of flowers an eternal future, and eternally present—dreamless of anything but this moment. The pressure of dreams is reserved for us—confused, fortunate creatures that we are.