To read an excerpt from the book, please click on the following link:

ashaveilbook.blogspot.com


Monday, June 29, 2015

Stranger Sleep

Insomnia tonight, big-time. Cannot sleep at all.  Napped today, that's probably why.  So much to do tomorrow, and yet so little: a hair appointment for Thistle and me.  A search for loose change and dollar bills in the house because it is the end of the month and I have, as usual, little cash at this time and want to buy her an ice cream after her swim lessons.  CG might give me something, in fact said he would leave five dollars for me before he goes to work, but he will probably not remember. He is a good person who tends to float about in a world of his own; he forgets many things.  It is okay; there is plenty of change here, and my hairdresser will accept a post-dated check.   So it goes.  I am accepting of whatever position I need to occupy in this life, to make Thistle's life okay.  Her life is more important than my own.

Recently, I was very appreciative to see Asha's childhood home in photographs.
 She must have been an absolutely adorable little girl: I can almost see her at five or six.  She lived in a beautiful, magical house with a huge datura plant (aka Angel's Trumpet) in the backyard, yellow trumpets of flowers.  There is a huge expanse of grass in the back; it must be a meadow, with a stream bisecting it, and a little bridge, I think (not sure of the bridge because I don't have the picture in front of me).  There are amazing trees in the picture.  One looks like a cedar tree.  No wonder she loved the trees here, the mountains.  I was drawn to them because of the ugliness and urban landscape of my hometown in Los Angeles; surely she was drawn to this place because of the beauty of her childhood home.  She certainly carried an imprint of such beauty because she had grown up in it.  The place looks like a fairytale landscape; it is not hard to imagine a beautiful witch or wizard appearing next to the stream, promising to grant three wishes.

She must have filled her days as a child in that backyard; I wonder what games she played, what she dreamed up in her imagination.  I have a picture of a view from her bedroom window that brought tears to my eyes; it looks out on the huge sweep of the meadow, trees, and stream.  What did she dream for herself, what life, when she looked out that window, perhaps thinking of what her life would be when she grew up?

She was the princess in that landscape.