Dormant Lives

Somewhere in my heart lives a woman I'm not - she loves to wear skirts, and makeup, and carry matching purses. She crochets, makes marbled paper, can whip up a dish from thin air, and fills her home with crafts she's made with her own hands, while the lovely scent of flowers drifts up from the bay window.

I've spent a lot of money on her over the years, but it seems that I've never really spent TIME with her. I found her eyeliner in one of those purses, along with a calling card for international calls to Mexico, about $4 in change, and a map of Paris. Did I mention she speaks fluent French, and lives in the south of France? I started to learn it several years ago, but didn't keep it up.

It seems that I have a penchant for buying certain things, which in reality, I never use. That could be why I own about twenty books in French, along with CD's, DVD's, and flash cards for French vocabulary and grammar. I love purses. I own at least a dozen. Yet, do I carry a purse on a daily basis? Uhm, no. Or I should say "not right now". I go through phases with purses. I'll carry one everywhere for months on end, and then one day, everything ends up in my jeans or jacket pocket, and the purse is relegated to the bedroom floor, slumped over a box of filing, collecting dust.

Vases! Oh my - a fascinating curve, a twist of color, a sensuous shape, something reminiscent of antiquity, and I'm all over it. Do I buy flowers? 'Sometimes!' my mind shouts in defense of my collection, even though it has been years.

As I was going through an old purse, I found lists of movies. I love movies, and own hundreds of them on VHS and DVD......yet I don't own a tv. Some of the DVD's have never even had the shrinkwrap cracked. I used to see over a hundred movies a year - in the theatre! I love the theatre experience. There's something about the lights dimming, the smell of popcorn, sinking into a seat and looking expectantly at the screen that I love. It's just NOT the same watching it at home. Yet I can scarcely walk by a DVD on sale without being tempted.

I have dozens of hobbies that I *think* about, yet don't actually pursue - bits and pieces of cloth and paint and glue guns litter my spare room. I have genealogy carefully filed away, and notes stacked up on possible places to check for the next big find. Two boxes (BIG boxes) are filled with scrapbooks, photo boxes, frames, awaiting that magick moment when I suddenly have the inclination to put one together.

What is it about our dormant lives that is so potent even while they sleep? Like a frozen seed, it lays there immobile, left for dead, but somewhere in its little secret heart, it holds in one invisible remnant of life, the shadow of a flame.

I feel like I have all the ingredients of a fabulous cake sitting on my counter - yet I have misplaced the recipe. How does one get from here to there? I'm not sure, but I keep stocking the shelves waiting for the chef to arrive.

--BT