See the darkness creeping out
I can see the softness there
Where the sunshine is gliding in
Fill your mind with love
Find the world of future glory
-genesis, where the sour turns to sweet
New morning, windows open, sunlight filtering in, and I think about a place I’d like to build for us. A real place, a magical place that nurtures the ebb and flow of bloggers, our dreams, a place of potions and remedies, a healing place, a place we could all come, give, take, then go—or maybe never leave.
And who would come there? We would start it off, me, George and Jenna, because we have always been expecting a better world, and Diva and Bando would come too. They are sweet dogs, unselfish and loyal, and amazing to observe, old matriarch Diva, crabby yet patient with her slobbering, unrelated son. And I’ll bathe them before we go to this place. Because, as Jenna says, “they smell so stinky.”
And we’ll set up house in a huge compound on the edge of the woods, near the pond thick with life, where you can watch the fish jumping for flies at night. Once we clean out the cobwebs, and set up an expanse of space for families and friends, others will come.
There will be no walls, your space is your own, and invisible, flexible boundaries are disarmed by creativity and a knowing so big it overcomes every problem, worry, heartache; there is no such thing as loss in this place.
Halley and her family will come, and her son will be my son, and my daughter, hers. And Chris will come, but not the neighborhood cat that sneaks into his apartment. He can bring others, in heart and in hand, and he will bring RageBoy, and in this place, RageBoy will have the space he needs, the comfort he needs, and the Italian restaurant won’t be so far away; Everywhere there are people with hearts open.
Doc will come with his lot, and he will bring us balance, and we him. And AKMA and his brood will come, and his fellow Blog U colleages too, and Golby, and Gary, and theirs. And Anita will come, and Andrea, and Esta. Other Blog Sisters will visit, some will stay.
Shelley will come for a time, and burn so brightly, then leave us with that light until she returns.
David will stay behind, and visit sometimes, and he will be our liaison to the rest of the world, knowing, without being there, just what this place is for. Telling the others, “It can be so.”
Small pieces now joined.
And Elaine will come, she can bring her mom, we’ll have a special place for her, comfortable enough, close, yet far enough, and a caregiver for her so Elaine can rest her soul some. And Tom Shugart and his, and Frank Paynter, Tom Matrullo, Steve MacLaughlin, and, my god, of course Marek.
In this place, there is all the bandwidth we ever need, and all of the books of human kind, notes from other bloggers in the margins. And we learn and absorb from one another, as we engage, we grow. Your mind is mine, and mine yours, spiraling further out.
Denise has a law library all to herself, protects us and enriches us with wisdom and wit.
Technology supports us, without overwhelming us, because we have the woods.
We have Macs and PCs and color printers and faxes, and a powerful network, a spot for convergence of ideas, where they germinate and grow organically, without interference, because left on their own for a while, good ideas do this. And here, day is night, and night is day, one sky, thought is unending.
We have all of the notebooks and pencils and pens, and paper and paints we need. We paint the walls with murals, the children help, they mix colors no one has ever seen, and everywhere you look, something is blooming.
There is music, coming to and from George and Tom and Eric and others, but there is no music business, and art is allowed to happen, and for once matter most. The music chases us and become us, playing mates with blogging, sound marries voice, beautiful babies everywhere.
The children are playing now, by the big rocks just up over the hill. We can see them from every window, and we know they are safe. There is no danger here.
Frank Paynter has fashioned a wooden swing for them, it hangs from a willow by the picnic table. I see them now—Chris and Doc are having coffee at the table, writing notes, looking up long enough to see the children laughing as they play King of the Hill on the tallest boulder. There are no band-aids here, because there is no hurt.
Kent is happiest sitting at the edge of the pond, wondering how the fish move so quickly, blogging wirelessly as they feed on the grass at the bank.
Our world is unbroken. The union of mind/soul/spirit/sky/earth/fire inside this place can fix the world, and we set out to do just that. No politics, no leader, only a singularity of heart. The world looks in on us, every once in a while, when David lets them know what we’re doing. He’s careful to let on just enough.
As we invent and create and blog, the power of this one human mind, one human kind, begins to trickle into the world, and everything it touches shines. Outsiders succumb to the sharp glare of our ideas, they stop resisting and let us in. Let us deep within. And we transform them.
We transform them.
As news of our power to heal grows, even corporations take notice, and in exchange for our ideas, converged knowledge, they fund and help sustain our community. They aren’t allowed to visit us. They cannot send anything inward, they are only allowed to capture what we send out. David is there, to make sure they do right by us. And if they don’t, we cut their circuit. We appreciate their sustenance, but don’t need their gifts.
It is the end of the day, my first day in this world, and I am at peace, a peace I never knew.
My soul and heart are rested, mended, my mind on fire.
This is the place where I feel most alive.
