Dreaming of Gratitude by Kat Magendie

In my dream I hovered over the mountains, and I was like the mists. Below I saw the wolf panting as she ran for the joy of it, for the stretching out of her limbs that she'd kept folded in hiding. I watched her sniff the ground, then the sky, and off she ran again, back to her hiding place. And over there, look, there is the mouse trembling with relief, undetected, safe, his tiny nose quivering. He lives another time of his life! There is smoke rising from the old house in the valley. Very old Mr is up early, feeding wood to the fire so Very Old Mrs will be warm when she arises, and he has the coffee brewing, that dark rich smell lifting the hair on his arms in his pleasure, and Mrs will return his kind with her kind, she will take three eggs from the ice-box and scramble them with a little milk and a little salt and pepper, she will toast the bread lightly, and she will place their breakfast on the scarred kitchen table, and Mr will pour two cups of coffee, and they will sit across from each other with no words, only the sounds of eating and sipping, and the smoke rises from the chimney and I see it and I see them and their entire lives before, but their lives after is an incredible mystery.

And I drift and wait, and I do not know what I am waiting for—

—until the sun breaks through the clouds, and the fingerling rays touch here, and there, and I rush to stand in one of the rays, but the sun falls back into the clouds before I can get to my spot, and I hear laughter. I cock my head and listen and I hear the creek, and I hear the cardinal's cry, and I hear the rustling of the squirrels, and I hear the branches saw together, sawing a song of nature, oh the symphony of nature fills me with gratitude. Inside my log house are many things I love. Outside my log house are many things I love. Inside my log house are many things I own. Outside my log house I own nothing. Right now I am thinking of you, and right now, as you read this, you have knowledge of me. Isn't that incredible? Just by writing my words I have an awareness of You, and You, just by reading my words, have an awareness of me. See the power of imagination and language? The power of the word? Thank you for reading my words; I am grateful for You, and for dreams that open up the world of imagination and awe.

The Serpent of Doubt by Kat Magendie

I can find frustration in this writing life—when I allow the business side to overshadow the imaginative inspiration. When I think Publish instead of Create. Well, this is a business after all, isn't it? At least that is what I am to understand (and a part of me does, yes, of course), that writers must think of their writing as a business proposition, as something to sell. I write. I rework and edit. I then sit back with the finished work that has become a Product, and that is when Doubt ssssslithers in. I try to ignore the whispery sounds sssssliding, sssssliding.

I sit lonely, alone, an island, and I hold my words tight against me, in spite of, not because of whip-tongued Doubt. There is the compulsion, the veritable need to write—if I do not lance the festering boil of words they only inflame, throb, ache, and I become ill with infection of disuse. It is only when I complete a piece that the content leaves my face and the ssssslivered tongue pierces, “Time to sssssubmit and wait. If you’re talented, they’ll publish you.” I then slog to my mailbox—what will be there? When I push my hand into the cavernous darkness, I imagine the snarly snakes, hissssing venomously, waiting, waiting. Will I be stricken by the rejection poison? Or will the serpent offer up a shiny red apple, crisp with possibility?

Jean Cocteau says, “Only intensity matters. Talent—you have it or you don’t.” Perhaps included in that “intensity” is the stubborn will that a good writer will never give up, a gifted, talented writer will thrust a hand into the writhing abyss, pull out the envelope, open it, and while reading its contents, will have already stealed the mind ready to craft the next and the next and the next and the next piece, until the end of their time, no matter Doubt and it's sssss sssss sssss. Be grateful for your gifts, whatever they are, even if there are times You may feel as if the gift comes wrapped with conditionssss. Then, find that intensity, that stubborn tenacity to let slip the serpent of doubt.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream by Barbara Quinn

It’s good to be alive. And it’s good to be able to sleep.

When I was young I could sack out for 12 or 14 hours. Nothing woke me. Fire engines clanged, sirens sounded. I slept anywhere on anything. I still can drop off while waiting at a doctor’s office. And I’ve dozed in the dentist chair while waiting for the X-rays to develop. But more and more often I’m finding steady sleep at night to be an elusive acquaintance.

There are nights when I drop off without a problem only to wake a few hours later. Sometimes it's to heed nature, others to jot down a solution to a writing problem. Some nights I fall back asleep immediately. But then there are nights where it’s 3 am and I'm wide awake. I’ve learned to accept the oddities of my sleep habits. Usually after a couple of sleep deprived nights, my body crashes and I sleep well. I read an article that said that this notion that we need 8 straight hours of sleep is simply that, a notion. When there were fires to tend in the middle of the night, and animals to ward off, who could afford to sleep so long?

I’ve taken over the counter meds like Unisom, and Benadryl (which is the active ingredient in things like Tylenol PM). And I’ve tried Ambien and Ambien CR. I didn’t suffer any side effects, didn’t find myself vacuuming or covered in flour from a middle of the night baking spree. Nor did I sleep-drive. But I don’t like the idea of taking anything for too long. So I tough it out most of the time.

Like everything else, as I’ve aged my sleep has changed. I’m grateful for the peaceful sleep that does descend. And luckily, when it arrives, I still dream great dreams in bright color. Who needs TV?