And the burdens thereof...

I feel a bit bad about all the whingeing today. I have so many reasons to be cheerful, things to be grateful for. For the slanting evening sun catching the buoys in the bay and making them glow so bright you wonder what on sea they can be, for comfort food in the freezer when I don't feel in the mood to cook. And for the home-coming relief of Eddie Izzard's humour. When I'm not whingeing or philosophising a lot of my thought processes are Izzard-esque. I used to have a friend similarly afflicted and spending time with him when we were both in that mood was like taking off your outdoor clothes and manners and curling up in a place of safety wearing comfy things.

Wanting more is merely the burden of dreams and schemes and circus crowds... Can I tempt you to an apposite story of mine perchance?

The Burden of Dreams

There was once a man who travelled the earth with a bundle of dreams too numerous for him to realise in all his nights and days. Although not large or heavy this burden was cumbersome and challenging to bear. It slowed his steps and directed him along a route littered with obstacles and distractions, outcomes and aftermath.

For when secured at his hip the cache of dreams would stir his loins and lead to liaisons with unsuitable lovers that caused him to lose his way. If carried in the pocket at his breast they roused his heart with passions and missions, the detours of crusades. And if borne on his shoulders they so bowed him down with the weight of infinite possibility he could barely move at all.

Even at night he could not rest for he lay with the bundle beneath his head and his mind would spin with visions and images of all that might yet be. Under a cloak of stars the traveller tossed and turned yearning for the oblivion of sleep, of dreams that dissolved with the dawn. Unable to name his destination or the significance of his fate, he only knew he must journey on to the place he where he was meant to be and could relinquish the burden.

A man with many dreams may seem as many different men. Even as he aged he could at times be taken for a boy, when but a stranger could appear as a friend. Women saw in him what they wanted to see - a romantic hero perhaps, a longed for son - and chided him when he failed to embody their cherished fantasies. Men assumed he was a brother-in-arms who would fight at their side with words or with weapons, no matter what side they were on, and when their expectations were not met could brand him a traitor or spy.

‘You are not who we thought you were,’ these people complained, ‘Why didn’t you tell us the truth?’ But truth is a shy and shape-shifting creature, not easily caught in a web of words, and it was not his purpose to turn their desires into reality.

Increasingly he found himself drawn to those who had abandoned hope, who had no use for the enchantment of dreams any more. Yet the ones with illness in their bodies mistook him for a healer come, while those with sickness in their souls would tend to believe him their saviour. Unwilling to accept the deception was in their hearts and not his hands, they blamed him for their errors of judgement and he had to move on once more. With back becoming stooped by time and misadventure as much as his burden, the man left the years behind him along with the people he could not please.

Late in the day with darkness deepening and a capricious wind carrying the signs of a storm, he came at last upon a house alone on the empty road. Just one dim lamp burned in a low small window and though a faded sign of welcome swung at the gate he wondered if the door would still be opened to those seeking sanctuary there. It was a long time before his knock was answered and he was on the verge of turning away, setting his face again to inclement weather, when he heard the sound of bolts sliding back and a shaft of light illuminated the rain. A woman appeared silhouetted in the doorway and when he asked for refuge from the night she beckoned him inside.

Still without speaking she motioned him to sit by the hearth, adding logs to the fire and setting a pot to warm. He watched her move around the shadowy room trying to work out who he was with this time and what complications would arise, what disappointments waited. Was she old with a heart that dwelt in the past or young with a mind that leapt to the future? Or was she in the prime of her life with a spirit full of aspirations he could not hope to fulfil?

But clues were hard to find and decipher. Weary and wary of assumptions he turned his attention to the meal she served him and kept the precious, pernicious bundle close to his feet should there be need of a hasty departure. The bowl was small but the food was good. He ate hungrily and she filled it again, tipping the pot as it was almost empty, cutting the last of the bread. Her silence mystified him until she explained with her hands that she had no voice, but by the lambent light of the fire the pair communicated as clearly as any can do who rely on conversation.

Through the longest, darkest night of the year the wind rattled the rusting latch of the door and hurled squalls of rain at the windows. Closely yet chastely, for warmth and for comfort, the wandering man and the silent woman lay together in the quilt-covered bed beside the dying embers. When dawn broke still the storm had not abated. He brought in the remaining wood from the store, she cooked the last of the food.

He wondered how she came to be so poorly prepared for winter, miles from other habitation and with such meagre supplies. But when he mentioned his concerns she merely smiled and shook her head. Touching her fingertips to her mouth, she unfurled them like a flower’s petals, reaching out her upturned palm to ask him to speak instead. As the hours passed he recounted stories from his travels, the places he had visited, the people he had met.

On the second day when all they had left was water from the well and the stub of a candle to burn they did not rise from the bed, sheltering side by side from the raging elements, the solitariness of their lives. Once again with that distinctive gesture she suggested he talk and haltingly at first he began to reveal the nature of the burden he had carried for so long. From time to time he glanced at her and watched her express that she was listening, encouraging him and understanding what he told her. But gradually her eyelids drooped and her breathing calmed and she slept as he talked on.

Eventually it seemed that all the words were spoken, all the tales were told, all the dreams he bore released. He felt at peace and it was a strange sensation to him. Reaching for his bundle he found it empty, just a fold of cloth on the floor. In wonder he turned to the woman beside him and saw that she had left the world and would not wake again.

A great sorrow welled within him but before tears came or he could cry out in anguish, exhausted, at last, he slept. He dreamed the woman was alive, awake and talking to him.

‘Come with me,’ said the woman who had no voice, ‘Abandon your body, the burden you bear.’

And he rose up through the crooked roof and the churning sky to the place where all is ever real and dreams have no dominion.