I went to one out of the two Sunday sessions. It was Daniel’s, and he sang a reprise of his song from four years ago. Here are my notes.

Imagination

The image of the door. Picture one.

In the last line he asked us to picture a door, fix the details of it, and then open it and describe what was behind it. I liked that. I like him.

We are the same age and he is a Creative Writing department chair, while I am a faculty grunt in some other less engaging kind of department.

However, this time I’m not quite as jealous.

The festival happens once every two years. By the time the next one comes, I will be on the glide path to completing the pensioner project, something like six months out. That completion will not be the perfection I imagined ten years ago, but I am seeing ways that it can avoid the failure and retreat I’ve been dreading from it for the last six months.

This transformation in attitude, unrelated directly to the Festival itself, was my favorite thing about it, as I said when asked. I went to the pretty town of my dreams. I consorted with a bunch of people who are also passionate about words and stories.

I began to see how even if all my time were not my own as I’d wanted, there could be a real way to be where I want to be. I began to see that although it might not be a mortgage-free life, maybe it could be in time. We did find two places within a mile of the Co-op for less than 90K each. Obviously they weren’t gorgeous and perfect. But they wouldn’t be in some dusty desolation five hours out either.

Nothing has gone as planned.

And yet the jewel of the ideal is still there glittering with inner fire, and not turned to ashes of fear and denial.

For that too I must remind myself to be grateful and not broken.