Sometimes I worry that I am not doing enough with my time. I disagree with Mary Oliver that this is my one wild and precious life, for I'm certain something comes afterwards ... but even so. Every day should be full of worthwhile endeavour or adventure, ought it not?
But then I remind myself that my life is not just held in daylight. There is the moonside of it also, the dreamside. We breathe in our waking hours, breathe out our sleep. We live these streets and gardens, and we live our mystical, feral dreams. Who is to say that what we do with the outside of existence is more important than the inside?
Perhaps even the real living is done when we dream, just as the real living for trees happens where we can not see it - beneath the earth, in their roots. And so our days would be just an outward expression of our sleepworld. I certainly believe waking and dreaming are equally real, equally important.
Perhaps the Faeryland we seem to know well enough to tell stories about is right there, before our closed eyes.
illustration Barry Windsor-Smith