the truth of the matter...

The other day while I was swimming with a particularly beautiful, and well mannered mermaid, we got on the topic of fairies.  Now up until this point I had thought her to be quite intelligent, but my opinion could not have been farther from the truth.  She flat out told me that fairies were not real!  I said that there were loads of them living in my garden and she gave me the snottiest look, like I was crazy or something.  I don't know if we can repair our friendship, I may need to find a new swimming buddy.  Being shackled to reality, in the way that I am, has oft times infringed on my fantasy world.  For instance, when I was a child, I lived to play Barbies.  My parents got me the motor home one year for Christmas, and as we feverishly assembled the 3 foot vehicle, there were stickers of household objects to make the place more realistic.  There were a row of books for the wall, bottles for the vanity and a picture of a turkey roasting for the door of the oven.  This perplexed me, why would I roast a turkey if I was on a trip in the motor home?  As far as I could tell, the only time that would ever happen, would be at Christmas or thanksgiving, both highly improbable times for a road trip.  I could hardly look at the oven because if I did, I would have to dress the Barbies in warm clothes, and forget about that cute sundress I was going to put on.  One of my daughters was similarly afflicted and found that the weather outside, dictated what outfits and activities the dolls would be allowed to wear, or participate in.  This drove my other daughter to distraction, she was all about fantasy, that is until she had to play with her little brother who insisted that the guy dolls,could jump like 3 stories or even fly.  Then all of a sudden reality would claim another victim and her little brother would be ejected from the room.  I have friends who encourage their children to fantasize about a chubby fairy-priest who brings gifts, but those same friends refuse to consider the possibility of lake monsters or cities beneath the waves.  Somehow, we are only comfortable with our own fantasy, and when someone challenges our version of reality, we hate it. At what point do our dreams and aspirations cease to be goals and become delusions?  I have friends who don't view reality in the was that I do(the mermaid being one example) and I find it hard to take them very seriously.  I also had a friend who used to hang out with mermaids all the time.  The one day out of nowhere she told them that they didn't exist, and she has driven herself quite mad, trying to prove it.  I guess what I am trying to say is that we need to be gentle with each other's dreams, hopes, fantasies and wishes, and be careful not to go stomping around in someone else's garden.  At the end of the day, and all of our days will end... do we want to be found with our friend's dreams smashed into the grips on the bottom of our boots?  So to all the princesses, fairies, mermaids and superheros, keep believing.  I once met Elvis, Elvis's son, Santa, and Satan.  He was a pretty powerful man, feared, adored, famous... a far cry from the frail,young man, sitting in his rumpled pajamas, at the table in the mess hall, of the mental institution. Norman,(which was the name on his chart) had been starved and beaten by his own mother since he was born.  Every bone in his chest protruded through the open neck of his striped pj's , his body would never regain it's strength, his teeth had all fallen out, and he was afraid of pretty much everything.  As he told me about how the beach boys were tenents of his, I knew that what he was telling me, in no way resembled what it said in his charts, and that I should set him straight, the way I had been told to do; I thought of a helpless little boy who wanted to be able to be stop is mother, make her love him, and my heart ached for him and I understood why he needed to be who he was.  My reality was that there was a child in front of me who needed me to love, acecpt and protect him.  And so I jumped into the depths with him, leaving behind at the shore all of my misconceptions.  When his mother died he asked me how he should feel, should he cry, was he bad for not feeling sad...I choked oy words as I tried to answer him.  His huge eyes seemed to look right through to my soul, searching me for any sign of judgement, or condemnation.  There was none.