Dream Log: Raspberries

An art student graduation for two girls at their exhausted teacher's house in Sonoma. They ran from empty room to room in circles so fast that they didn't realize until they stopped there was, in fact, no one there but them. They expected more for the event and were disappointed, but not me - not when I realized that we were in a huge old farmhouse on a vast piece of hot farmland in the country. I walked outside and found myself a part of a tour group learning about sustainable farming practices and helping, with my son, to gather 12 different types and stages of raspberries for a pie with a flour base that would bake up as big as a small car.

The proprietress was proud of her organic farming practices and showed us the long field where she grew ground vegetables and raspberries. It seemed improbable that both could grow in the same area without the shade and crowding of the one overpowering the other, but it worked, just like everything else about this magical place. The temperature was purported to be 130 degrees, but in my zeal for being out of the city with magical growing people I didn't notice. In fact, we all wore long sleeves to protect us from the elements and I couldn't have been happier. I never wanted to leave.

My son ran through the endless, neatly placed lanes created by the agriculture following the child of the woman who owned the land, they laughed, hid and played games. I realized I should run after him and found myself going up and down the aisles looking for the children. He appeared, happy - full of the summer, sun and soil and we went back to the making of the pie. A quirky man with a European accent rolled out the top crust from hearty wheat flour, then, as explained by his assistant, he fried it in a giant cast-iron pan in preparation for placement on the pie. Meanwhile, the many different raspberries in various states of maturity from tight and bright green to soft purplish red were mixed in a clear measuring container with sugar, lemon and a dry raspberry granola mix which would turn it from an ordinary fruit pie into an amazing risen volcano of a thing with a cake-like consistency.

I knew that I was meant to be at this place and as I explored with this perspective of never wanting to leave, I saw all sorts of new things - massive construction projects, old train cars converted into sleeping quarters, potential. The original owner, a German immigrant, had built a huge old farmhouse with many floors. As big as a ballroom, it had yellow paint and when walking into the now empty interior, held together with steel strapping, cranes and construction equipment, I could see the place that had existed before and appreciate that it was becoming something even better.

I searched for a bathroom and found a precarious door that led to a ledge and a toilet suspended high in the air, next to a wall, but with no supports. One could risk it and hope to step away and land on the seat, but I decided the risk wasn't worth it. I went back to the ground where the proprietress and I walked through the path between the farmhouse, train cars and her home to show me possible places I could sleep. I shared my vision with her, told her I knew how to market the place, told her that I was meant to be there and could never leave. I just had to figure out how to make a living. I knew that I needed this - to be in the country in the hot sun, among growing things.