Mimosa

In my previous post I mentioned that when I was much younger I imagined that my guardian angel was French. I couldn't tell you why, I suppose I thought it was romantic at the time. I don't remember making the decision to have a French guardian angel I just...assumed it. Nevertheless, it wasn't until I was twenty-two years old that I met my angel, Mimosa. Not in my waking life, both times were in dreams. Those two dreams, though, were some of the most real and intense dreams I've ever had. I don't usually remember my dreams at all but I remember my Mimosa dreams vivdly.

The first dream I had was so real and good that I can still see it.

Mimosa and I were sitting on a porch swing and we were both many years old and watching my grandchildren playing in the snow. I was not stunned at the idea of the snow, it seemed a given, normal - and not the wet, icy poor excuse for snow that we occasionally recieve here in Atlanta. It was perfect snow. Purposeful snow. Snow with confidence. I knew, the way one knows in dreams, that I was in New England somewhere. My grand-children, those darling creatures, rolled around in happy delight making forts and men of ice dressed in dapper scarves.

I remember I had red earmuffs on and a badly knitted scarf that I know I made myself. Mimosa had a face like like the moon, it gave off a faint radiance. Her skin was smooth, a dark mahogany, and she had a crooked smile. Her eyes were brown and always a little watery and, when I asked her about her eyes, she told me that there were so many beautiful things, and so many heartbreaking things in the world, that she was ever and always on the verge of tears. She had on a perfume like roses and when she moved the fragrance came off of her gently, without me realising it, everytime it was a surprise.

The swing we were on was creaking a bit and I got up to get some oil. The front door was hard to open, I had to push hard against it wanting to stick. My house, it was my house I’m sure, because of how sure I was in walking through it, was old in a good way with arched doorways, full of knowing and smelled of cinnamon and spice and something like the smell of cookies or perhaps a pie cooling. I didn't think to see what it was, it wouldn't have made any sense to do so at the time.

I hummed a little song to myself, and opened a door to some sort of pantry, flicked on a light and rummaged through an assortment of odds and ends in drawers and then pulled out the oil.

On the way out I caught a glimpse of myself in a hall mirror. Spry, a little rosy cheeked, my hair in tufts around my face and silver. My eyes were a bit droopy but I saw that they were still lovely and I had beautiful smile lines. I was still me.

Back out onto the porch I went and there was Mimosa swinging away on my porch swing. I oiled it up nice and slick, and the creak subsided and then left in a huff. It would be back.

Mimosa and I talked about everything. I wish I could remember it all. I was wise and full of stories and I made her laugh long and hard.

Mimosa told me that Jesus is an excellent dancer and that he can throw a mean curve ball. She told me that God has his very own snowflake designer and that the snowflakes sing praise songs on their way down. Mimosa knew lots of things. She told me that nobody realises how much God roots for us (he always wants both teams to win their soccer games) and that he hates to see us feeling lonely. She told me how he has a laugh so long and wide that you feel like you could swim around in it and that he knows by heart the recipie for the perfect chocolate chip cookie.

I looked at my hands and rubbed at the wrinkles, pulling at the skin to make them look smooth, clasped them together and played “Here is a church, here is a steeple…”

I heard someone call my name and I looked as an old man made his way up my front walk. He had a spring in his step and white hair. He wore a pea coat and a grey scarf. His eyes were kind and I was happy to see him. He was my friend and I introduced him to Mimosa and offered him a cup of coffee. He lived down the street from me with his wife and their two cats. His wife was an excellent gardener, I could always count on her to give me fresh tomatoes in season and their yard was a glorious mess of beauty, always in bloom.

My grandchildren were making a ruckus and calling me to play so down the porch steps I went to throw myself into the snow and wave my arms and legs about, creating my own elderly snow angel. As I lay there, all my precious ones piled up on top of me, my earmuffs went off somewhere and the snow got into my ears and I heard faint singing, a whole chorus.

I whooped and hollered with those kids. My feet were cold and I looked down and, no wonder, all I had on were a pair of Chuck Taylor’s.

I made my way up the front steps grunting and groaning, Mimosa squawking over “what a mess I was.” My down-the-street friend did a little dance and opened my front door for me. I walked inside and then I woke up.

The second dream I had with Mimosa was a few years later, when I was going through the hardest, most gut wrenching time of my life. My marriage to Phoenix's father was falling apart, my life was a mess, a charade of me trying to keep up an appearance that I had half a clue of what was going on. I was wretched. I was stuffing a lot of hurt and anger and rage and I could only last for so long before I'd lash out and say hurtful things. I now liken that person I was then to a lioness in a cage. One night I went to bed so tired and miserable and desperate that I asked God to please let me die. I know, I know. It sounds so dramatic but oh, at the time I felt it so keenly. I feel asleep crying and in my dream Mimosa came and scooped me up and held me in her lap just like a child and hummed and prayed and stroked my hair while I wept and wept. When I woke up I felt a little braver, a little better.

Interestingly enough, a couple of years later a dude named William Young published a book called The Shack and my brother in law gave it to me for Christmas. In that book he portrays God as a large black woman...if you haven't read it that won't make sense, but I found it highly amusing!

Anyway, just thought I would explain who Mimosa is. Perhaps you think me odd. But...huh.

I AM odd. And I am really okay with it.

So, you are more than welcome to think that.

I must now get some sleep. I've been up for nearly 24 hours.

G'night.