an attic in golden fields

I lived in an attic for nine months. Two months of heat, five months of crisp and virgin snow, and two months of spring, spring like I had never experienced before. The attic was in a land of hills, of hills that were golden in the summer and barren in the winter. Tall and round, shapely and rolling, the hills were never ending and always new to look upon. But I wasn’t born on these hills, in fact, I was born as far south from these hills as possible, and yet, somehow I was drawn to them; guided to them; made to lie down. In truth, if I was not the person I was, I might call it an accident, or if I was superstitious, a coincidence. However, because I am the person I am, and I believe in a Beauty and Truth that names each creature and guides them to their intended end, I like to call it Destiny. There was no other option but for me to dwell in that tall house that looked out to the west, that looked out on startling sunsets, vibrant with the aggression of truth. The tall house that looked out on that strange city and from which I heard many a music-major-neighbor-drum-solo and phantom midnight opera pieces.

Heat. Stark sunlight streamed down from the heavens and penetrated the third story of the rental house. My sister and I stared at the room skeptically, sweat clinging to our foreheads and afraid to evaporate into the sticky air. I slept that night on a thin comforter, heat radiating inside and outside of my body, my sleep fleeing alongside every ounce of coolness that was in my body. What was this choice I had made? What was this room with slanted ceilings, too short to even stand up all the way? Outside, the world was covered in dandelions, the last smile of summertime and from this I knew our room must be named. The Dandeloft. My sister pulled out her letter board and christened the little room. The summer heat would not last, we kept assuring ourselves. The dandelion fuzz will blow away in the wind, and we will see the lovely flowers that shoot up in spring. But we could not have foreseen how long the winter would last.

The last roommate arrived just before our classes were supposed to start. In a whirlwind of a moment, our fellow attic-dweller had settled in her space along with her glorious mane of curls and quick-witted Canadian tongue. She became our Loftee. (the natural name given to the one you share a loft with) With a mutual sharing of the odd space, the attic became our dwelling, our home, but more than that, our door to magic. We laughed together, we talked, and we dreamed. But the Canadian dreamed the most. I’m fairly convinced that I lived next to a Prophetess. A smiling, vibrant and oblivious prophetess who told tales of dreams she had and the reality that came forth from them. Who spoke of intuitions that were more often than not true and who was none the wiser of her skill. More than once I was sat down and told of the wild dream she had of me or my sister or all of us. Whether they will come true or not, time still has to tell. Regardless, my point is that a magic floated in the air of our space, a magic which unfortunately attracted a deplorable amount of odd insects.

Part of me wished to blame it on the small crack in our nearly falling-out window screen, but the other half of me knew that it must be that air that hung about our Dandeloft. Jack was our first visitor, a contemplative yellow jacket who chose my dear little philodendron (whom I fondly called Eloise) as its resting place for a few nights. I will not deceive you, although no harm came from this kind creature, my dreams were haunted by the presence of an incredulous insect who inhabited my bed as I slept. This was of course, a complete fable which my imagination contrived, but nonetheless had some impact on my view of little Jack. Perhaps I blocked it out of my memory, but I cannot recall if we murdered the poor beast, or it merely escaped at some point. You may make your own conclusion based on the faction of information you know of me. As an intriguing anecdote, I found the air of the Dandeloft penetrated my clothing for one day as I sat in a coffee shop, I found a humble lady-bud clinging to my clothing. I dubbed him Theodore and we had a jolly time together, but I will attempt to not stray from the actual events of the attic too much more. Throughout the winter months, our attic was void of insect life and so I will skip ahead to the notable events in the springtime.

Unnamed Spider was a phantasm. One moment in our Loftee’s room, then next in ours, one moment seen, the next, vanished but leaving on my hand the inflamed imprint of its wrath. I do not wish to know the quality of magic which drew this creature to our room, for it was certainly an unpleasant kind. Once, as I spoke with my dear roommate, it inhabited the ceiling above me, then suddenly, it arbitrarily decided to drop itself as near to my head as possible. By the grace of the Maker, my head survived the attack, and the spider escaped to the unknown reaches of her bedroom. The next was the dreaded little Jumpy, naturally a jumping spider, whom I made the mistake of disturbing in my monstera plant (fondly dubbed Goldberry) downstairs. Now of course, Jumpy caught a whiff of the Dandeloft on me and was drawn by the mysterious force (as perhaps I was as well) to make the long trek up the stairwell. The next thing I knew, Jumpy had been transported to my window sill and I just about abandoned my abode right then and there out of fear. But my sister handled the situation as any normal dominion-taking human might and proceeded to slam our window open and closed until that frightening creature had breathed its last, furry breath. I hope he rests in a peace very unlike his death.

As the nights began to cool and the dandelions blew their last fuzz away we knew that the autumn was upon us and apparently snow as well. One morning we lifted our eyes out of the window and saw a world of orange, red, and brown gracefully dusted in a fresh layer of the lace from the sky. The sight tasted like the smoothest honey cinnamon latte and the light was as warm as the coffee therein. It was around this time that we discovered the unique, uncanny I should say, similarity between our room (that is, dear Dandeloft) and the hull of a ship. There were a few paradoxes in this comparison that caused us to wonder what magic was at play. For example, ship hulls are the lowest part of a vessel, our bedroom was the tallest part of the house, and ship hulls are submerged in water whereas, well, our room was not. At night we would lie in our beds and feel the sway of our room under the force of the north wind, beckoning us to join in her dance. In addition, ship hulls tend to be difficult to get out of — so too, the Dandeloft would often lock us within her belly as the door handle jammed and no force of our body could seem to budge it. Perhaps the dear room could not bear to see us leave.

The winter of that year was a deep and clean one. I recall again when those first snowflakes danced down from the sky and coated the bright autumnal leaves in a layer of powder like the sweet and delicate topping on a french apple cake. These were the days of a falling and dripping routine which repeated until the air fell into the quiet, swaying, lullaby of the seasons. The world fell asleep — the flowers curled into the soiled beds and the leaves drifted down to tuck them in. They all died their deaths and my, did they die well.

But then in the blink, in the twinkling of an eye, the earth quaked and gave forth its bounty. The bird songs rang through the air, trumpeting the entrance of the green, of the good, and best of all, the dandelions. At some point, the Maker laughed and the sun smiled with Him and on the earth, golden globes sprouted forth and guarded the grass just as the sun guards us here below. Mother Dandelions, the jollity of the earth — they enveloped the field behind our Dandeloft, greeting us every morning, reminding us of the fleeting joys that lay the foundations of the sweetest rest, the loud symphonies of fading noises that remind us of the quiet, the rustling wind in the trees. On a Sabbath day, I tumbled down to that meadow and laid myself amid the flowers, breathing in the unguarded essence of the springtide. I watched the tide of the grass and I fell into its sway. This was my last memory. This was the kiss of the Dandeloft upon my forehead, the imprint of magic on my skin. And today I laid my hands on the frames of that dear window and said farewell. I thanked my Maker for the glory that cradled me, that followed me, that drew me to rest amid splendor

It is easy to sleep but it is difficult to rest. It is easy to capture but it is difficult to keep. Treasure the dandelion, cradle its golden petals in your palm and bask in its beauty. Then eagerly blow it into the wind, eagerly allow the glory to fade and fall to the earth to bring forth one hundred fold.

“the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, he makes me lie down in green pastures...”