Reflections ►
Imagine
“ As we believe , so it shall be done to us .”
by Dolores Halbin , contributing writer
I have been a little discouraged lately . Okay , well , a lot discouraged . Needless to say , I don ’ t get invited to the party too often except when my buddies in The Hundred Acre Wood feel like dealing with Eeyore .
The basis of my despair is the fact that we are one year into our 15th American President to do nothing about cannabis prohibition .
It occurred to me in my state of despair that I have lost the ability to Imagine the change my heart desires — cannabis off the Federal Schedule of Narcotics . This is a very dangerous state of mind . We must be able to imagine .
Einstein said , “ Imagination is more important than intellect .”
Jesus said , “ As we believe , so it shall be done to us .”
Going back a little further in time , the Buddha weighed in . “ As we think , we create .”
I know this to be true . I live in my vision every day . It is not the dream I had for my life , but for my life , it is a dream .
The Christmas classic , The Miracle on 34th Street , was first broadcast in December of 1955 . I was three months old . The movie starred young Sandy Descher as six-year-old Susan Walker , who did not believe in Santa Claus . There is a defining scene in the last few minutes of the movie . It is Christmas morning , and little Susan is sitting in the back seat of a car . She had taken the leap of faith with Santa and asked for a new house . The child wore an expression of total exacerbation . She took a deep breath and dropped her shoulders , speaking into her hands , folded on her lap the words Santa had given her — “ I believe . I believe . I believe . I believe .”
The thing is , she didn ’ t believe it . No more than I do today . But she did the next most important thing in any crisis of faith . She agreed to fake it till she made it .
Three years ago , I spent my third winter in my grandmother ’ s house . It ’ s a looming four-bedroom farmhouse on 50 acres in the Ozarks with a library where her dead men , her youngest and oldest sons , and her husband , as was the custom , were interred for three days each . The place was already pretty packed with ghosts when I got there with mine . It was hard to see my way out of the situation . As the caregiver and basically running the place like a boarding house for family members , I didn ’ t pay rent . I had three “ pup-dogs ,” as my youngest granddaughter calls them , and four mangy cats that came in through the doggy door and refused to leave .
Late December of 2019 , after watching Miracle on 34th Street , I wrote a letter to God and posted it on my Facebook page . I thought about writing to Santa , but it was after Christmas , and he was off the clock . It took some digging , but I found that letter .
Dear God ,
I need a new place to live . It ’ s dark and cold and lonely here in the winter . I need to move on .
Now , as to where ... I must be in the country . I simply don ’ t like people enough to have anyone nearby , plus I need the night sky . I would like something much quieter than here , with no two-lane highway or private airports nearby . I also would appreciate a view of the sunrise and sunset , but I need trees nearby . Not necessarily in the forest , like what Gene and I built , but a nearby forest and , of course , a creek . In addition , I need someplace that will welcome the entire fur and feather family I have accumulated in my time down south here , which consists of four cats , three dogs , and a bunch of chickens . I ’ m not sure how many .
I realize I am being an awfully picky bi-atch , but I am what I am .
Thank you , Dolores
June came , and I had not found any place for sale , few to rent , and none that would take my critters . A buddy had offered me a lake lot with electricity in Williamsburg . With my belongings in storage , my camping gear and the pet cages were strategically packed into my car . I gave my chickens to my neighbor , and the rest of us were leaving at first light to live in a tent until I could come up with a roof .
I was sitting on the front porch saying my goodbyes to the place when , at 10:30 p . m ., my phone rang . It was my friend B .
She asked , “ How attached are you to living in a tent ”?
“ Well , not very , but don ’ t tell anyone ,” I told her .
“ How would you like the little house ”? She responded .
Today I live in the little farmhouse on 80 acres of cattle and crops with only one neighbor , and she is my friend ’ s kid . Her kids had just moved out of here .
I have an amazing view of both the sunrise and the sunset . Cows live on the other side of the driveway creating a moving picture out my kitchen window . It is so quiet , except for Annie , the bottle-raised donkey who thinks she ’ s a dog , and the rooster , hawks , crows ,