Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe---
Sailed on a river of crystal light,
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
There was a time, long ago, when I had my own little bed beneath a window that overlooked a desert in the westward mountain town of El Paso. In the evening, when the shadows grew long and the heat gave way to the chill of the desert night, the coyotes would sing their lonely songs, and I would wait for sleep.
And on those nights I would gaze with love and painful longing upon a picture book with the very odd title of "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod."
I could not read, so I feasted on the enticing illustrations while the memory of my mother's soft voice caused the words to be born again in my heart. There were three little cherubic, tow-headed boys wearing pastel one-piece pajamas. One of the boys had lost a button, which caused half of his flap to sag and revealed a glimpse of his bottom. Their names were Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. They had paper hats and fishing poles, and they set sail in a tiny wooden shoe, hoping to find all the wonderful and dreamy things that beckon to us from just beyond.
Their little boat rocked and nodded in a twilight sea of stars and clouds and twinkling nets. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and I began to long for something that I could not name or understand.
As I look back on it, it seems that my heart was made for Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. My soul said "yes" to them and to their journey. I wanted to be on that little boat, sailing those mysterious waters in search of something wonderful and sweet that lives over the horizon and out of our reach. I felt in my heart that there must be a reality beyond us where little boys may sail away in wooden boats and be safely returned if they fall asleep on the way.
Gazing at my book as the darkness fell outside my window, I would sate myself on those images and finally drift off to sleep, my soul full of longing and my heart adrift in a sea of joy with no shoreline and no name. It was like floating in an ocean of little boy worship.
Some years passed, and I grew too old for picture books and childish things. In time I forgot about the little boys in their wooden shoe boat. I never understood what I was looking for, but the mark of that sweet desire would always live in my heart.
I grew to be a man and had children of my own. When my first daughter was three I lay down in bed with her one night to help her go to sleep. One side of her twin bed was against the wall, and I lay on the other side facing out, making a little space for her in between that was almost like a little boat, if you think about it. She fidgeted and kicked and talked to me for a few minutes, and then something magical happened.
She forgot I was there and lost herself in pure play while I faded away like the bedroom furniture in "Where the Wild Things Are." She talked and played with "Sungy," her favorite stuffed bear. I listened, delighted and amazed. She rolled back and forth, bumping into me and sometimes leaning against my body while my eyes closed with delight. I have always loved the feeling of my children's bodies pressed against mine. I love to feel their squirming. A leg flopped over my hip for a moment, and a little hand played in my hair which had become a forest at the top of a mountain. Tiny fingers picked at my shirt and sneaked into one of my pockets looking for candy.
I was treated to the subconscious, slumgullion speech that is common to children who are lost in the absolute present moment of play.
"Do you want to buy an O, round and sweet? No, I don't, because you shouldn't say that. The dolphins are jumping and Sungy says that his mommy doesn't let him say that or buy Os because they're very scary."
Cartoon sound bites and bits of commercials. Little moments from her day. Fears and joys remembered. Scat singing. Noises that amuse. This is your little girl. Listen, for this is how her mind works. Keep silent and know her deepest desires. Strolling through the interior castle of her mind was a most delightful and relaxing pleasure.
Sailing away at bedtime became something I looked forward to. It always happened in the same way. I would listen to her talk and feel her body moving in the bed behind me. In time her voice would grow soft and her breathing would become regular. The squirming would slow and then cease. If I was lucky, the little heel thrown over my hip would grow heavy and not be taken away. She would drift off to sleep, and sometimes I would too, knowing real peace and contentment, if only for that hour.
I have sailed the sleepy-time seas with three daughters now, my own little Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. There were times when more than one of them wanted me to come and see them off to sleep. In those days I thought this journey would last forever. But now my youngest is seven, and she doesn't play with toys in bed anymore. Last night I lay beside her as she read a "Junie B. Jones" book. I asked her to read aloud so that I could hear her voice, but she said, "Dad, I mostly just read silently now."
Oh.
I see.
The last of the three sisters has come of age and put away these childish things. No more sailing away at night on a sea of silly words and playtime. She would rather get a kiss and a hug and be left alone to enjoy her book.
I understand.
It's okay. It really is. One day I may sail the seas of dreamland with a grandchild. One never knows. In the meantime, I take comfort in knowing that I have finally named the thing I longed for so long ago in my bed beneath the window.
It was the journey. It was the journey itself that stirred my heart. It was the boat and the boys and the stars and the sea. It was everything found and felt along the way.
It was always the journey.
It will always be the journey.
I know nothing but the journey.
Whatever calls to us from beyond the horizon of our hearts is hidden for now. There are hints about its nature and stories about its ways in the old books, but what lies beyond the sea remains a mystery. It is the journey that we long for and only the journey that we may know.
Why we love to sail toward something that can never be found is one of life's great mysteries. It's the way we are made, I believe, and I take comfort in that.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
rlp
Click here to read the poem "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod."
Click here to read about "Where the Wild Things Are."
