A Dream, a Conversation, an Experience and a Memory

I've been meaning to come here and write so many times over the past few weeks. The urge may have been provoked by a dream, a conversation had or one I'd like to have, but don't dare, an experience, a memory. Any and all of these prompts. And I cannot adequately explain my absence here. Clearly, I've fallen into a routine on this blog. Stale? Perhaps. Superfluous? So it seems. Shallow? I'd say.

The thing is I've recently found myself in a pretty good and solid space. It's not ideal, but it's getting better. I'm feeling more present, and yet there's still a Titanic-sized boat load of work to do. Always more. Always better. I've learned that to stay in a good place, I've got to cultivate it continuously. Hour after hour...day after day. It requires showing up Monday through Sunday, self-care and self-appreciation. Each of these come with their own drop down menu of ways and means. Basically, it's a full-time job to be healthy, and yes, the pay off is worth it.

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My dreams have been catching my attention. Every morning, it seems, I wake up wanting to garner meaning from the trips my subconscious mind takes while I sleep. The nights' visions all feel important lately...telling and trenchant...and then they slowly start to slip away after the first light of day. All I'm left with is a feeling. I suspect it's the feeling that was the very impetus for the dream to begin with. It's all that remains...so often fear, sadness, anger, embarrassment. loneliness, confusion. More rarely happiness or joy or satisfaction.

Last night I was brutally honest with someone in my life while I slept. I said all the things that have been weighing on my mind for nearly a decade and I spoke from my heart. I didn't feel any better during or after. Maybe because I know I'll never take the chance to speak these truths out loud. That leaves me right where I began trying to remedy real life hurts in the unarmed shadows of the night.

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There was a great deal of conversation Friday night during book club. My aunt stopped by after the lively book banter. We had some wine to finish...some other things to discuss. It was a lovely connection despite the fact that it was rather one-sided. I spent most of our time defending my reasons for reaching out yet again to my dad and then rehashing all the ways I feel I'm being mistreated by another family member. Nothing my aunt said or didn't say put me on the defensive or the warpath. She mostly listened. There are times it all seems so complex...this human nature gig, but quite simply it comes down to being present. Truly present. If we're in it, we get it. The ways we bring joy or pain, the way we wound or heal, the way we contribute or deplete. We get what we need to do and say...what we need to not do and not say to nurture the relationship. Oh, and then we do it.

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I attended mass in my very own kitchen this week. It's a holy place for me. Just try not to feel reverent as you turn the dregs of the crisper...the sad veggies and bare bones...into a delicious and soothing elixir. It's a process. It takes time. Jesus may have turned the water into wine in an instant, but the longer you let your stock simmer, the richer the transformation. Baking bread casts a similar spell on me. How can flour, yeast, a pinch of salt and a sprinkle of sugar yield a creation so fortifying? It just gets me every.single.time. I didn't make bread on Sunday though. I made cookies instead. Simple 4 ingredient peanut butter cookies so unbelievably good. Five ingredients if you count the love that goes into the recipe. It should be counted too. It's the most important component. Love makes all things we do and make better. So made with love is not just a nice concept or a cute saying. It is, or it should be, a mandate: Do all things big and small with great love.

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I was making Lily's bed this morning. She usually makes it herself, but when she doesn't, I have a little fun with the lovies she still shares her bed with. I pose Ellie the elephant, Alice the mole, Lavender the llama, and a couple unnamed others in entertaining (at least for me) poses. It lead me down memory lane. This was Ted's bed before it was Lily's. How many years ago? I could see it in his old room in our old house. I saw myself leaning up against it many months pregnant waiting for my little guy freshly bathed and dressed in his shorty super hero jammies with that cape. I'm waiting for him to pick out a bedtime story. He's wasting time playing with his train table while I'm feeling present. And prescient. He's growing up lightning fast. Thomas was but one of his phases. So many phases phased out. We read one book. He was never a one more story guy. No, instead he'd pray on his knees, climb into bed and wait for me to trace letters on his back. It was always one more letter with him.