I listen intently and I listen closely. I think about them until I can get to my notebook and pen, steadfastly hanging onto every thread that dances in the place between awake and unconsciousness. They are slippery to grasp. So many minor details are packed into the fold of them. In that elusiveness I try to memorize what I have just seen. I have asked spirit to speak to me in my dreams. I have a habit of spinning the images into signs that all is well, everything is healed, I have shed yet another layer, I can have relief and suffering is over! It is an old compulsion to have everything be neat and tidy. If I don’t chase it vigorously with my pen, I can consciously weave the story into a magical tale of how much I have overcome. Once it is down on the paper, fingers racing against my mind, the transcription exposes the truth. Without this dissection, I would not be able to catch those fleeing glimpses of sadness, regret and pain.
We plant seeds constantly. Some of them sprout and some of them never break ground. In my dream work I connect with the seeds that were planted that never sprouted. Like babies. And not just babies in general, but my babies. The babies that I had already given a shape to in my heart. I could make out their face and I had visions of them over and over, holding themselves up on the little window in my living room, looking out into the garden where the flowers bloomed and waved hello. I saw them sitting in the dining room floor with a little metal tray like the one I used to have with Wonder Woman on it, smearing their breakfast on their face and chattering to me as I did motherly things in the kitchen.
But let’s just say that like other somatic experiences, my body has in places clung tightly to this baby’s existence in any capacity that it could. That gritty textured ball of sand that calls for tender attention reveals itself in the burning pain in my lower back, the electric shooting pain in my uterus.
I no longer feel the tinge in waking life. I don’t feel defensive and angry when I interact with a new parent of a child. I am no longer jealous of the lens that they suddenly get to see the world through. There is not the slightest intellectual desire for my child that I had given a face to, but its little cells swim into my throat and loosen themselves through my tears. It is a sensation I can contract and expand with, and will bloom and then die, again and again, as I am just as sure that the healing of this story is as cyclical as all the others.
I can not bask in the light for long without acknowledging the shadows. Sitting in the shadows is not scary after all. In fact, it is cool and relaxing. Here, I am free to honor and connect with all of the rough and tender seeds that never see the sun. No one is looking. I am in a safe place of reckoning. All is well.