My dreams, just lately, have been sweet. I am with those I love and no longer see, so they are also poignant when I wake up and even as I experience them. I am aware that they prolong the longing and the yearning that I have tried to pack away and yet I would not give up these stolen moments. As I slowly return to this moment, this reality, I wonder at myself and my world.
My world has mostly revolved around me and very young children. I have my own memories when I was so young they are mostly picture. My other memories are filled with my children, my young students, my grandchildren. It is an odd existence of a life built around words and naming things and trying to write about things that cannot really be named.
I have a need to communicate. I wonder if it is impatience or a primal need for survival that led to this form of communication over telepathy, or some other way, but it is part of our species to name things with words. I wonder if I am allowing a child to give away some sacred connection when we go through the madly sweet years of learning to talk. Reducing experiences to words that barely touch the surface of what they are. In the beginning "mama" is warmth and satisfaction and safety and comfort, softness, and roundness, entertainment and so much more.
Later on in life it is mostly a vague warm feeling, perhaps a primal yearning in quieter moments.
It is a primal yearning that draws me back. After years of having my experience whittled away, chopped, pruned, punched, poked and shaped to fit into the tiny cubicles of word communication, one morning I wake up and feel the call to go back to some place where there is more depth and richness that this shell of a word.
And that is when I write poetry and thots and begin to meditate and pray and center in silence. It is when the day dreaming I was censured for in school becomes a long lost friend. It is when I see the face on the enemy is my own. It is when the Way curves slightly away from madness and mayhem and a little more towards the Creator.
It is the road home.
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