The day I craved ice cream on a hot dog bun, I found out I was going to be a mother.
I floated out of work to the drugstore to buy a pregnancy test with my hand on my chest and my heart in my stomach. I had taken dozens of those tests—each one, a false alarm. That day was different. I felt everything deeply – the sun, the steering wheel, the teenage boy behind the checkout, the people next to me at the red lights. Then, that extra line. Two lines on the plastic stick brought me to my knees.
It showed up in an early morning dream and woke me suddenly, leaving me in a hazy shock. Because of this dream, I’ve been going about my day feeling deeply into a new personality of fear. It’s hard to describe it, but it moves through me with a strange rhythm of intention and mischief. In one moment, I’m comforted by fear’s presence. I see its purpose in my dream and marvel at what it has revealed about my waking life. But mostly? I feel disrupted and terrified of its implication.
I've noticed a beautiful pattern in my dreams lately.
While I sleep, I've been traveling back to some of the ugliest places in my life. Places of secrets. Faces of judgment. In these scenes, I find myself completely present. I’m standing, waiting, listening, and feeling deeply. Amidst the shadowy emotions of those in the dream, I am not afraid. Sometimes, it’s my words that change the room. Other times, I silently kneel to those who are the loudest and look into their eyes, or put my forehead against theirs. As I meet them where they are, I can feel a great swell of love wash over us. In an instant, tears are shed and truth is seen.