Last night, I dreamed my mother was dying. She lied unconscious in her bed, with ragged breathing. I told her family and friends that this was it, in the matter of a few hours, or a few days at most, she would be gone.
And then she woke up.
She strolled into her kitchen looking as good as she ever did in life. Radiant. Beautiful. My first words to her were not “I love you!” or “I’m so happy to see you!” They were “you were dying!”
She just laughed at me, shaking her head as though she couldn’t believe I could be so silly to think she could be dying.
She hugged her friends and family. Everyone rejoiced.
And then she turned yellow, thin. She took to her bed. Once again, she was dying.
I woke up from this dream at sunrise in the forest. A grey light had seeped into the tent. It was so quiet, I could hear my own breathing.
And my mother is still dead. There is no happy ending to the dream, but maybe there is a message. My predictions, my ambitions, my rages mean nothing. There is only what is. I cannot create, or alter, but I can accept. but I can accept. In a way, I am helpless but I am also empowered. To enjoy the beauty of life, of the now. Of my breath warming the sides of the tent, collecting into sparkling drops of condensation. Of the grey light, snaking its way through the pines.