I've been thinking a lot lately about a dream I had about six years ago, around the time that I graduated from college. I'm standing in the middle of the parking lot across the street from my parents' house. It's dark outside and all of the first floor lights are on. The front door is wide open. A young girl, maybe ten, is standing outside. I start to head for the front door and, without speaking, the girl indicates that I shouldn't enter from the front, but that I should follow her around to the back. I feel a sense of danger, and know it would be smart to follow the girl. By the time I get around back, the girl has vanished. I go through the back door and my dad is standing inside, crying, and I instantly know he's crying because my mother just died. He looks terrible, lost, defeated and withering away. I turn to my left to see that the coat closet is completely empty except for a little boy that's sitting on the floor, maybe six years old. A bare bulb bathes the closet with light. The boy looks up and says to me, "Everyone must try to lick the spoon." And I wake up.
I've always interpreted the dream as "growing pains," letting go of dependence and trying my chance at life. Now, six years later, I'm seeing it in a whole new way. One day soon, my dad will move out of the home he shared with his wife of 37 years, and the coat closet will be empty. A new family will inhabit the space and their kids will soon call it their "childhood home," just as I do. My dad may weep in that very same spot in the back of the house. He probably already has. I'll stand bewildered, not knowing what to do, not able to understand the messages being sent to me. Was my mom in that brightly lit living room? Was the girl me? If I fell asleep tonight and could have that dream all over again, I would thank that sweet little girl for trying to shield me from my pain, and then I would walk straight through the front door and see whatever it is I'm supposed to witness.
I've always interpreted the dream as "growing pains," letting go of dependence and trying my chance at life. Now, six years later, I'm seeing it in a whole new way. One day soon, my dad will move out of the home he shared with his wife of 37 years, and the coat closet will be empty. A new family will inhabit the space and their kids will soon call it their "childhood home," just as I do. My dad may weep in that very same spot in the back of the house. He probably already has. I'll stand bewildered, not knowing what to do, not able to understand the messages being sent to me. Was my mom in that brightly lit living room? Was the girl me? If I fell asleep tonight and could have that dream all over again, I would thank that sweet little girl for trying to shield me from my pain, and then I would walk straight through the front door and see whatever it is I'm supposed to witness.
Yoga is getting me through this. I see how my practice has allowed me the space to handle the hardest moments with grace and compassion. Yoga is why I will eventually accept whatever will come because I know it's necessary for my soul's evolution. I don't need an unhealthy coping mechanism to keep me safe right now because I want to use this time of family crisis and tragedy to grow in ways unimaginable to my human mind. I'm the lucky one that gets to keep living and I owe it to my mother and to myself to live and love on a new level. I want to dive in and be connected at all times, even if it means I will feel pain. Imagine the possibilities that come from staying present at the most difficult time in your life. Imagine not being afraid to feel, not afraid to stand in the presence of great change and say, "YES!" Simply, yes. We are open, ready and willing. That is powerful. We just have to stay connected.
With so much gratitude,
Megan
