My dreams are plagued by a recurring nightmare about a tidal wave.
It begins with a hush and a roar and the realization that it’s too late to run.
I don’t run — not because it’s too late, but because there’s something else for me to do before the water comes.
I believe there’s still a way out, but the way out isn’t by running.
I hear a cry and look up to see a little boy, perched high on an apartment balcony or a tree limb. He is terrified and alone and I know it’s my job to save him from drowning.
I do reach him. For a few brief moments there is peace as his small hand slips into mine. He smiles at me, and we are safe.
It’s not logical, to believe that a tidal wave will stop because of hands making contact. Yet in my dream, it always does.
Feeling the cold squish of paint through your fingers; the tight caking on your rainbow-splattered arms; the laugh bursting from your belly.
Finger painting is freedom, is joy, is pleasure. Grateful you could remind me.
“When you wake up in the morning, called by God to be a self again, if you want to know who you are, watch your feet. Because where your feet take you, that is who you are.”
– Frederick Buechner, The Alphabet of Grace
“Hawaii is my happy place,” I said to no one, ever, at any time. The morning was too bright, too hot, and too lonely.
But the light’s beginning to change. Happiness, like a cockroach, has a way of creeping up on you.
Loss unspeakable shatters the morning.
Hollow and heavy, I look up and realize the air is still.
Walking the loop, the sun on my back, I glanced to the left and found paradise.
His eyes are like oceans, playful and joyous and deep.
His daddy smiles at me through the blue.