Flowering

Two nights ago I had a dream, half waking half sleeping.  The green light on the fire alarm, glowing in the dark, began morphing into the features of a powerful , benevolent green goddess.  More ancient and wild and loving than anything imagined or written.  I was there, still separate, holding back from full surrender to the growing vision.  I could not connect, and yet I was glad to see her, to know that this possibility is inside me, is growing, if slowly and replete with the fearfulness of coming into the fullness of life’s possibility.  I was sleeping on the couch.  My room seems cold at the moment, a holding space for laundry and the cupboards that I need to go through with Mary Kondo’s eye, weeding out all the unsuitable items that don’t really serve my life, that clutter up the space.  But this is labour I can only do in stages, I am inside the limits of what my reality currently is.  Responsibilities of work, children to play with, bathe, put to bed.  Clothes to launder and beds to change.  Lectures to write.  So the couch, lit up in the glow of a low warm light at the end of the day, when the house is quiet apart from me and the cat, becomes sweet and cosy.  Free of obligations. Covered with the zebra print mink blanket I bought in Kilburn with the birthday money my granny gave me back in the day.  This is the flowering beneath the ground, the gestating point, the cracking open of the seed as it becomes aware of a light not yet seen.

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