Skipping in Wheat Fields.

The Dream about a Baby

I dreamt about my baby, giving birth and all. Warm, soft, a blur.  It all feels so real, this huge love and this feeling of home. 

And then I wake up. Empty room, empty crib, missing someone who isn’t even born. All the love I have now has nowhere to go, it turns green and cold — a guttural grief that lingers for days. 

Then I think about my mother and grandmother. One who I barely know, and the other who I’ve never met. But I have known them both for decades before I was conceived. The egg that created me was already inside my mom’s ovaries when she was a fetus in my grandmother’s womb. I carry their rage and their sadness; I recognize them in my rage and sadness. Even at the most solitary moments, we experience an eternal covenant that is purely feminine. 

I hope my baby carries all my joy and love, and is able to recognize me in their own happiness. All my softness, I hope you feel, right now. 

I stewed in the mournful absence of my child. I don’t believe that this is a pressing desire for motherhood or domesticity. The longing and grief is love that is looking for a soft place to land. 

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If you are my friend, I hope you know that I love you. The love that is circling overhead is never-ending. All my joy and love and softness, I hope you feel right now as well.