Friends dreaming of me and me dreaming of friends.

Lighting fires and keeping them alive.

Today it makes the most sense for me to write about my dreams.

Telling a friend about a friend.

This morning a friend messaged me telling me they missed me, and I let them know that we were hanging out in my dream yesterday. She replied to say the reason she had messaged is because we were also hanging out in her dreams. 

This morning as I lay in bed, having just returned from the dreaming, I know that I am coming home to myself. Things are sorting out. In my dreams I have been with my friends, and just before I awoke I was at a dance party. Many women in beautiful dresses, and earlier, a feast laid out on the floor. The music was good, and I held it in my hands.

We were safe. We were gazing across rooms at one another. New women. New to each other and new to ourselves. Becoming. 

I love that place. And I feel that yesterday I was also at a dance party in my dreams. In deep, sparkly outfits.

I’m reorienting. Sleeping well. Lightly holding. I feel meditative. The light is long enough, and the rooms I’m in accentuate it. The movement is just enough. Not jarring. I’m able to float as myself, try on all the new clothes. Dabble in various lives. Sense my written and writing paths.

It feels interesting to be awake. To be in this moment. Good music, in my hands.

I want to write more, and I enjoy the meditation of rereading, editing, sitting with a note instead of just passing on to write a new one. It’s like I can see myself, when otherwise I get lost. I’m always tempted to write the metanarrative, consider the meaning of a moment in a larger story. This feels like the part where I learn what works for me in terms of meditation and writing. I really hope the clarity stays, the softness, the present-moment-taste.

The staying.

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