bonne nuit
What is creation? What is it to be created?
What is commitment? What is it to be committed?
I keep dreaming about a mountain covered in grand fir trees. It’s snowing, and the trees become heavy with snow.
If I stick out my tongue, I catch crystals. If I inhale deeply, I smell the pine. If I take a step, I hear the crunch-crunch-crunch of snow beneath my feet. It is a satisfying sound. It is a soothing sensation. The snow holds me in a way mud and rock cannot.
I am married to my ideals. I am devoted to my daily discipline of writing. I write for me. Do it for you, I said to my sister on the phone. Let me people come if they want, and leave them alone if they don’t like.
Do you have feedback? That is a terrible question. What would you say to a person seeking validation? I created for myself and always have a small child who does not look backward. I knew what was behind me. Forward is the only focus.
My mom says it’s a big year for you. It will not always be like this, so full. I disagree, and I don’t say anything. It is better to be silent. I have learned so much about loving. I love my mom. I stay silent when I disagree. Is it necessary to be contrary? Do I need to be right?
Two things are always true at once. I can love my mom and respect her wishes while holding a different opinion. I understand this deviation. In my teenage years, I wanted to rebel. Is it a natural progression to push back? To push so hard that something breaks? Is there a way to be more gentle? I am learning. My mom says I was saying things, and now I understand what I said.
It takes time, and time is a construct. What does it take?
Honestly, my mom says. My sister is honest. My sister is a clear river. I can see the bottom through her. I feel deeply when I am with her. The crystals break, the snow melts, and I am free of that crusty bit of myself. I am that person and the other person. I am who I am with her, and I am someone else when I am alone.
I can be both, and I can be multiple. I am as wide as that mountain with the fir trees.
In the dream, I walk up the hillside. My hands are cold. I stuff them in my pockets. I climb and climb, and at the summit, there’s a gondola going to another peak. I take it up to the tip-top of the mountain and look down. It is snowing heavily, and I feel cold inside my bones. I breathe deep into fill my lungs with crystals.
I am bursting from the inside and made more resilient from the effort.
My sister says our heads are too big, and we must say less than those around us. She says our mouths and eyes take up a lot of space; it is about the subtle realm around the person. Step back to see more. How does she know so much, and I know so little? I practice every day, but I am always behind her. I have accepted my place in the world. I call my sister and listen to her stories. This is one way of learning. T
This is one way of unraveling the secrets of the world.
I stand on the mountain and watch the sunrise, gazing into the gold. Holding contact, I know my head is the right size. I will be brave, stand tall, and ascend. The dream dissolves when the sun is high, and I wake up with the white sheets wound tight to my waist.
A light blinks in the corner.
I roll over and reach for my phone.
A text from my sister lights up the screen:
I didn't mean we have giant heads, and it's bad; I just meant I think we should pull back from ppl and let the universe do the work for us.
Photo source.
