These Dreams

It has been 120 days since my feet carried me to my car which carried me to the ferry which carried me away from Orcas Island away from winding sunny roads away from Doe Bay away from the retreat house.  How is it possible that three days, 72 hours amongst hundreds and thousands lit such a spark in my soul?

I try to concentrate at work, try to focus on what needs to be done and my fingers are jittery, my skin crackles with the electric hyper-awareness of my own thoughts and dreams and aspirations.  I could let my passion overtake me.  In my mind this chorus repeats

These dreams go on when I close my eyes, every second of the night,
These dreams that sleep when it’s cold outside, every moment I’m awake, the further I’m away

I can write anywhere.  Intentional practice builds routine in such a short period of time, and already 2018 is bringing words and ideas more easily from my fingertips.  I am excited, I am devouring voices that empower me, teach me, show me that there is a path to the place I want to go.  I feel like I’m finding direction, and the ideas are good and they are plentiful.  The hardest part is knowing where to begin.

Life brings us sacred spaces, sometimes when we least expect them.  If you have never been in a room filled with 20 other people who share your passion, do whatever you need to do to make it happen.  I have found these sacred spaces in hotel conference rooms, in volunteer trainings, in board meetings, even carved out of small corners of the internet with women whose hearts melt into one great pile of heaving, living, loving support.

These dreams

There is something about it.  Something about an island, surrounded by the peace of the waves, that relaxes your soul.  Shorelines and ocean breezes give way to glowing warmth, to acceptance and understanding.  Everyone in this room appreciates that words are not a hobby, they are a part of our souls and we couldn’t give them up any more than we could give up breathing.

There is overwhelming relief in being understood when the words that spill from your lips about passion and intention and creation grow loud and overtake like brambles.  To be physically touched, to speak my truth of being less than and to touch someone’s heart; to be looked in the eyes and told my words are powerful, my voice is strong… these are not just memories.  They are sparks.

I can write anywhere, but that room… the mark it left and the way it grew in my heart in the days after I left it is some kind of magic.  A seed planted that whispers things like you are not just pretending and you belong in this company and your words mean something.

In sunlight, in darkness, awake and asleep, every second of the night and day, these dreams ferment, maturing and rounding as they come into their own.

These dreams go on

Nearly two hours pass in the middle of the night as I lie awake, trying to stop my mind from racing.  Every corner of my brain is filled with the soft, sweet call of it all.  I hear the words like whispers, that Pacific Northwest oasis lures me like a siren in the mist.