Waves

I’ve written a lot about water over the last year and a half. Waves of grief, being lost in and unanchored in an ocean, navigating choppy waves. All of it. What I haven’t shared with many is that before Bryan was diagnosed, before Todd died, before Bob died, I had a nightmare. In that nightmare, I remember seeing a giant black wall approaching the shore I was standing on. That tsunami was far enough away for me to become fully aware of the devastation it was about to wreak on everything around me. I’m not certain I’d like to say it was prophetic. I could tell something was fundamentally wrong with Bryan and that may have simply been my subconscious trying to wrestle with it. But the vividness of that dream is still crisp in my mind’s eye. Within a six month period, we lost a cat, a dear friend, my oldest brother, and my husband–a tsunami of tragedy and then a tsunami of grief to follow. I tell this because it is necessary to balance what I’ve been hesitant to share.

I don’t regularly take naps, but on a lazy Saturday afternoon when there are no demands on my time or focus, I’ll take a rest with the kitties and let sleep take me if it wants to. About a month or two ago, I was in such a position, when I had the most delicious dream. I was in warm, tropical waters, that greenish blue that is bright and cheerful and so so vibrant. While in this water, a huge, warm, gentle green-blue wave washed over me, overwhelming all my senses, but with comfort, safety and bigger than I could contain. Was this dream prophetic? Or was my subconscious telling me it’s all going to be all right? I don’t know, but I know how it made me feel, how it continues to make me feel.