Maybe it’s the writer’s place – to wander and to wonder. What one might push away as nothing really important, a writer will not. A writer knows that everything matters, from the smallest gesture, the slightest glance, the briefest kindness. Writers pay attention, and what others might forget, we remember.

          From the time I was twelve, I’ve had a recurring dream. That dream (or series of dreams) has been at the core of so many of my writings. I refer to them as ‘the house dreams’ because the anchor for all of them is a house – a house I know (but couldn’t possibly know). I know the porch and the pantry, the place on the floor where the afternoon sits. I know the color (and feel) of the wallpaper (fading aubergine), and the steps from the porch to the gate, from the gate to the barn, and how many (when running) before the orchard. I know which boards creak, and which locks won’t lock.

          There’s a small cemetery to the left of the front yard with a stone I haven’t the heart to read.

          I don’t know where the house is, but if I were to find myself on any road within a mile of it, I would know just where to turn.  I’d surely recognize the sweetness of the air, the stillness on my soul.

          A dear and old friend often asks about ‘the house’, and recently she made the comment, ‘you know that house is probably somewhere nearby – wonder who lives there’. To which, my immediate reply was “I do”.

          If you believe in conscious unconsciousness, then you’ll understand when I say that I know that I’m dreaming when I’m there. I’ve spent many a night searching through boxes under ‘that bed’ looking for the thread that ties this life to that. And some nights, I’m so comfortable on ‘that porch’ that I hate the thought of returning.

          Even now, I wonder what I tell them about you.

mysteries forgotten
by the seeker as she sleeps
remembered once
she wrote it down
or was that but a dream
left it on the table
as she was making up the bed
humming soft a tune
of faded love

. . .