A writer needs a muse, and I had a good one. Sometimes I think the inherent non-fictionality of life interrupts the ability to create fiction – at least for me. Life can be overwhelming, amazing, tragic, sacred, wholly unexpected. I feel life’s events deeply and I always have. So I have looked to my old writings for inspiration, and perhaps to remind myself that there was a time when I created things worth reading, that other people enjoyed reading, that I was someone who created ideas, found peace in words, and hope in imagination.

I found one poem in particular that is not fiction, coincidentally, but about a dream I had several years ago. The poem still resonates with me, and I want to share it here. I am a thinker, a dreamer, a moody sarcastic reluctant romantic. I am a writer. I am me. I can be no other.

* * *

Last night I dreamt of him

He was the house I longed to get to

in the middle of shallow, red clay-tinged, gently rippling water

Gray and tan smooth pebbles and jagged tiny stones surrounding it

Standing solidly on a shallow pier that I couldn’t reach

He was the brown shingled home

with a simple frame and construction

cozy and inviting

but surrounded by that shallow clay-colored water on all sides

I circled like an agitated, frightened puppy

whimpering to myself

Standing

alone

exposed

frustrated

bewildered

on some solid ground I could not see

Placing my bare, dirty, cold wet feet on the hard rocks and pebbles

but jerking them back just as quickly

when the rocks shifted

Afraid to step forward but determined not to step away altogether

I got no closer

Fear rose up inside of me as I circled the house

I longed for someone to help me

but the house was empty

As I fought the wave of frustration and panic

a wooden walkway appeared

It was not there before

A simple walkway that led to the front door

and bypassed the rocks and water

I quietly exclaimed relief and pulled my feet from the rocks one last time

I made my way on the walkway

cautiously but quickly

I kept my focus on the wood planks beneath my feet

I saw that there was one simple step up to the door from my walkway

I kept my eye on that step

When I reached that step

my downcast, anxious eyes

stared at my dirty, cold feet

Just as I was about to step up

an open-palmed hand

attached to an outstretched arm

appeared before me

I raised my head

reached for the hand

forgetting my fear

and the dream was over

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