I am rooted, but I flow. (Virginia Woolf)
Coffee and words this morning. Our world is covered in a blanket of fog and on my desk smoke swirls. Lately my prayer has been more like-minded beautiful souls in my life. To fill up my time. To push me into glorious inspiration and to challenge myself to be a beautiful soul myself.
Last night I dreamt that I saw my grandparents; the ones I loved thick as honey. My mom called to tell me they were here. I searched rooms but could not find them. Over there, she said. And then I saw them. Two people sitting together at a little table drinking coffee, smiling. They did not look the way I knew them to look in real life, but up close it was them, very very old. I went to them and they took me, as always, into their simplicity and kindness. We talked and laughed with our hands wrapped around warm cups. I saw my grandpa's eye sparkle and my grandma's brief smile. This was the dream. There was no parting. No tears. There was no sign of death or hollowed bones or dust. It was just them, beautiful as ever, and me filling up.
I awoke briefly following the dream. A lucid moment to solidify what I know: prayers do get answered.
