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I dream of whales


I don’t often recall what I dream.

I wake and feel held in the dark-stillness, even at 6am.

I try to remember, but it’s fleeting


was there a boy?

was I swimming?


The details too vague to put anything together.

Frustrating, for when the one who sleeps beside me wakes, he reels from what he’s seen as he’s traveled in worlds, vivid, detailed and complex. He enters galaxies and jumps through timelines...


I, however, may find myself in a graveyard or a grocery store. I might bring home cake mix or sit in grass, alone. I recall precious little about my dreams...

This morning was much the same.

Woke up with my this-present-world thoughts

grabbing at my mind, demanding my attention so that there is no space to remember where I went in my sleep.

Water sip. Pee. Cat box clean-up. Tea steep. Draw a bath. Stretch. Yawn.

And I’m not mad about my amnesia, I’m used to it.

I tell myself I dream in the day, and dance through my morning, a slow and mindful waltz.

I offer service to my kitties.

I make an offering to the earth as I plunk their purge into the toiletbowl waters.

I choose the English Breakfast my sister gifted me for my birthday from a red box that reminds me “STAY CALM AND DRINK TEA.”

I don’t text her that I’m thinking of her, but I am, and I’m sending her love.

In my bath I pour the last of my Epsom salts from a mason jar. I smell the faint floral “gardenia” from oils I dropped in last week. I listen to the water tumbling out of the faucet, breaking the morning silence like a waterfall in a forest.

Slipping out of pj’s and into hot salt water, my cells are reminded of Colorado mineral springs and an odd time in my life. I remind myself that I am forgiven.

Breathe in and sweep the air like a dirt floor on the way out.

I let myself be held in a hard plastic container, not lamenting that it isn’t copper and claw-foot, but grateful because many folks don’t have a bathtub, some not even a bathroom or a home. I think of my friend Corvus, who doesn’t live in my neighborhood now that they put cement blocks and “no parking” signs where his tent and neighboring trailers used to stay. “I hope he’s okay” I whisper to no one.

I am lucky. I am held. The water runs.

And while I sit, all parts of me immersed except knees, breast and head, my body absorbing its’ essence, my toes shape-shifting to prunes,

I let my eyelids fall soft, ears attuned to nothing and suddenly, without trying, I remember...

last night, I dreamt of whales.



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