In my youth, I remember wakening to lavender walls on summer mornings. Brushing aside white lace curtains. Gazing at cattle through branches of the fruit tree beneath my window.
My world was complete, soon to be forfeited for a convent.
Following an alternate dream, detached from the famiarity of home, family, friends. The ordinary life. High school. College. Dates. Husband. Children. Family celebrations. I opted for an alternative path instead. Without the faintest notion of how far away from familiar it would take me.
Awakening puberty had fueled intense longings and hazy dreams. The teenage urge for popular music, or the swirl of dance, and for acceptance among my peers. In spite of (and perhaps even for fear of) the stirrings of my budding hormones, I chose otherwise.
I was driven by dreams of black habits and secluded monasteries in faraway locations. Of being swept away like saints of old to a magical sort of la-la land where, only goodness and Godliness prevailed. Where I would preside as teacher over a classroom full of eager, obedient students. Where perhaps I could fulfill my hazy, unconscious memories of a previous lifetime in Tibet. Which might explain my consistent penchant for Orderliness. Discipline. Focus on spiritual possibilities rather than those of this world.
Even now, my lavender dreams continue to haunt me. My tendency to gaze through my window at the world beyond. To dream of possibilities. Hang out at the edge of consciousness. Seek out others who tolerate my habit of togethering along with a strong dose of healthy solitary seclusion.
I continue to frequently occupy my private corner of the world. My retreat from whence I observe. My nest in the forest beneath a tree, belly against the ground, chin in hand, a blade of grass between my teeth.
a place to
and perhaps ready for Return.