Testing my Resilience

lizaaitken

I was saying the other day how I was resilient, how I felt resilience came from how you coped with past experiences.  An ability to put yourself outside of a situation and not feel the pain of it, recognise the trauma but protect yourself from it.  I wrote it down, it was going to be included in one of my stories.

‘What about resilience, do we develop it here on earth or is this something we bring with us, learnt from the many challenges of the paths we have walked before. What is natural resilience anyway, I’m resilient but I know I have achieved this through my own experiences. I am able to deal with some traumatic situations by removing myself from the pain of them. Or am I still kidding myself, will the pain slap me around the face one day’.

You didn’t come home last night after work.  That’s okay you’re young and probably having fun, out straight from work on a Saturday night and forgot yourself.  I would have done the same myself at 25.  I texted you in the evening to say that I was going on Skype, so be quiet if you came in, you didn’t disturb me.

I went to bed at midnight and left the light on in the hall for you.  If you had a few drinks I wanted to be sure you were safe and would not trip on the stairs.  I do this when you’re late, I get up in the morning and you have turned it off and your bedroom door is closed.

The light was still on, the door is open, you’re not home.

I’m telling myself that you’re fine, you probably stayed at Ruby’s and as it was late didn’t want to wake me.  I have three hours until you’re due in work and then you will call.  Why didn’t you text, I could have found it when I woke.  What about email, you know I check them on my phone.

I probably seem over protective but I’m not, I want you to have fun.  It’s just that you have never done this before, you always think of other people, well me anyway.  You are considerate, you think of my feelings.  Your boss tells me every time I see him how well brought up you are, what manners you have.  Well, that is all down to you my lovely, you’re a natural.  That’s why I’m starting to panic, just a little bit.

I know you’re fine really and I’m letting my imagination run away with me.  If you were not, someone would have let me know.  I think of how they can check your wallet, they find out where you live from your bankcards.  What if you lost your wallet, what if you’re unconscious?  It’s okay, I just realised Ruby would be able to tell anyone if you were hurt.  But what if you’re not with her, maybe I just assumed it was her you were with, you might have been alone.

I texted you again half an hour ago, I didn’t phone in case you’re still sleeping.  Hurry up and wake up darling, put my mind at ease.

I know life is full of challenges, but you hope they lessen a bit as you learn form them.  I couldn’t cope if you were hurt, you’re my Achilles Heel darling.  I would go mad without you in my life.  What am I saying you’re probably just hung over, thoughtless, selfish, but I know you’re not.  I think about that some more, you can be selfish when you let me pick up after you, which is good today, and it’s how I want it to be.  I want to think you are just uncaring, no I don’t, I just want to know you are all right.

It is quiet in town today, apart from the gulls screeching over the roofs.  I’m aware my ears are tuned to the street, listening for footsteps in case you pop home to change.

I can’t do anything, I’m sitting here in my dressing gown waiting for you to make the next move.  If I get in the shower you might call, the police might knock on the door, the hospital might call.  Time is trickling by today, hurry up and help the hands of the clock get back to normal.

I’m not really as resilient as I thought, nowhere near it.  I’m a mother who wants to know if her boy is okay.

The Receptionist

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The receptionist hated her job with every atom in her body.  She hated the dreariness of the days, the sadness of the people who used the service and the total disinterest of the people who were supposed to be providing it.  It was a joke that the organization she worked for supposedly provided therapeutic services in the community.  If anyone needed therapy around here, it was her.

She was tied to the horrid job though, and probably for all eternity.  The rent needed to be paid and the credit card bills wouldn’t go away and she really needed those holidays to warm her bones.  If only she had chosen anther direction when she was at school, not hung out around the bike sheds smoking with the boys and stuck her nose in a book instead.

What else could she do she wondered for the fifty-millionth time.  She had made many of those life decision lists that were recommended on the internet, she liked baking cakes, but everyone could bake cakes, she liked to dance (poorly), she liked to cook, she liked animals, what was clear was that she liked nothing that would ever make her any money.  There must surely be something she hadn’t thought of, she just needed to find it.

Travelling to work this morning on the train, with the same blank faces she saw every day she again realised she was dying.  Not dying from a terminal illness or anything, just dying a little bit more everyday in her boring job.  The same old monotony, day in, day out, the rest of her life.  What did her life, as she was leading it have to say for itself, what did it say about her.

She checked her purse to make sure she had the lottery ticket, it was the only way out of here at the moment, that is until her prince comes along if he ever realises she is waiting.

She prayed again to St Jude, saint of hopeless causes to take pity on her.  Then, to be extra sure to St Anthony, the finder of things, to find her a way out of here, hopefully to somewhere warm and St Christopher who might help with that too.

Who else was there up there that could possibly help?  She thought of Arch Angel Michael, he had influence she had heard, she would give him a try, but how, she would need to look that one up.  She opened a browser and typed in his name finding a list of sites dedicated to him immediately.  It appeared all you needed to do was ask him to be by your side, help with negativity and believe he was there.  You could also ask him for a physical sign on earth, so you would know he was there. It was surely worth a go, she would give it a try, what did she have to loose.

The receptionist closed her eyes and followed the instructions carefully.  ‘Dear Arch Angel Michael, could you help me see my way, be with me, protect me and show me a sign that you can hear this’.  Just as she was getting in the flow of the conversation with Michael the door buzzer went off.  She pressed the intercom to enquire who was there.  ‘ Stationary delivery’, she pressed the button to release the door and let the delivery guy in to the building.

A young guy, actually a very nice looking young guy entered the reception area carrying a delivery note.  He was wearing a colbolt blue T-shirt with a company logo of what looked like a sword across the chest.  She directed him to the stationary office and went back to her desk.

A pile of letters needed to be put into envelopes and posted, she had better get on with it before lunch.  She could then head off early to the post office before going to the café in the park.  She looked up as the stationary delivery guy left the building with a wave in her direction.

At the park, she got her sandwich from the café and headed for a bench by the lake.  The sun was shining and it cast a bright glow across the water that seemed to stop just short of the bench.  As she sat, she noticed a single feather, white and fluffy and new.  She picked it up, held it aloft and then gently let it fall to the ground, watching as it span in the summer breeze.

‘Mind if I sit here’? enquired a voice, a nice, soft and gentle voice.  She looked up to see the delivery guy, sandwich in hand standing by her bench.  She smiled and moved along to make room.  She wasn’t so sure she was hungry for the egg mayonnaise sandwich now, maybe it would be best to save it for later where she didn’t have to worry about it falling down her chin.

Heading back to work after lunch, she thought about Mike.  New to town, single and drop dead gorgeous.  He was working at the stationary company as a stopgap to save for the trip around the world he intended to do with his camera.  He was an aspiring photographer and had recently been displayed in a local gallery.   He would be back on Monday with the remainder of the delivery, she must remember to wear her new shoes, and Monday couldn’t come soon enough, maybe this place wasn’t so bad.  She picked the delivery note up from the in tray she had left it earlier, ready now to unpack the boxes.  The piece of paper in her hand read Michaels’ Stationary Supplies and just below showed the delivery of a box of Arch Lever Files.

What was the name of that angel she had been talking to earlier?

For the Love of Mary

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The old man sits on the bench outside of the pub a sandwich left by a thoughtful stranger beside him.  This is his world, his bench and at this moment in time his very existence.  He is always there, whatever the weather and whatever the time of year.  He sits, one weary leg crossed over the other looking at the traffic on the busy road as if he might be surveying a beautiful scene and maybe to him it is.  The locals think they know him, wave and call out on passing. They leave him the odd sandwich or pack of tobacco and call him mate, although no one really knows him, where he comes from and who he was once.   The men that frequent the pub stop and talk to him on occasion, maybe while having a cigarette outside.  He welcomes the conversation but does not demand the attention, he is happy with the way things are.  Chitchat is light and flippant and it is rare that anyone really tries to understand the old gent.

He has been sleeping in the park for nearly two years now.  After Mary died he just couldn’t bring himself to stay in the house.  Not that he didn’t try, day after day he battled against the urge to run out of the door her body had been carried from.  He attempted to shop and care for himself but he had no idea how to do it as Mary had done everything for them both for over fifty years.  They had never had children, they had talked about it early on in their marriage but it never happened and as you did back then, they left it at that.  They were company enough for each other, the routine and daily rituals helped but it was the adoration that cemented them to each other for all those years.   Words were not always needed between them, they knew how each other felt, many an hour was spent sitting together in silence by the gas fire.  To live such a joyous life with the person you love is a blessing that is not given to many, he knew this and although alone in the world treasured the memory of his Mary.  He left the house on the day he realised it had changed, it was no longer their home.  The piles of dirty dishes, newspapers and flies around the rubbish had left the home beyond recognition, and if it wasn’t their home any more he wouldn’t stay.

The park was close to the house, he walked up the street sometimes to look at the boarded up and over grown home they had shared.  No one recognised him, that is if they had really ever known him in the first place being too busy to care in this busy city street.  He would stand for a moment, looking at the house, silently calling Mary’s name.  He walked into the garden once and sat with his memories, under the lilac tree turning the door key over in his hand, deep in his pocket, it was too much to bare and he left after ten short minutes.

He wore a long beard now, straggled and stained yellow with tobacco.  His once tidy department store suit hung from his body, stained and old.  An overcoat given to him by a kindly stranger outside the pub covered his shrinking frame.

They found him dead in June, on the bench outside the pub.  Kind words were said for the old man, although no one knew his name.  It was only the smell on the warm summer breeze that had alerted the bar maid to his death.  He was sitting as usual watching the traffic, a smile on his face and a picture of his Mary in his hand.  It was the anniversary of their wedding day that he died and like all those years ago at the alter, Mary was waiting for him.

The Journey

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The path was of red brick, it suggested a connection with the earth.  She trod lightly upon the path and yet her steps were purposeful, she needed to reach her destination.

She was looking down at the path, as she had been told to at the beginning of the journey, focusing just ahead and a little afraid to look up in case she lost her way and the path disappeared.  She watched and counted, as her feet stepped out beneath her believing, as she travelled that she was there.   As she began to feel at ease with her surroundings she widened her gaze to look outside of the path, lifting her head slightly, while at the same time ensuring the path remained within her vision.  A butterfly flew lightly by, enticing her from her path, to follow its beauty, for just a fleeting moment.  The butterfly flew on the breeze across a garden of country flowers to join other butterflies dusted across the landscape.  Her ears tuned themselves to the scene and brought with them gentle bird song to what had originally been silence.  About a foot in front she saw a peacock, its tail splayed proudly as it too walked the path.  She stopped to pick a lost and solitary feather from the path.

She had been told to look for a seat and there it was framed beneath the buddleia, the lilac of the tree casting a gentle hue on the wood.  The seat was an old tree trunk on its side to make a bench long enough for three people.  Although the trunk was old it shone in the sunlight as if highly polished and the surface had been flattened for sitting.  Rings on the yellow tinged wood suggested a great age and although no longer as part of a tree it looked healthy and alive.  Butterflies surrounded the tall buddleia tree so it appeared to be moving and amass with colours framing the seat beneath.

She sat on the seat, her feet just off the floor and waited as she had been told by her tutor.  Beside her there was her diary, she hadn’t brought this along it had been lost many years ago but she knew it was hers by the inscription.  Her grandfather had given the diary to her as a child, it held those precious childhood memories she had almost forgotten.  She lifted the book and read from the pages, her childhood scrawl, familiar and yet forgotten.  The passion and innocence of the child she once was joining her now all these years later.

Looking up she saw her grandfather, not the sick man she had last seen but a healthy smiling man.  He was standing next to another gentleman, he appeared to be Indian and wrapped in cloth, he appeared from looking at him, to be wise.  Her grandfather glancing once at the man at his side for permission, walked to join her on the bench.  He didn’t say anything as he joined her, just sat with her looking out at the beautiful garden and the wise man in the distance.   There was a remembered closeness between them that didn’t need words, a closeness that had been forgotten.

He held out his hand to her, a crystal shone in his palm.  Taking the crystal she looked into it and knew it represented a church and the learning within, there were no words.  The crystal was for her, she knew this and it would represent the journey yet to be travelled.  It signified all that was yet to be learnt, the possibilities ahead as well as the happiness and understanding these lessons would bring.

She looked up at him, a tear trickled down his face but the eye that it came from was smiling.  He stood up and without a word walked to join the man standing in the distance.  She knew that this man was his friend here and that he was also a teacher.  The crystal she held in her hands would hold some of his lessons, she felt the warmth from the stone.

She walked back down the path towards the wooden door she had entered from.  Her hand on the handle she turned to look once more into the garden but her grandfather was gone.

Opening her eyes slowly, she was back in the group, but she knew that the garden was easy to find again when she wanted to and she would certainly return.

The Whisper

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Someone spoke into my ear, whispered clearly, a man’s voice I think, deep and soft, but I didn’t quite get it.  It woke me from my sleep although I don’t think I was quite there yet, just at that in between space between sleeping and not sleeping, that comfortable, warm trance like state we seek when attempting to meditate and switch off the world.  I sat up and looked around the room for the source of the whisper, looking into the spectrum of grey mist and shadow.  The moon was bright and the large sash window cast shadows around the room, but they were just shadows, everything being familiar and as it was when I turned off the light. My cat Eris, watched curiously from the bottom of the bed, I could just see her outline and feel the warmth of her body stretched across my feet and although I…

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Transitions

lizaaitken

I believe in life after death but it scares me.

My fear, I know is only the fear of the unknown, like how I felt before I ever flew in an airplane.  All of those unanswered questions, how would it stay up in the air, would I survive the fall if it didn’t.  Then my father took me up in a small cessna, we soared above the land and into the clouds, free and at one with the beauty of the sky.  My stomach moved with the wind, up to greet my heart and down again.  My feet, so redundant from the earth, hung from my small body waiting for their next step.

It’s the same with many new experiences, snorkeling, writing, speaking out in public, a new job and those first date nerves.  Until I have reached the other side of the experience I have no map of it or understanding.  It is clearly the transition and loss of any control that scares me not the event.

The separation of my soul from my body worries me, will it know where to go will it leave anything behind, what colour will it be and what will that say about me.  What about the scars, how will the soul carry these memories.  What about these poor souls you hear about that are lost, left to wander the earth until rescued, will my soul find its way.

We get so entrenched in our lives as they are, without the chains that hold us to the everyday, what will we do without these ties.  It took me a year to get used to being me after I quit the job I felt I was dying in.  I had spent years going through the motions that I felt kept me safe in a job I was not happy or ever my true self in.

This year I have found me, talked to myself and explored my new world.  I have made new friends, much kinder, more interesting friends.  The reason for this I think is because they are the people I have met while doing the things I want to do, they like me are drawn to certain areas and experiences.  Through my new world I believe I have found love and that I really care about the people in my life, not for what they give me but for what we share.

I do worry about those people I love when I die, the separation from them even if only for a short while pains me to think about.  Will I really be able to see my family grow, will I carry my worries as a parent with me or will I know then that everything will be okay.  Will my son feel me close by and catch me from the corner of his eye, will he notice the signs. What about the people who wait to greet me, that have been watching my mistakes on earth, will they too understand.

When we make this next transition, will we understand, does the soul that has travelled through many lives really recall them all.  Will this last existence make sense when remembered with all the others.

And then what……

On Being Held in Mind

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I’m talking to you on the phone as I walk up the hill from the station and towards home.  There are plenty of people about even though its past midnight, but I know you won’t rest until you have seen me home.  That’s the thing with you mum, you are able to keep me safe by holding me in mind, being present in spirit and keeping anything bad away.  I remember the first time I flew on a plane when I was 12 and went to Romania on a school trip.  You sat down that morning at the kitchen table and willed that plane to stay in the air, you didn’t move until you were sure it had touched down, I knew you were holding it up.  It was years ago and before we all had mobiles so you never got the message I had landed, you just knew.

I recognise the importance of an attentive parent responding to a child’s needs in infancy as being crucial to the child’s development and that being held in mind is connected to a child’s ability to know that a parent is there for them even when they are not physically present but mum I’m 50!

I’m not complaining really, being held in mind by you has always been wonderful.  It has kept me safe and also given me extra strength along the way.  Any doubts I have experienced in my ability to do something have often been blown away when I remembered you believed I could do it.  Its been this way all my life, from the moment I was born you have believed in me, worried for me and beyond anything else loved me no matter what.  I can’t think of a time in life you haven’t been with me, you have seen me through the best and worst of experiences.  My life lessons have all involved you.  When I have taken the longer path you have walked it with me, however hard you knew I would find the right way in the end.  But on occasion if I’m honest mum, this preoccupation with my safety has driven me a little mad.

I remember when I had my son and you were interviewed for Woman’s Hour on becoming a grandparent.  You told the presenter that by having a baby it made me vulnerable as from that day forward I could be hurt like I had never been hurt before if anything happened to my child.  It makes perfect sense to me, your right our worries about our children are our biggest and most frightening but we also have to let them live.

You often worry about things that are never going to happen, its very unlikely that terrorists will get on the plane I am flying on, a bomb will go off on the tube I’m travelling in or my car will break down and be buried in a blizzard.  That’s not to say I don’t take your advice and carry a blanket in the boot mum, rest assured.

I know you touch my picture every night before you go to sleep and I know you think of me on waking and all through the day.  I know you like to share my worries so that I don’t suffer the stress of them on my own, but doesn’t that just add to your worries.  Now I’m worrying about you worrying about me and it worries me!

I put my key in the door and tell you I’m home safe, I want you to relax now.  I’m a big girl and your the vulnerable one now, let me worry about you, take responsibility and hold you in my thoughts now.

Talking to Myself

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‘I’m going to keep on talking to you until you listen, that’s right there is no ignoring me you are going to have to eventually answer back’.   I was talking to you as I wondered the flat, soaking up all the memories that took me back so many years.  I could smell you everywhere, in the linen on the bed, in the clothes laid out neatly over the chair and in the air I breathed in deeply.  ‘Are you listening to me?’ I called out to you as I looked at the photo of us by the bedside.  It was taken many years ago and faded from the sunlight that steamed in through the window, even today.  The smiles were still there, in that black and white photo and reminded again me of the fun we had that day.  We always had fun, whatever the situation at some point we always found the funny side of it.  When you do eventually decide to start talking to me I will ask you if you recall the day in Cambridge. If you remember the day when stupidly I pointed out the Waterstone’s bookshop and told you I thought they would have some very good books in there.  Not many people would have got the madness of that, my connecting visiting a university town with the stock of its bookshop, certainly not the people who gave us strange looks and stepped around us as we sat huddled on the pavement outside the store unable to move through our laughter and tears.

The silence was broken with a crash from the kitchen, what had you done this time.  I walked into the empty room to see a cup on the floor and broken in half.  The cat looking down from the dresser with an indignant look that told me the cup had been in the wrong place.  I picked up the pieces and called out that I was sorry for assuming it was you.  Where are you, the flat is not that big, what are you doing.  I wonder if you are watching me and I just can’t see you, are you smiling.  I finish the washing up, putting your cup where you like it by the polished kettle, I’m sure you wouldn’t have minded me using it.  I look around the room to make sure everything is in its place and the table is clear of crumbs before heading down the hall.   I put on my coat, hanging next to yours in the hallway and linger looking at my reflection in the mirror, I look beyond myself at the room behind me, everything is as it should be, except for you.  As I pick up the key from the tray by the door I try one more time.   ‘I hope you are in more of a talkative mood when I get back’ I call after me ‘please try’.

I leave the light on for you as I close the door and head off down the street.  The evening is drawing in and the children look like they are heading home.  I pull my coat closer and hope that the medium on the church platform will have more luck with you tonight.

A Wallop for Christmas

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Christmas, and I was happily meandering through the lanes in Brighton. I was relaxed and soaking up the festive atmosphere, until that was I heard a loud yell from behind. As I turned I saw a woman with what I can only describe as a look of absolute rage upon her face, appearing as if she might explode like a bomb at any moment. Her hair was wild and framed a face that was red and swollen, and eyes that appeared to be almost popping from the sockets, almost sitting on her cheekbones. She grabbed the arm of the young girl with her and propelled her forward and in front of her into the crowd, like you might throw something very heavy. ‘You just wait until I get you home my girl’ she growled at the child as she pushed past me. They were walking very quickly, almost running with the young girl looking up at what I assumed was her mother with a pleading and frightened look on her face. The woman had terrified me, breaking into my day with what felt like a slap around the head with a negativity and anger that radiated from her very presence. I could do nothing but watch as I saw them turn the corner that led away from the main drag. I knew the girl was in for it, didn’t know what she had done but recognised that her mother was out of control and was very likely to lash out at the child or anyone that interfered. I guessed she would, as she had said wait until she got home.

What would the child learn from a good beating, that her mother was bigger and stronger, that you use your size to instill fear into those who are weaker. Would she grow up believing that to raise children would mean raising your hand or even your fist. I wondered when it would stop, when the spirit was beaten from the child or when the child was big enough to hit back.

I don’t and won’t ever agree with hitting children and can’t find any excuse for it, however many radio shows I listen to or articles I read that try and persuade me otherwise. I find it unbelievable how many intelligent people see no wrong with smacking as a punishment or to instill discipline. That so many informed and well-respected people still say ‘it never did me any harm’ is absolutely beyond me. Common sense and basic intelligence surely tell us that to hurt another human being because we don’t agree with their actions is wrong. That a child might learn not to repeat behaviour because they fear being hit still does not teach the child the behaviour is wrong and why, it teaches the child fear. When we can find no other way to deal with our children’s behaviour than hitting out we have lost control ourselves, it teaches our children that it is okay to lash out when things don’t go the way they would like. I know there are a lot more resources in the parenting toolbox.

I wondered what good would these beliefs do me now as I looked at the corner the mother and child had turned. Would she listen to reason if I chased after her or would I by interfering make the situation worse for the child. I know that other people had noticed, you couldn’t not, but the moment had passed and the hustle and bustle of the Christmas shoppers resumed as if the incident had never happened.

I gathered myself and started to run towards the corner they had turned into. As I turned I caught sight of them in the distance and called out ‘wait’ continuing as I shouted, to run towards them. The mother stopped and turned, her body rigid and I felt ready to attack. I do not know how I did it but I plastered a smile across my face, laughing as I caught up. ‘I’m so pleased I caught you’ I said as we stood face to face, me smiling and her looking absolutely livid. ‘You dropped this’ I said as I held out a five-pound note, ‘I saw it fall from your coat pocket as you passed me’. I saw a change in her expression, confusion, as she knew she hadn’t dropped it and definite suspicion of my motives. ‘I nearly didn’t chase you’ I said ‘ I thought it was my lucky day, finding a fiver’. Adding ‘but then I thought about it being Christmas and being a mother myself, I felt you wouldn’t want to loose a fiver you could use for your children’. There was silence for a few moments, I could see her mind turning, could she have had five pounds in her pocket she had forgotten about. She took it from my hand with a quiet ‘thanks’ and glanced at the young girl standing with her. ‘I bet you’re pleased your mum hasn’t lost her money’ I said to the child with a big smile ‘what with all the treats she will probably be buying for you’. The girl smiled looking from me to her mother and I saw a different look between them. It seemed and I hope that the anger had subsided, I had interrupted it and replaced it with a gift, and the mothers face had softened. ‘ Well have a lovely Christmas’ I said as I walked back to the main street without the money I had put in my pocket earlier for a coffee.

I carried on my walk thinking about the incident, had I done the right thing. It certainly wouldn’t have taught the woman anything but then I don’t think she would have listened to reason at that time. I hope I reframed things for them and their day got better.

The Whisper

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Someone spoke into my ear, whispered clearly, a man’s voice I think, deep and soft, but I didn’t quite get it.  It woke me from my sleep although I don’t think I was quite there yet, just at that in between space between sleeping and not sleeping, that comfortable, warm trance like state we seek when attempting to meditate and switch off the world.  I sat up and looked around the room for the source of the whisper, looking into the spectrum of grey mist and shadow.  The moon was bright and the large sash window cast shadows around the room, but they were just shadows, everything being familiar and as it was when I turned off the light. My cat Eris, watched curiously from the bottom of the bed, I could just see her outline and feel the warmth of her body stretched across my feet and although I couldn’t see her face I knew she wasn’t amused at the interruption.  I’m sure it wasn’t my imagination, I know the voice inside my head, it’s been there all my life, it’s me, sounds like me and thinks like me.  This was different, a voice close enough to be in my head but just outside.

I wasn’t frightened which surprised me, I felt almost privileged but disappointed I had missed the message.  I waited for the voice to come again, speaking out loud into the darkness, hoping for a repeat whisper and wanting to understand the reason behind it.  Silence filled the room, trees swayed silently in the distance through the window but even the usual noises of the city seemed to be muffled.  I strained my ears for the sound of anything, a heartbeat maybe but nothing but the slight drip from the tap in the bathroom down the hall.  I lay down again on my side, hair tucked behind my ear, searching the large mirror to the side of my bed surveying the room, watching for the movement I knew would not come.

I slept, without interruption this time, a sound sleep of a familiar dream, the dream I have often although it varies it’s the same repetitive dream.  I’m travelling across water and as I look down waves crash powerfully against a shore.  Sometimes I’m in a plane and occasionally I view the scene from a cliff or somewhere high above floating.  But I always see the water and its always moving and deep, somehow communicating, the white froth of the surf against the blue of the sea as it crashes against land.  As I travel tonight I am aware of the silence, the waves should be loud but they are not, it is as if the sound is turned down. There is always a house, not ever the same but the house is always large with many rooms of which I have to travel through.  During my many journeys through this dream, I have visited castles with huge dome like ceilings, family homes, churches and old farmhouses and I have walked through all of them searching for the room I am supposed to enter where I will find an answer.  The dream is sometimes frightening and sometimes pleasant, the atmosphere changes from room to room, I occasionally linger in a room, run from some and through others.  Tonight the house is old and the walls are cold stone, I hear my father talking to his wife in the distance but I don’t see him. My father is usually in this dream, due to arrive or just leaving but I always catch a glimpse of him although it is my journey and he too is travelling.

I wake and lay back on my warm pillow, molded by sleep, I breathe in the new day.   Through the window the old tree moves gently in the wind as it towers above the city buildings.   I think about the voice and wonder who it was, I’m certain I heard it, that it was a man and it was familiar.  I ponder also on my dream, I didn’t find what I was searching for but I will travel there again I know this with certainty. Eris wonders around the room, brushing against the bed, as is her routine, she is waiting for her food, as if I could forget.  Slowly I push back the duvet, hold it aloft as I step from the bed and head from the room.  I stop with my hand on the door and look around once again……………………………..