The other night I had a dream.
I was at a gala event with James Taylor and Bill Clinton. There were lots of other people there, but they were a highlight for obvious reasons. They sat at a table for two. They ate dinner. They were completely engrossed in conversation, and so going up to them and telling James how much I love him was out of the question.
I wore sequins. Blue sequins.
Flash forward a spell, and a chorus came out into the middle of the ballroom floor. I was in the front row. I was hugely pregnant.
I was still in sequins.
As we began to sing, so began contractions. The unmistakable and unforgettable feeling of contracting - I felt that feeling with a tangible lucidity, even in my dream state.
I was birthing something big.
My husband stood behind me. I began to get both faint and warrior-like.
Just stick it out. You can do this. You can't disrupt the performance.
And then the contraction that made my knees buckle.
And then I walked out of the room, into some other space, into the space where I went from contracting to pushing to holding a massive baby in the crook of my left arm.
I woke up different.
I still don't know why Bill was there.
There's a thing that happens sometimes.
It happens when we're ready.
It can only happen then.
It's a stripping of layers, a peeling of old-ness, a lopping-off of split-ends.
There's a thing that happens after the stripping and peeling and lopping.
It feels something like getting to the top of a green, rolling hill after a long afternoon walk up. It feels like looking around and thinking, "It sure is pretty up here. I thought it might be pretty up here." You stretch your arms out and try to take a picture of it and none of the pictures look right because the thing you're standing in can't quite be captured all the way, even with good technology.
And so you sit down and lean back onto your hands, legs outstretched. The breeze makes the hair on your arms feel electric. It occurs to you that it might feel good to scream as loud as you can, just to get your body vibrating.
It feels good.
You scream again and then again and then you're laughing, you, alone on the top of a beautiful hill, amazed.
I love you,
PS: I had old information stored in my cells. Old hurt, old pain. I know like I know like I know that this is true. Janet Raftis is a healer. She helped the old cellular information move along. It was the one part I couldn't do myself, couldn't do in therapy, couldn't do by writing or talking or meditating. I needed her gifts. Janet is the real deal. I promise.