This blog is dedicated to my close friend Robin who lost both of her parents a little over a year ago.
Last night I had a dream.
I had spent the day with my mom at her house. I don’t know exactly what we were doing — cleaning, my guess. And talking.
I was in the living room watching TV, and I yelled into the kitchen, “Where’s dad? I haven’t seen him all day.”
“He was sleeping in there — you must have missed him,” she replied. Then a deeper voice answered. “I’m right here.”
So I went into the softly lit kitchen and there they were, my mom and dad, sitting at a small kitchen table. There were wood scraps on the table; my dad was a carpenter all his life, and was always working on something.
I remember coming and kneeling next to him. Something didn’t feel quite right. Like neither one of them was supposed to be there.
I had a thought in the back of my mind.
“What’s it like over there?” I asked.
My dad smiled and nodded but said nothing. So I continued.
“Is it beautiful? Eternal? Spiritual?”
“Yes it is,” he said, smiling.
I lost my mother 49 years ago, my dad 15. Yet I still dream of both of them.
I don’t care what psychologists and scientists and textbooks say about the origin of dreams. It’s the one world man really doesn’t fully understand.
And I believe dreams are a portal. A connection.
Our only connection.
Dreams hold our fears and experiences, along with our passions and imaginations. Those points in our life never leave us. And even if you say you don’t dream, you do. You just don’t remember them. They are a way to remind us who we are. How we got here.
Dreams are our connection to those who have gone before us, proof that all is well.
In this world and the next.