THE DREAM REMEMBERED.

I looked down from where I was standing at the kitchen sink…

The washing machine had edged forward during its last cycle ~ no longer neatly tucked in its place, now sitting at an angle with toast crumbs scattered on top.

I’d seen this scene before ~ many times.

My usual go-to, without pause, was to sigh with frustration, silently muttering as I tried to shove its heavy weight back into place…

Then more frustration, realising I’d forgotten to wipe its top ~ wedging my hand under the counter to swipe away what I could.

But this time, something was different.

As I looked down, I simply saw it.

The machine’s crooked position.

The crumbs. The whole ‘scene’.

And then ~ as if in slow motion ~ my hand moved.

Years of perfectionism ~ the constant need to micromanage the world ~ seemed to fall to the ground in one soft swoop, along with the crumbs.

An aliveness to each detail ~ as if the world had turned HD.

Yet it was always ‘this’.

Of course.

This ~ all of it ~ was part of the dream I’d so innocently mistaken for reality.

The washing machine, the crumbs on its white top… sheer perfection in this play of life.

Feet moving.

I headed toward the stairs, to my son’s room.

Knocking.

Door opening.

I held out my arms.

He moved in to meet me.

My hand on his head, gently pulling him close.

Breathing him in.

Heart wide.

Teenager and mum.

Often clashing.

Now remembered ~ as One.

✨

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