What We Leave Behind

63 degrees and clouds maybe. A night of almost sleepless dreaming. You know those kinds of dreams. Half-recognized faces and fractured sequences, journeys begun and then interrupted by a spider beast of way too large proportions and houses with demons upstairs and you empathize I'm sure. Standard stuff really. It would be worth telling someone about, I mean, my dreams are fantastic really--I travel so far and sometimes fly even--but like catching smoke, they are gone even as my eyes are opening. After a night of barely sleeping and constantly dreaming-is that scientifically possible? I am grateful for this morning. This morning I am remembering that I read about Michelangelo and his David.  He carved his giant when he was 26 years old. It weighed several tons and stood 17 feet tall. It took 40 men 4 days to move it to its resting place. In 1503. As I struggle, like a cat flung into a stream, to keep my bearings in this decade and onward-with luck and good fortune--into the next, I practice most days and even harder when I'm despairing of my lot, to understand what it is that remains behind. My David takes the shape most recently of my youngest child who is pretty much a grown man, walking along with me for a couple of blocks which I am so blessed to get these days, because he is, like the rest of my children, pretty much living his own life full-time, and a heartbeat before I comment, he spies these weeds which will be obliterated soon by the hard-working gardening staff of the historical society, and says happily: "Look at those weeds. They are starfish." And yeah. Those words make me feel like I have a place in this world, a familiar and welcome place, and that dreams and the recognition and appreciation of beauty surrounding us is a brilliant and essential lesson in happy to have lived and passed on, what could be better? And so with a head full of heavy whispers and complicated images, a week of potential and unknown waters ahead, I take my leave of this writing, my beloved reader--that is YOU--and pocket my brilliant memory of a star gazing son and begin paddling. Love always!