there's no place like ...

home. Mom and Dad sold ours over 7 years ago. The house her grandparents built, next to THEIR house. She grew up there. Then we added on and moved in when I was only 9 months old. The wooden stairs in the back that we slid down in our nighties Christmas morning, the front stairs that we played keepaway on, the front lawn that we played fox and geese on in the winter, the backyard where the metal green swingset kept us busy for hours, the basement crawlspace under the porch where we'd sneak, with our flashlights, and well, just talk. It's my whole childhood, everything. And I can't stop dreaming about it.

The latest dream was two nights ago, and I was in my old bedroom, wondering why "they" (the new owners) were letting us stay there. It was time to leave, but I didn't want to. I lay down on the tri-colored green shag carpet (yes, I know, but don't even start with me - it was the style), and started crying. "I just can't leave - I don't want to leave." Well, open a notepad and call me a Jungian analyst, but I'm thinking there's some richness to be had in that simple sentence, and the fact that I'm unwilling to leave my childhood home. I'm always packing things up in those dreams, and always know that I shouldn't be there anymore, yet, there I am, yet again.

Dreams are so goofy - they FEEL real, you know? Especially during these intense energy shift times, when the unconscious rises to the surface to blend with the conscious. We're standing with one foot in both worlds, and sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between the two. My waking life feels like a beautiful dream, and my dreams feel like my waking used to feel - painful at times, sad at other times, maddening still other times. What do I do with all of this pain? I breathe into it, and feel grateful for the 18 years I lived there full-time, and the 20 years after that that I could still "go home." I had an incredibly rich and beautiful childhood, and the house symbolizes all of that love and good times, and Mom's not going to be with us much longer, and I know it will be good for her, but I just don't see how I'm going to go around that next bend.

I call her every single day just so I can hear her voice, just so I can hear her say, "nyello," and I can say back, "Hi Mommy!" It's funny and tricky sometimes, this physical existence. We get tied to the physical, get hypnotized almost, and forget to look behind the scenes to the bigger picture, to where Mom and I are always together, laughing and walking lightly down the street, arm in arm. There's no separation, I know, but still, there's something about physical touch, there's something about hearing someone's voice, or looking into their eyes - it FEELS real.

Maybe this is all part of the switchover - realizing that what felt real before is really more of an illusion, and what didn't feel real contains the real substance. It's tough going, but I keep going, and dreaming, and waking, and wondering. Oh, and apparently, dreaming.