I’m pretty sure my life issues come down to this: most of my ambitions could be satisfied by living in a house with giant plastic butterflies on the windows.
I should tell this story more often: March 29, I awoke at about 1 a.m., in a very lucid dream. Someone, some deep inner voice, was saying to me, “You are about to meet a Self you never knew existed.” There was an urgent tangibility to the voice’s wisdom; it was a declaration of simplest truth. Acquiescing whole heartedly to this pre-dawn epiphany, I lay listening to the companionable stillness of my room, and fell back asleep.
I know now that was our last moment together, when – slipping out of her shell – she summoned one more, soft out-breath, to lift me up as well.
Finding butterflies everywhere seemed like a pretty, and gentle way to focus my attention on completing the cycle of living my first year ever on earth without my mother’s presence. And it is. But this is much, much more difficult than I expected. The treasure, her legacy, is the brutal truth – something not pretty, and even less noble, but so utterly real it is only natural to turn away.