My dreams last night were full of writing. I even admired it! But like this early morning's fog, it's all a bit vague. I've been writing this morning, but it's not the CNF created in my dream work. I'm hoping something will trigger my memory.I should keep a notebook by my bedside. To jot down my dreams . . .hmm.
Long ago, I was friends with a younger poet Anne Bromley, who used to have a dream catcher notebook. I loved Anne for her spirit and poetry. She was the little sister I never had. She used to laugh at this notion.
She went to Charlottesville VA, fell in love with a man named Mark, and lived on a farm that had the visitation of wild horses. She would talk about their hoofbeats at night, summoning beneath her bedroom window. Last time I saw her was 31 years ago. She came to visit me right after my daughter Meghan Rose was born. I wonder if she's still in Charlotteville? I hope she's well and still writing. I should look her up. It should be so easy, right?
I don't know why my life has been filled with these kinds of relationships. Real friendships, then the drifting away. Life filling up the distances. Children born. That was the real game changer. Having a family is a mysterious dynamic. It requires so much of . . . well, everything.