March 20, 2018: I could barely stand to write the date of my father’s death (or Yartzeit, as I like to say from Hebrew). The first day of spring will forever be entwined with his passing; the same as day and night, cold and hot, dark and light. It is the natural order of things I suppose, for opposites to pair, for polarities form balance and wholeness.
As the sun rose Tuesday I lit a candle for my Dad and placed it on a prominent table in the corner of our family room. A swirl of emotions poured through me. So much has changed in this one year. Tears streamed as I recalled a dream I had about him the night before:
We are sitting on a train together, apparently on vacation, and I tell him in French how I’m studying this beautiful language. After I’ve spoken, he pulls out three pictures from his pocket and fans them out for me. The first one is of him; the second is of me and the third is of my mother. He points to how the one of me is sandwiched in-between him and Mum; forever sealed in their hearts, as they are in mine.
This was the first dream I’ve had about my Dad since he died. The presence of both my parents felt reassuring even though they are no longer in bodily form.
If birth and death are two strands of wholeness, dreams are the third, interweaving between the two in the braid of life.
Have you noticed your dreams lately? What are they saying to you?