Dreaming of My Mother


I dreamt about my mom last night. Again, for the third time this week. The last two times, she was just a presence. Appearing to me as a calm, loving, encouraging, but fleeting moment.

This time was vivid.

I was at my childhood home. There was a recent grave in the front yard in the corner near the driveway. The grave was for my mother. My father was lying on top. Wanting to be with her. He misses her so much.

I went into the house. My mother was sitting in her chair. She had gray hair, but her stooped physical and mental frailty had disappeared. She was stunningly beautiful. Sitting with dignity and clarity and wisdom. Tall and clear-eyed. A guru.

I gasped. I was so happy to see her. I knelt down before her and looked her in the eyes. They were translucent. A beautiful color somewhere between green, gray, and blue. I was confused, because my mother’s eyes were brown. I questioned, for a moment, whether it was really my mother. I questioned, for a moment, if I had forgotten what my mother looked like. Then I took her face into my hands. Her skin was so smooth and soft. Miraculous. Touching her, I felt her presence permeate me. I gazed into her beautiful eyes. Feeling her love.