We dream often. Theoretically, each time the sun spirits away, though I have heard rumors of people who say that their mental landscape turns blank.

 

Dreams break the rules that feel as solid as concrete during the day. In them, I can turn off gravity, not because I defy it but in response to a stronger pull. 

 

My default is to be a recipient for dreams, rather than crafting one. But recently I attended a retreat in which I was invited to grab the paintbrush. Or carving tools, should the events be hidden in marble. 

 

Everyone would be safe. In my version of a dreamy day, my children might not all be in the same space, but they will text evidence that they are following their own glories. 

 

There will be quiet. Not the hush of a cathedral before the music starts, where even a cough feels irrelevant. Rather, the pause that makes room for a bird's trill, and water droplets chasing each other with no need to win. 

 

There will be noise. Women laughing, or children, because the release of responsibilities comes forth as a jubilant exhalation. 

 

There will be movement. Either mine, or the supple dancing of kinesthetic singers. The sway of leaves, would suffice, or the curved legs of a dapple gray in a field of wildflowers. 

 

Creativity will hold her place in the dream. Birthing beauty is the stuff of fantasies. Pushing fabric, and color, and notes into families of meaning is as alive as I get, and connects me to the Creator. 

 

The miracle is, that such an orchestration of life can happen, not just when I am asleep.