God, Me and The Priest
I dreamed in poetry last night,
in words more poetic than I know.
It wasn’t sexual,
but, I did keep saying “yes! yes!”
Exuberant over dream words,
that for the first time, may have caused my husband some degree of concern over that trip I took
to a canyon of all places,
with a river
and it was hot.
You were in it.
(the dream, that is)
Sitting across from a priest, of all people
in that laid back, long legs crossed, fingers positioned over your mouth just so,
way of yours,
listening...
how telling of you.
I could see your wheels turning
when you said that thing I can’t remember.
But he wrote it down.
I had to hold my smile wide on the inside,
expanding my ribs without breath,
his facial grimace tightening.
“Balance, get your balance!”
I wanted to leap from the edge of my seat
and shout “No!” in your defense.
But you were so calm,
unafraid of man-made condemnation,
and I didn’t jump, because of it.
The question was heavy.
Your truth was heavier.
We could feel the weight
there in the silence
of the dream…
I can’t remember.
Patricia Spreng
A real dream… God, me and the priest... go figure. I waited in stillness this morning, quietly hoping for the memory of what he said to come back to me. I honestly can’t remember, it was gone. I only remember how I felt. The same way I always feel whenever I hear the Truth. Maybe tonight I'll try and get back there. =)
(If you are a psychotherapist, please go easy on me in the comments section.)
