A Dream Goes to Sleep

What do you do when a dream dies? Can a dream die? Does waking up put a dream to sleep? Today, officially when I press “post,” a dream will have died or gone to sleep. Sometimes metaphors escape me. Winter’s trees are starting to bud.  For now, they stand naked, vulnerable; some would even call them stark. You can see their broken, bent, and misshaped branches.  One could even say, against the blue sky they stand with a dignity spring and the glory of autumn will never know.

My journey has been like winter’s trees. Unlike the dignity with which they stand, I preferred to hide in the canopy of spring. I have written of nature’s whispers, the simple joy of being alive, and the wonder of this gift called life. I am, very much, a simple child at heart.  It has been a journey of affirming healing long sought. The losses have been great both personally and collateral damage. And still, with childlike trust I keep walking the path and gathering the tapestry’s threads.

One whisper, one thread I could not hide from or ignore. And so, today, like winter’s naked trees, in one fell swoop the canopy of spring is disrobed.  The disrobing is swift as I tell any who may pause to read, that my little heart has put her whispers in a small wee book called Whispered Grace. Simple scriches. Some you have read here. A website/blog has been created and launched today:  http://www.whisperedgracebook.com/

I do not know how to or if I will continue to use the two blogs or migrate to one. How does one leave a home like this that has been my sanctuary and mantra…affirming healing. My hope would be somehow a Facebook or page where others can record the whispers they hear during the day, to describe their own winter and spring tree dance. I began this space so that others would know they were not alone. The path, is in truth, well worn. Logistics are logistics. I only know today a dream has died or gone to sleep. For though I wrote so that others would know they were not alone, I dreamed I could remain alone and hidden, not even using my name to identify the one who posted.

And so….. Hello. My name is Beth Chapman. I like to walk in nature. Sometimes nature whispers gifts of hope. Sometimes nature makes me laugh. I am so far from perfect you’d probably shudder but I try. Sweet mercy I do try. I have been on a long long journey dreaming I could stay hidden and out of sight. And so I step out and offer my heart like nature’s winter trees. I know my writings seem childlike and sometimes see joy and possibility in a world that would say naught. But still I believe. Still I trust. Still I laugh in awe and delight. And still I know none of us are alone. Now, to live awake with healing affirmed in whispered graces. Hello… my name is Beth Chapman and I've written a wee tiny book that I dreamed could not, would not ever happen. Another dream put to sleep. And my heart is laughing.

With hands to my heart and bowing deeply, Namaste.

Statue'd gnomes

She wrote how odd to say good-bye to family and friends, joined together for the annual family reunion. You say good-bye every year, but for her, and for them, it was good-bye. She stared out the window and wrote that no matter how hard she tried, she could not keep them all in the back yard forever like statue’d garden gnomes. They are gone, but still, more importantly, their life remains. How different they would have celebrated, in years past, had they known today was near.

Rumi writes of a group of men who went to see another they heard had gone mad. The madman threw stones at them and away they ran. He calls out that 'See you are not friends!' Friends do not run from pain, even if inflicted by the other. “A friend is pure gold singing inside the refining fire.”  George Elliot wrote “Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness blow the rest away.”

A simple thread, I readily confess my thoughts are odd.  But to not see others as statue’d garden gnomes, kept for their presence, unwilling to enter the fire or to sift the chaff from the grain. And then the thread tangles with another, that perhaps allows the first to become real. To awaken to the day, and with the same heart, whisper to Life, ‘You are my friend. Today is near’