For a couple of days I’ve been feeling hard-done by, powerless, a victim of cruel circumstance. Then, this afternoon I read a post on a blog I’m following – the Qrious life – which prompted a timely memory in me.
I hand-write early ‘morning pages’ in exercise books which, when full, get stored in the attic before being brought down, re-read and then consigned the flames of an evening bonfire. They aren’t written to be read, these snapshots of how I feel on waking. They are designed to rid me of unwelcome emotions and help me solve the riddles of my life, (as laid out in Julia Cameron’s ‘The Artist’s Way’.)
My father was killed in a motorbike accident, when I was only four and I had to borrow other people’s memories of him, had no concept of the love I’ve been assured he had for me. This was a loss I carried deep within my heart for more than half a century.
Then, a year or so ago, I dreamt that my mother, now also dead, was introducing him to the adult me.
‘Look how our girl’s turned out,’ she said, with obvious pride. And my Daddy – older than he will ever be, but recognisable all the same – smiled at me.
‘Hold on to this,’ I told myself, knowing that their visit would be fleeting.
I felt such overwhelming, unconditional love emanating from them both, that pure happiness flooded through me for the first time that I can remember. When I awoke I reveled in these feeling for a while, before writing about them – cathartic tears washing away the melancholy that had shrouded me since the day he went away.
And now, even though the sheer vitality of that dream is difficult to recapture, I can still reconnect to the sense of ‘rightness’ it left me with. And I’m reassured once again that – despite the apparent uncertainties I face – all is exactly as it’s meant to be.