All The Wild That Still Remains

In the time that’s left
I want to taste
All the wild that still remains.
— John Blase
 
 

 

I found an email I wrote almost five years ago, electric and vivid with the details of a dream. 

Until today, I forgot. And now I can't unforget; now I am stunned by it. 

My dream of 7/28/13—

I gave birth beneath a fig tree. I had stopped to gather figs and suddenly I was in water beneath the tree, and gave birth to a baby still wrapped in a caul. It began to hail, and as ice fell from the sky I somehow made it to a nearby shelter, like a shed. But something told me to return to the fig tree, so I went back. As I sat in my birthing water under it, surrounded by figs and ice, I could see bright fresh blood pouring out of me into the water. I became desperate for the survival of my baby. So I pulled out my cell phone (gotta love dreams) and called a midwife who started walking me through what to do to save my baby.

After this it drifted off, as dreams do. I do not know what it means for sure, but I have strong inklings, and I hold the weight of it; I hold it in my heart.

 
that dreams us.jpg
 

This evening I sat in a dark doorway opened up to the night and buried my face in a smile of watermelon. It is the eve of summer's eve. It is the eve of everything. 

::

Today I retraced some steps. I lingered over past things. Like a photograph of you from the nineties, with your fluffy bangs and softness. I found you still warm, still soft as ever. You were the one who dreamed. In the long winter I had forgotten how, but then flowers appeared and so did the quiet promise of a dream. Life blossomed with mercy and mystery—new, like when God enfolds Himself in the darkness of a womb, and a tiny heart flutters for the very first time.

Tonight, with the song of the eve of summer's eve, life came to me. It comes even still, lush and overflowing, with the eternal echoes of amazing grace.


hillary
Hillary McFarland