About last night…

I’ve been making an effort to journal by hand more lately and, for whatever reason, a lot of stuff has been coming out looking closer to poetry than prose. I don’t really understand why, but I haven’t questioned it either.

Much, if not all, of what I write will never be ready for primetime. But this is what came out this morning and given where the political zeitgeist is at the moment, I felt compelled to put it out there.

It’s just one of those vibes that, if you feel it as I do, it becomes better — more real, in a way — knowing that others feel it too.

Last night,

I turned off the debate and did something stupid.

Reckless.

Possibly dangerous.

I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help it.

Slowly at first, and then with more intensity — like a symphony building to its crescendo.

For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to dream.

—

I went to hold my son as he slept.

And I dreamed of a world where he won’t need to make excuses for his emotions or his love of the color pink.

A world where he will be valued for his softness as well as his roughness, for his heart as much as his hands. Where he can be a complete person without needing to be the loudest in the room.

—

I sat next to my daughter’s crib, watching her small but powerful lungs rise and fall in her sleep.

And I dreamed of a world where those lungs could be used to say and do whatever she wants. Where she would be admired without being accused of asking too much, or craving attention.

Of a world without ceilings, only open sky.

—

Reality is starting to set in now.

The color in my dream is starting to fade.

The lines are becoming less contoured,

more blurry and chaotic.

Because this world is not for dreamers. Maybe it never was.

Or maybe we just forgot how. Maybe we forced ourselves to forget.

But our children haven’t.

—

And so, for a quiet moment, I will take a page from their book. I will let myself dream a little dream.

I won’t show it off.

But I’ll hold it tight.

Until it’s ready.