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Did Dreams From Childhood Bring Me Where I Am Today?

Excerpt from Sacred Spaces by Faith Chatham - copyright 2009

It feels good today to have expectations
of the “normal” that used to be.
I slept as long as it took to wake up,
knowing there were no missed commitments.
Refreshed, thanksgiving came easily from my lips.
Thanks were the first thoughts I spoke this morning.
I didn’t ache as much as yesterday when I awoke.

I don’t expect to weep today.
I used to take myself for granted.
It feels good today to have expectations
of the “normal” that used to be.

Didn’t think I’d lose myself in “some other”
or venture past “simply caring”
into that nebulous joy-filled world of mutual need.
It feels good today to have expectations
of the “normal” that used to be.

I’m glad there was no need
for prayers for you when I awoke.
You were in the peaceful recesses of my soul,
at a safe distance;
yet I know you’re still within my heart.

God knows I want Him to keep you safe, vibrantly alive,
and free to be fully yourself, as He wants you to be.
I didn’t ache as much today when I woke.
Your name was not the first word I spoke.

It was such a relief to find
that recognizing God’s touch
was the first thought upon my mind.
I heard raindrops falling regularly
in syncopation from the roof.
I remember hearing that sound
in childhood and in youth.

Through windows streaked with rain,
I’d dream of finding love.
I let those drops of rain mingle through my mind,
as I wander in memory like the steady porch swing tempo
and an ultra-understandingly wise walnut tree.

As real as the adolescent who was in it,
that porch-swing was filled with thoughts of hesitance,
confidence and speculation about what I’d find,
of what “someday” would be like,
of who I’d want to love, and “what I’d want to be.”

Did dreams bring me to this place?
I wonder if those dreams were of what I am today?
Thunder-storm accented evenings and afternoons in the Texas sun
moulded wishes into intentions and plans of “what to do”.
I remember “planning”, “thinking” and “scheming”
of how I could become:
an artist, writer, investigative reporter, and a poet.

I dreamt of loving, in various dimensions,
with words and deeds and thoughts,
expressed with pastel, brush, pen and action.
I wanted to be tender to friends and strangers,
serve the hapless and the free.

I wanted to work and make a difference
to the brave and to the weak.
I wanted to discover life and share it,
touching others I did meet with simplicity and compassion,
to be a marvel and inspiration with selfless humility.

I didn’t understand what it is to lose yourself in loving,
to be ground under another's foot,
to measure love in time and minutes,
or balancing love and giving
with other things someone might need!

I didn’t think of you being the first thought
I’d think upon awaking,
or of the need to change one’s plans or pace
to spend a fleeting minute with the special person
who sheds iridescent lustre upon my face.
I didn’t think someone could make such a difference
in how I feel, in what I think, or how I dream.

Today upon awaking,
it felt good to have my first thoughts
be thoughts to God of thanksgiving.

Wherever you are,
beyond my vision and my reach,
though you weren’t the first words upon my lips today,
you are nestled warm within the crevices of my soul.

You're safe in Him -- that gives me peace.
Prayers for you are natural.
On simple days, you intermingle in essence with my thoughts,
like dreams I dreamt on that veranda,
moments mundane, extraordinary and spectacular,
you exceed the wildest speculation of my youth.

I grew old and ceased to trust and dream and care.
I’ve grown callouses against the abrasions of others’ souls.
When you told me you were “harmless”,
instinctively I knew that was not true.
You are one of few among the many
who can deeply disappoint me.
Somehow, when you said you were harmless,
I thought, “Beware! He can probably make you care!”

I didn’t dream you’d really want me.
I didn’t expect to be pulled that deeply,
through the mundane and the splendor,
feeling neither you nor I need to hide nor to cover
the reality of our lives or of our psyche.

I know you meant everything you told me.
You believed the words when you said them.
You weren’t just “fishin’ ” for your comfort,
spinning lines to draw me in.
Though I don’t know how much
of what you felt then is how you feel today,
I know when you said it, you really meant it.
I find comfort, through the silence,
to know that then you sincerely cared.

Discovering this morning that your name
was not the first thought upon my awaking,
lets me dream someday I might return to “being normal”
since the love who found me
withdrew and stays aloof and out of reach.

I know you meant it when you said it.
Might still mean it, though silence makes it hard to truly know.
Maybe you swing between reality and misconceptions,
fear of losing yourself in love again or passion,
or something you sense but I do not see.

I saw a dream;
You feared a demon.
You fled and left me to fight him here alone.
In the evening and in the morning,
I fought to make sense of what I found
in loving and in your leaving.

The birds chirped outside my window.
Rain washed the earth as I pondered
what I’d dreamed and what I am.
The sun shone upon my frustration.
Water washed upon me like baptism.
Instead of despair, I was filled
with a different kind of hope.

I pray for you, my darling,
as I did before we ventured past friendship into love.
I’m thankful that we were naked for those moments,
not afraid of rejection despite the failure, recent or in our youth.

Prospects for the future escape me.
Them I do not know.
This is true, for you and me, individually or collectively,
we know in our season we did not reject
and were not rejected,
did not scorn the other’s basic truth.

We might not walk together easily,
may not speak or touch again,
yet even silence cannot reprove
the reality of acceptance,
of reverence, and of joy.

We found love, succulent and tender,
if for but just a season,
tasted hope and trust and passion,
letting it revive us, if but for a moment!
It reverberates through the present,
whether we want it or whether we don’t.

Your name wasn’t the first word I spoke this morning.
Knowing that, I have hope that someday
I’ll return to “normal”.
Yet I wonder if the dreams I had in childhood
brought me to where I am today.
-- by Faith Chatham
copyright 2009 (excerpt from Sacred Spaces)

Creativity

There’s a small brown bird outside my window.
He listens to TV.
Soap operas and news casts inspire him.
He matches actors’ pitch and rhythm
creating tunes which amuse me.

Sometimes I get distracted
and listen more to him
ignoring Hollywood productions
for this simple feathered bird’s compositions
performed for all who pass,
beside my western window’s opening,
where he dances, sings and preens.

His is a marvelous production
without tickets, lights or cameras
or investors’ green back bucks.
He’s quite a peculiar bird,
doesn’t fly with flocks and fowl,
probably doesn’t fill in their formations,
preferring to discover his own special line.

Everyone on this street has a television,
but for some reason he’s discovered mine.
Maybe he suspects that I’m peculiar,
and known to speak my mind.
I don’t feed him seeds or bribe him
to linger here with me.
I’m just an audience for his daily inspirations,
and appreciate each new tune and harmony.
--By Faith Chatham
copyright 2009

Break the Cord

...

Loving is more than merely touching

on the physical you see.

Love is both spiritual and mental,

defies the mortal touch.

It is stronger than mere phrases

uttered in haste or casual words.

Once mutually acknowledged,

recognizing what is real,

the mental and the spiritual resists attempts

to banish it or break it.

It's a unity of spirit,

the touch of God on man,

that makes it hard to crush it

and makes it hard to understand.

...

Just because it doesn’t fit

into our preconceptions,

what we previously thought

we really wanted or what was

best for us somehow,

doesn't stop the reverberations,

of communications through the air!

Maybe it's because

love is really spiritual,

though sometimes expressed

in myriads of different ways.

Some folks use their hands,

words, and actions,

physical bodies,

or whisper words of praise.

Those are but ephemeral ways of expressing

what can’t be captured or held

within human hands.

Perhaps that might be why loving

sometimes seems like trying

to catch light and motion,

attempting to culp energy within our hands!

...

I hold these moments sacred,

frustrating though they are.

Not good at meshing or adjusting,

we dance in some weird precocious love.

Two spirits seeking God,

not letting go of each other,

we neither ended nor grew-to-fit

love’s transforming fire.

We ran and hid from joy and fulfillment,

making excuses,

not truly embracing

either solitude or rejection in our flight.

I love you still, my darling,

though at times I wish I could wish

that were not true.

Despite hurt stemming from perceived rejection,

I have not fully let go of you.

Until we both let go of each other,

in our thoughts and reverie,

we’ll continue dancing

in some spiritual dimension,

where love isn't ended

and hope defies mortal imagination

and overwhelming odds.

If you want to be free of me

you'll have to think it and really mean it,

be convinced through and through,

that you want to be free of me forever.

If you say it to yourself and really mean it,

will to let those thoughts

travel through the golden cord,

to singe the imprint of our being

from each other's psyche

then our minds will get the message.

It will close it off finally.

We'll stop searching for each other's souls,

listening for each other's footsteps,

and the cord will break which connects us.

If you want it, you have to really mean it,

to anchor it through and through.

or we'll continue to dance united

in spirit.

To break the cord between us,

we must unite in indifference,

not hearing the other's cry.

We must not care about joy or passion,

or comfort knowing the other is nearby.

If you truly want to break
the cord between us,

you must not even slightly care!

Hurt, anger, love or longing

keeps the cord intact and strong.

Only the finality of indifference

can severe it in-two.

-- By Faith Chatham

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Tuesday, June 2, 2009

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