“Found a lovely poem today on Poetry. Had to share it. Its called “This Is the Dream,” by Norwegian poet Olav H. Hauge, translated by Robert Bly and Robert Hedin:

This is the dream we carry through the world
that something fantastic will happen
that it has to happen
that time will open by itself
that doors shall open by themselves
that the heart will find itself open
that mountain springs will jump up
that the dream will open by itself
that we one early morning will slip into a harbor
that we have never known.”

I think I’ve found my theme for The Sketchbook Project.

I married my best friend.

Two days ago, I sat across the table from a dear friend who served me with divorce papers.

Fifteen years ago, I was tearing up the 101, rushing to the Palmer House Bed and Breakfast, cursing as I drove, since I didn’t quite remember how to get there, following my fiance as he wove in and out of traffic, singing loudly.  We were in separate cars, so that we could drive people around over the next day or two.  Before smartphones, before GPS, I had my mental map and him.

We have definitely had a turbulent life together.  But it was a shared life, and a life I thought would get better as we grew together.  It hasn’t been easy.  Things that I thought brought us closer, in hindsight I see actually drove wedges.  He couldn’t cope, and drifted away.

Two days ago, I sat across from my friend, crying as I thought about the years until now.  Everything I had been through, we had been through.  The shared memories, the travels, the laughter, the fights.

The lost babies.

The two miracles that we have helped bring into this world.

Today is my fifteenth wedding anniversary.

And I am starting a new life.

Again.

“It was about how white people and blackish-brownish people were separated and went to different schools and had separate water fountains and couldn’t play together. And MLK said he wanted to make the world better when he grew up. And then he did. And he had kids. And then people walked around with signs. But this one guy did not agree. Only the one guy. But everyone else did and they ignored him. And then MLK had a dream.”

Little minds. Big knowledge.

So I asked Nik: “Who’s your mom?”
Nik: “You.”
Thinking I’d get a response based on the color of his hair, or his brown skin, I followed up with: “How do you know I’m your mom?”
Nik turned to look at me and said: “Because you take care of me.”

That pretty much sums it up. 

I also skipped a few that I thought would make him sad, but read one out that I thought he could handle, one of him getting picked on by older girls who dumped sand on his head at a birthday party, when he was three, and he let them because he wanted them to play with him.  He was upset when I read it, and asked if we still knew the girls and how old they were.  I explained how they were young then, only a couple years older than him, but they probably wouldn’t do that again if they saw him today.  And that he would never let them get away with it now.  He made a couple of vengeful comments and a face or two, but then seemed to let it go.

Last night, I heard him crying in his room.  When I asked him what was wrong, what was bothering him, he said, “Sand.  Sand on my head.”

Broke my heart all over again.

Sometimes I just have to ask her to stop, or she’d hum all day long….

At one point, I was sitting on the couch, curled up with the pillows, staring blankly at the show on the t.v.  I’m not sure how long I was sitting there.  I could hear the kids playing upstairs, running back and forth, alternating between laughing, yelling, whining, then laughing again.  It all was a blur in my head.

Then the kids came downstairs and I heard plans being made to go out front and play with their dad.  I wasn’t paying attention, and then…

I felt this small hand stroke my arm slowly.  Then it moved up to pat my head, and I turned to see Nik standing there with a small sad smile on his face.

I asked him, “Did you know that I am sad?”

He nodded and gave me a long hug.

And then he was gone.

But that was enough.