I’ve started half a dozen blog posts in the last two days. None of them say what I want to say. Some of them say too much of what I shouldn’t say. All of it is frustrating, because I’ve resumed my reliance on this form of therapy and, when I don’t write, my thoughts and feelings find other ways of making themselves known.

Last night, I dreamed I discovered some old family photos and memorabilia that revealed I died when I was a child. I remember feeling this odd sense of relief, and saying to my mother, “Why didn’t you tell me I died? This explains so much!”

It’s the start of Holy Week (Palm Sunday through Easter), so thoughts of death aren’t as creepy or unexpected as they might be at another time of year. And, again, there was a sense of peace in this dream – not to mention the fact that I was alive, at the age I am now, having this conversation with my mother, so, obviously, it wasn’t literal. I have a few theories, but have yet to figure it out.

In the meantime, I’m reflecting on a sentence from my last blog post. A friend lifted it up, seeing deeper meaning than I (consciously) intended. Now that’s all I can see.

Some change can only happen by letting things go so completely that you have to start over.

Leah Ellison Bradley

I’ve wished for death on more than one occasion in my life. Although I wouldn’t have said this at the time, I believe now the “end” I was wishing for was an end to what was. I think I’m still listening for someone to say “it is finished.” Then comes the sunrise. Then comes the good news. The old life will be gone and a new one will begin. And I will be at peace.