I don’t want to brag, but I’m an excellent sleeper. Nobody ever had to tell me to go to bed as a kid. I love to sleep. My ex says that if sleeping were an olympic sport, I’d be a gold medalist. And on top of that, these threshold pandemic times have brought along with them all sorts of sleepy dream adventures.
Last night, heavily blanketed against the early spring cold with my sweet little tribe, I woke around 3:00 from a dream, set in Southpark mall, of toddlers surfing on escalators and golden retrievers riding horses. So we rested on … arranged in our nest: I’m on right my side holding Alia Atredes in my arms like a kid with a teddy bear. Purring and breathing a whisper-song. Duncan Idaho, with forever troublesome sinuses, curled against me, snoring softly. Poppy, quite content with the cold, rolls over on his back, paws up, and sighs. Feeling so cozy, so safe. And all I can think is — I never want this moment to end.
So I rest in the Vitruvian beauty of it … feeling such peace, bathing in an oceanic visitor of perception as it gradually expands to all those I love, and have ever loved. The top of my head seems to open up with the radiance of epiphany: this is it!
This. Is. It. The promise of Easter, of life everlasting.
This is the actual Truth of it. This moment. This feeling. This energy. Energy that cannot be created or destroyed, only borrowed and shared. This is the resurrection — the part of us that never dies. This enormous shared peace is the moment that never ends, and all I have to do to summon it is to know it. This is the gift of eternal life, completely outside of time — the moment that never ends.
