Last night I was lying in bed thinking about my friend Jen who died nearly three months ago. I was also thinking about my mother who died six and a half years ago. I was missing them both. Badly.

Seeking distraction, my mind wandered to a strange thought I’d had the day before as I spied my husband standing far up the field in the garden. Wearing jeans, a T-shirt and a hat he was moving pensively through the early morning rays of sunlight considering the planting he would do that day. Maybe it was the etheric quality of the light, I don’t know, but I suddenly realized how impossibly perfect it is that we live here, on an eleven-acre property in the country that is meticulously tailored to us; how amazing it is that we got here. Did I dream this?  I wondered. How did this dream become a part of my reality?

My friendship with Jen and my relationship with Mom had the quality of dreams too.

Jen used to come for a visit every Friday afternoon she could. We’d sit at the kitchen table sipping tea and process the events of our lives since her last visit. We’d share the new discoveries we’d made and turn to one another for counsel. We’d laugh – a lot.

I find myself missing her most on Fridays, but the loss of my beautiful friendship with Jen left more than just a “Friday” hole in my life.

My grief at the loss of my mother overtakes me anew at each special family occasion. This time it was my son’s graduation, just last week. She would have been so proud to see her first grandson graduate from university. She would have sat beside me in the auditorium sharing the excitement as he walked proudly across the stage.

I miss what she was for me; comfort, counsel, co-conspirator, and strangely I miss what she would have been today – how she would have enjoyed the new technology, social media, her daughter’s blog and watching her grandchildren grow.

As I lay there  pondering the dream of my friend and the dream of my mother I realized that even though they belonged to my past they were also here, in my present, co-existing with the dream of living in the country. In my mind, in my thoughts there was no difference between them.

Thinking about the dreams of Mom and Jen this way changes how I feel. I still miss them badly but they feel less “lost” to me now.  “It’s my life, my dreams”  so I can think of them any way I like. Besides, it’s clear I dreamed them into my reality. Who else could compose such perfect dreams for me?

Do you ever think such strange thoughts?  Do you wonder who dreamed the dreams that became your life?

 photo credit: Mike Pedroncelli