Awoken by a Dream
I once had an assignment to write an autobiographical essay. I often find such essays mundane, especially when presented in a strictly linear fashion. Of course, a skilled storyteller can breathe life into personal history, but storytelling has never been my strongest suit. So, with this assignment, I sought to step outside my comfort zone—to approach my story with creativity rather than a straightforward recounting of facts. The essay was meant to explore a pivotal life event and its impact on my perspective. With that in mind, here is what I wrote (and the image I made to accompany):
My childhood home, in many ways, with its surrounding acreage, had been a sort of sanctuary growing up—a constant presence that helped to shape me with its quiet support and subtle embrace of the natural world. In my dreams, the land itself seemed to speak, offering whispers of wisdom and gentle reminders of the strength I had always carried within me. At times, these messages felt like echoes of my past; at others, they seemed to prepare me for what was to come, revealing the resilience I would need in order to face the trials ahead.
The street where I grew up was lined with three-acre plots, partially divided by fencing that marked boundaries without severing connections. Trees stood mostly at the back of each property, leaving open spaces where we played, explored, and grew. My own yard held only a few trees near the house—a pair of magnolias, a mimosa, and a scattering of tall pines. The true sanctuary lay beyond, in what we simply called "the woods"—a sacred space of winding paths and quiet contemplation.
Yet, in one particular dream, a tree appeared that had never stood in my childhood yard. A great maple, its vibrant leaves adorned with eyes—serene, knowing, watchful. Each leaf opened to me, gazing with an understanding that transcended words. I stepped from the front screen door of my house, drawn toward this enigmatic tree as the wind stirred and rain began to fall. Beyond the yard, floodwaters rose, surging toward me with force. Yet, I felt no fear. Instead, I stood still, peaceful in the face of the coming tide. A deep and silent knowing settled within me—the kind of sorrow that marks the ending of one cycle and the beginning of another.
The tree, with its watchful leaves, did not speak, yet its message was clear. It called me to see—to recognize the strength within me, the connections that had always sustained me, and the journey that still lay ahead. Though I could not put its wisdom into words, I felt its truth resonate within me. I understood that I was not alone, that I had never been alone, and that I would always have what I needed to carry me forward.
This dream lingered in my mind, surfacing again and again as I navigated the days that followed. At the time, I was lost—struggling through a dark night of the soul. Depression had gripped me for years, leading me into self-destructive patterns, isolating me from those who cared, and pushing me toward the edge of despair. I had considered suicide. I had considered institutionalizing myself. I had numbed my pain in reckless ways, placing myself in danger time and time again. But the dream was a beacon, a gentle reminder that there was more beyond my suffering. It guided me back to nature, back to a higher Source, back to the quiet places where my soul could heal. It led me to seek knowledge, to reconnect with my spirit, and to find new ways to express my truth.
Determined to reclaim my life, I threw myself into self-improvement and education. My studies took me deep into metaphysics, where I found both inspiration and the courage to confront my own challenges. I immersed myself in nature-based practices, meditation, and journaling, slowly rediscovering my equilibrium. The darkness began to lift, and I felt myself growing stronger—until another twist in my journey reshaped everything once more.
Just as I had found my footing, I discovered the reason behind the emotional turmoil that had marked the months prior. I was pregnant—four months along, completely unaware. The revelation came while I was visiting my childhood home, thousands of miles from where I lived at the time. But joy was fleeting. Almost as soon as I learned of my pregnancy, I felt an unshakable sense that something was wrong. A visit to the hospital confirmed my fears. A few hours later, in the sterile brightness of an examination room, I miscarried.
That night, pain—both physical and emotional—consumed me. Guilt, grief, and confusion swallowed me whole. I cried for hours, inconsolable, spiraling back toward the darkness I had fought so hard to escape. No words could reach me. No comfort could soothe me. I simply endured, minute by minute, hour by hour.
The next day, my husband led me into the woods behind my childhood home. He had set up two lounge chairs in a quiet clearing, offering me a space to rest, to breathe. As I lay there, staring into the trees, I felt untethered—adrift between reality and some distant dream. The world around me seemed unreal, blurred at the edges. The pain was still raw, the loss still heavy. And yet, somewhere deep inside, I sensed the same knowing I had felt in that dream. The journey was not over. The strength I had been shown was still within me. I was not alone.
Even now, years later, that dream remains with me. It was not just a dream—it was a message, a turning point, a guidepost along my path. It reminded me of the power within, of the connection between my spirit and the world around me. It showed me that even in the face of loss, transformation is possible. And that, no matter how dark the night may seem, the light remains within us, waiting to be seen.
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