The alarm went off yesterday just as I was in the midst of a delightful dream: Don and Charlotte and I were in a bakery or perhaps it was a fish shop, and I realized a lot of the concoctions and colors and intricate shapes I was looking at were neither fish nor pastries, but pottery and blown glass. I was entranced. The fishmonger/baker/artist indicated that in his shop next store there were many more of his wares so we strode over.

It felt like we were on vacation – somewhere warm and sunny and arty, perhaps a place like Santa Fe in the summer. I felt the sun and rising optimism and curiosity. In the adjacent shop, I noticed Emily, as a little girl, was beside me, holding my hand. I remember feeling delight. “Oh, she’s here!” I thought. “Yay!” And then she saw a little bicycle that had been outfitted to look like an art piece. 

“Mama,” she squealed with delight. “Look! It’s my doot-doot! Remember, I used to have one just like that!”

The joy in her voice, and her exact intonations and her body language and smile. It was pure Emily, at her finest. Her thrill vibrated through me, even in my sleep. It was magic – the way she so often was when something caught her fancy.

The alarm went off just as this experience had occurred, and rather than being sad, I felt happy that I could lie with that moment and let it resonate inside of me and through me. A few hours later, and I was still sitting with it, feeling my Emily’s joy, remembering how beautiful it was. It reinforced for me that her joy is perhaps stronger than it ever was and that I can share in it if I find a cozy little place in my heart to nestle with it and absorb it into my being.  That’s a quest worth taking on.