The Swirl of Tazman 4

She had had a dream. It had lasted more than an evening. Even more than a day or two. More even than a month or a few.

Michaela’s dream had lasted years. In fact, her entire lifetime.

Its constancy had proven to anchor her being and for this and for the dream itself she was grateful. While pleased, Taz wouldn’t allow her to stop there. That’s not to say that he didn’t appreciate the significance. No, in fact, you’d find that he would blink slowly in immediate validation of the very real importance of gratitude, which carried its own very special kind of magic. This he always knew to be true and from his example, Michaela came to know this to be true as well.

So on this particular point and whether he said as much or not, or merely gazed an impenetrable gaze to convey the importance of his meaning, Taz encouraged Michaela to explore the layers and layers within gratitude whenever she reflected on her dream. Taz nudged and prodded and wrapped his tail around her senses. He encouraged her to open herself up to gratitude even more. To expand her horizons into the sometimes scary world of trust, and into the larger belief that she could hold true to herself – that she truly could – even while she ventured forth like a beginner in life into the very large and oftentimes complex world of unknowing and unknowables.

This is not so easy a thing to do. Not nearly so easy as it may seem.

We are all beginners in life. At all times.

If she didn’t know better, she would believe her mind’s eye…that he was sitting patiently, staring devotedly, blinking slowly in validation at this very moment. We are all beginners.

She didn’t look over to see. In a real way, it didn’t matter, because whether or not Taz was sitting patiently and validating her thoughts in this very moment, he was doing so…no matter what he was doing. And she had already picked up on his rhythmic breathing, which played steadily in the background, jazzing out like a polite jazz drum cymbal that on its backside carried layers of sounds from gentle instrumentals all converging upon themselves into a most pleasing melody.

Michaela stayed in that lane, the polite jazz drum cymbal lane. She breathed a soft laugh. She stretched her average body comfortably out in a bed of roses, on the top of the very rose shrub with no thorns – except for near the edges of the very very top. Here and there thorns hid themselves away, but not too far away. Quite near enough to where she lazed about – either before sleeping or awaking from her dream – and pondered life and the amazing creature who curled into himself fast asleep with a glistening galaxy that swirled slowly along the entire length and height of his side.

Another such constancy in my life…Taz. The thought as clear and as bright blue as the sky that served as a magnificent backdrop to the twirling leaf that had fully engulfed her attention not too long ago. Before the Homestead darkened everything. How was it that the day had been so very clear only to turn so very dark? She couldn’t say. But she knew someone who would know. And probably would choose not to say. Taz, her perpetual teacher. Always nudging her to understand her dream for what it was: as much a force to fly into, to grow with as it was a force to keep her centered with her feet on the ground. As much as it was a source of lessons.

NaNoWriMo 2021 word count (not including this notation): 612 words for a total of 3,270 to date.

Published by Michele Hyacinth

A child in the wild blue yonder...full blooded woman with the power just to be. ~ John Haitt

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