still no pen

Last night I dreamt I was writing. I would be told a topic, and I would turn and go to a room and write. The feeling the writing gave me was neither positive nor negative; it's just what I had to do. Yet I was delighted. I knew writing was what I needed to do.

The funny thing is, I had a keen awareness that I was not writing on my piece of blank paper. I knew that my paper was still somewhere. And that was, interestingly, a comforting, rather than a nagging, feeling. Over the course of the past week, including some short exchanges, some reading, some pondering, and even some ignoring, I've come to see, and begin to appreciate, the subtle tweak in attitude. My blank paper is blank because it's meant to be--for the moment.

Anyway, I know that most dreams are forgotten rather quickly after waking. The fact that this one is staying with me until almost bedtime again was not my first clue that there was something there for me to know. No, the first clue was when I woke, and saw paper, and knew instinctively that answers come in small pieces, like Gramma Katie's winter jigsaws. Funny how over twenty years later, I'm learning so many lessons from her! Each winter, Gramma Katie set up a card table in her front parlor, and dumped a puzzle out onto its surface. I always wondered how she managed to find such hard puzzles, because they took all winter to put together. (At home, I would put puzzles together to have another something in common with her, and they never took nearly as long to finish.) I remember asking her about this, but I don't remember any answer past the smile she always had (open mouthed,and with laughing eyes) and shared generously.

Now when I think about my special situation, I see her putting her puzzles together, piece by piece; savoring each 'fit.' This is what the joy in life is: seeing each small piece for what it is--which is not always something more than a small part of the whole, but is oftentimes more important in the long run than we'd imagined. In my pondering, I'm coming across memories I'd nearly let slip off the edge that seem to be turning out to be those all important frame pieces. Or the hard to place, but equally important filler pieces.
Like the answer to a discussion question in on of my classes: a non-profit or not-for-profit. At the time, as with a few other things I've blurted out lately, I thought, "Where did that come from?" And yet (which I find myself saying often these days!) I knew exactly where in my heart; I just didn't know that I knew. I remember that was the strangest part. At some point, another question will move to the forefront of my thinking, and that may or may not coincide with having an answer to the current one. But contemplating has become an inspiring pastime, and has changed my outlook. (Okay, to be perfectly honest, change is slow in coming, but I can see the edges of it, and, since I like what I see, I'm inviting it, embracing it.)

Still no pen.