Pinecones. Stars. And Dreaming.

Last night, as I was hoping for sleep, I found myself looking out the window from my bed. A few days ago, our bedroom blind broke, and because I cannot decide which kind to replace it with (imagine that), we're going without for awhile. This means I can see the sky from where I lay. It's refreshing. Romantic, even. And inspiring. And in a moment, I was sort of heartsick for the past. While I could swear on most days that my body is elderly (the things motherhood will do to you!), I hardly feel (almost) twenty five. In my heart, I'm a girl. A young one. And years past really seem to me like a day or two ago.

Could it be that time quickens itself as we age? Or our very comprehension of the concept must change. 

I used to be so many things, and feel and dream so many things. Such is the state of youth, I suppose. Dreaming.

I used to really dream. 

And I used to spend hours with the stars. Back home, they're so bright. The whole night sky almost glistens. Sort of like the eyes of my child.

His eyes notice everything. And he's so intrigued. I think the world, to him, is full of miracle. 

Lately, I'm remembering that it is.  

And I'm beginning to understand that a child, entirely new and pure, is not just sent here to learn, but to teach, too. And to remind. You see, this parent-child thing is so very give-and-take. As a mother, I receive such beauty from it all.  

And I'm finding so many things I've forgotten. I find myself rediscovering. 

And I'm realizing that the dreams I once nurtured (the important ones, at least), are dreams no more. They have flourished to life. And have manifested themselves in the form of love (forever). Home. And child. 

A growing, healthy child in love with sight and sound and touch. With grass, and birds, and cones of pine.

With all things life.

Tonight, I will dream to be more like that.