A Childhood Dream — A Writer’s Cottage By The Sea
I never told anyone I had this dream. I thought it was simply a childhood fantasy, a fairytale — something I’d grow out of.
But I didn’t realize until one day, in my late 30s, sharing this “secret” of mine with my Fabulous Frenchman, that this dream-o-mine had never died.
It has simply laid dormant under the surface of me. For decades. Like a mini volcano I just kind of ignored because really what are the chances of it becoming real and erupting onto the page of my life..?
I mean, I’d spent childhood blending in, working hard to be seen and not heard, because that’s what I thought others wanted...not because I was told to be that way.
Then, because of my own headspace, struggling not to even be seen.
Sometimes I’d even work to not breathe,
as when you cease to breathe
you cease to exist.
Fascinating, no?
Now, well, I take up space.
Lots and lots of space.
In life, on the ether-webs,
energetically
and on the pages of life.
But back to that sharing of me…[gasp, imagine what’s possible].
By giving verbal space to that childhood dream, it became my reality, thanks to this amazing man who went behind my back and started to dig, research and discover…
And find that ultimate thing that would
Simply make me happy.
Who f-ing does that..?
But I jump ahead here because first you must know the dream, mustn’t you?
My childhood dream was
A little cottage,
on a hill,
with secret gardens,
overlooking the sea
where I sat all day and wrote.
Simple yet starkly huge.
Enormous.
And two things came to pass…
One, my dream, yep, is my new reality. I sit here now in my 100+ year old, little sea-side cottage on a hill, surrounded by what will one day be my secret gardens, listening to the song of the tree frogs as the wind filters through the leaves of the 40+ year old seagrape tree out front, awaiting the glow of the rising sun where I will soon see…
The endless, pristine, often turbulent and sometimes smooth-as-glass sea.
And the second thing…
The action that was the drive behind my childhood dream…
a place,
a sanctuary,
a space that is me,
where I sit all day to write...
Well, it’s been mine for nearing two years now -- minus the ebb and flow of hammers and endless stirring up of man-made dust, it’s unfolding before me.
My childhood vision…
And yet, the person I was being was not the one I dreamt I’d find upon stepping fully into that childhood dream…
The one who sat overlooking the sea and wrote all day…
She didn’t come out to play.
She didn’t take up her purple-inked-arms and type away her heart, her soul, her pain, her play -- until now.
And that’s pause-worthy.
I mean seriously, how often in life do we strive to attain, to reach the pinnacle only to find it not what we thought, not the fulfillment we so thought it would be..? Not the happy place.
Gosh, I could write that story.
Well, sh*t I am...
That is my story.
Up till now.
That is this story.
Because just like my little 100-year-old cottage by the sea,
I too have unfolded…
I too have been under, what feels like
endless construction…
And it’s just now...that the me of today is stepping into the possibility of all that is.
Because until now...
I hid myself away.
I buried myself in disarray.
I locked the part of me that was joyful and bubbly away.
And not even the realization of the very reality of the thing I thought was forever out of reach, was simply a fantasy in the mind’s eye of a wee lass, who couldn’t shake off the
drama,
melancholy,
sadness
that had taken up residence within me…
Brought that truest, organic me out to play.
The problem was me.
Not me as in I’m broken,
even though that’s so what I thought.
Not me as in I need to be fixed,
even though that’s what the Fabulous Frenchman thought.
[Bless him, he knew not how destructive that was for us both.]
Not me as in another book,
self-help course,
podcast to plug into,
course to buy,
guru to follow,
oh, f--k me, more therapy maybe…
Nah, another bit of chocolate (or two) will do…
Could help me.
And it took the culmination of someone,
this man,
being nice to me,
like that’s shocking in and of itself.
“A nice man.”
“A man being nice to me.”
With me.
Me.
Him actually loving me unconditionally-fully-whole-y,
the me of all my pieces
the one I’d hidden away in different ornate wooden boxes within my mind
over the years…
The one I’d open up on the written page,
in the cloak of night,
with purple pen in hand…
The comforting step of another
Owning my words
Reaping the spot—
Light.
But to truly open..
Fully step out or in
Hmm, no, never as me.
Never free.
And yet, here was proof,
In your face,
Cottage on a hill
Overlooking the sea
Okay, the secret gardens are to come.
But the table is there,
The chair is present
The holding of space is simply awaiting me.
My own Emily Dickenson moment
Minutes the harsh tundra of Mass—
—achussetts.
That he
Could love me
Find me so worthy
To grasp that was too much.
Everything.
Nothing.
And,
Left me in pieces.
It was the culmination
Of being on a five-square-mile island,
in the middle of a tropical sea,
sitting in a pile of dust like an Irish fairy
or Disney Princess,
minus the ballgown
or torn garb of a bygone era,
while the animals of my existence,
both real and within,
came out to play.
It was being locked with me, myself and I
day in and day out,
no longer immersed in the hustle of a
work-till-your-eyeballs-bleed mentality.
Where it’s so easy to not feel, not sink into the one thing that matters.
The only thing that finally allowed me to stop
To rest in what is
To enjoy this moment I see before me
out the new windows of my little cottage
Overlooking...
The dawning of a new day…
The glow of pinks,
of purples,
of oranges
like ribbons of light streaming from the best package ever.
Life.
A gift in all
It’s the blue and white that plays peak-a-boo in the sky
As night rolls effortlessly into day.
It’s the rustle and awakening
From within
And without…
As the roosters crow
The hens’ song cackles
And the tree frogs retiring to
— silence.
It’s the ease of it all.
The flow.
The constant.
The absence of stress.
The beingness of all that is.
So while manifesting the dream of my little cottage, on a hill, with secret gardens where I sit and write all day was only part of the equation.
As I had to show up
To be
The me
Who can move mountains with my words
Who can touch a soul’s soul with the lyrical flow
Who is simply the conduit.
I had to get out of my own head
My own way
And own all parts of me.
No longer handing them off to be fixed
Like shattered bits from a once perfectly formed flowerpot.
It was awakening to the notion that I ain’t f--king broken and I don’t need to be fixed.
It’s realizing I was made whole,
Perfectly imperfect
And owning the choices
The beingness of my former self
That gave away my power to another.
And in calling those pieces of me home
And now sitting whole
Deliciously
Okay in my own skin
For the first time in 40 years…
I say bring it.
The dreams
The words
The flow.
For I’m out of my proverbial closet.
I’m being me.
The only way I can truly be.
And enjoy all that is.
The childhood dream of me
The Fab Frenchman who unwavers beside me
The gift that is my superpower
The divine dharma that rests
Just within the palm of my hand.
Setting me free.
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