Successors of Solomon, wiser than wise
Guided by motions of stars in the skies
               Restoring our powers
               Through forests and flowers
With spells on our lips and a gleam in our eyes

Last night I dreamt in body, not in mind
No images or sounds remained at wake
Left only with the remnants of a hug
Warm gift to me from longtime missing shade
To leave me love, then reconvey to grave

Last night I dreamt in washing, not in sense
A cooling rain that left me pink and clean
Of soaking drops that ran on face and limb
And drying cloth that softly followed rain
Fresh for the world to leave its dirt again

Last night I dreamt in campfire warmth and milk
Puff-swirling clouds hope-floated me in silk
In wrapping blankets, cuddled me with care
In loving presence lifting me like air
With messages from those no longer here
To spend the dark and morning disappear

It starts small,
a whisper, a flicker, a timid flame
in the middle of a vast, cold expanse.
You crave heat, but the fire takes its time,
growing only in the pauses, in the inches,
in the moments you almost gave up.

Progress is no storm
it's a soft drizzle on a thirsty earth,
seeping in quiet, unnoticed, until one day,
the roots push deeper, the stems grow taller.

You're tempted to curse the slowness,
the aching drag of it.
But to quit would be to stop the sun from rising,
to smother the flame with your own hand.

The world says "rush" while the earth whispers "wait."
And here you stand,
in the stillness, in the in-between,
learning the sacred art of slow.

Your heart is both warrior and sage,
carving a path where no path was,
each step a triumph, even when it feels like nothing.

You have already begun.
These small beginnings,
they are the birthplace of your mountains,
the cradle of your storms.

Do not despise the tender shoots that have yet to bloom,
for they will become forests if you let them.

Quitting would only steal the story
you were meant to tell,
a story written not in leaps,
but in a thousand quiet breaths of progress.

So hold fast.
This is your time,
your fire is growing.

Believe in the slow,
in the unseen,
in the yet-to-be.
You got this.

Confronting profound consternation
The positive faces negation
But for unions that matter
Illusions must shatter
To welcome the reintegration

I step inside. The weight of past encounters shrinks the corridor. I brain-search for a safety behaviour to assuage the impending sense of doom. As if on a plane (‘count the seats between you, and your nearest exit’), I count the doorways between the entrance and my office as I walk forward.

Door one. Used all my leave days. Gone four weeks. Feels like much longer. Door two. Window ledges look unfamiliar. Doorhandles are strange. Door three. Was the carpet always this colour? Door four. The tight-wound wool ball in my chest clenches, the stretching yarn groaning like sailboat ropes in a north-westerly. Door five. I say chest, but to be specific, it’s the top of my sternum, bordering the jugular notch. Door six. The squeeze-groans are petulant reminders of why I went on leave. My omniscient manubrium warning call. Door seven. For the love of all that lives on God’s green earth, why are we back here?    

Why indeed. Door seven. Home base.

I sit at the desk and my mind crouches and crawls along the lonely, dark path. Back to the last time I was here. The last time I was hunted. Sludgy mud memories thickly bubble, burst, and liquefy before my eyes. So very thick and so very brown. Each pop a muted wet slap.

Then, another sound. From my computer. Just in front of me. I have an email.

My inner mud-bubble memory show responds. Now it scrolls through a parade of minor monsters. Possible email senders. My space and mind invaded by their correspondence. So very desperate and so very flawed in their attempts at functional adult interaction.

So very tantrum-primed, slander-keen, and gaslight-geared.

Mean-spilling, rage-channelling, drama-divers.
Breakdown one-uppers.
Accountability dodgers.
Monopolising guilt-trippers.

Lesser daemons.
Energy vampires.
Always thirsty.

This is where they hunt me. Door seven. My office. In emails, texts, calls, voicemails, and physical presence. High quality rendered. Dream reproduction ready. Technicolor.

To be fair, I’m top-grade prey. All squishy and caring. Softest-of-soft targets. The quintessential good listener. Ears for days. Psych-trained, chair-arranging, body language monitoring, tone-of-voice sensitive, feelings generator. Generous-portioned, silver-service dining. Tastes like sweet intentions, candied optimism, and bitter disappointment. Fear garnish for colour and crunch.

Now, I sit behind door seven. Waiting. Vibrating emotion...
I can feel them closing in…  

Please send instructions for establishing clear boundaries, guidelines for maintaining a mental distance, and chocolate.

Happy Halloween.