Two nights ago, I had a dream that my grandmother and I were doing the dishes.
It was post a big holiday meal with all of my siblings and their children, aunts, uncles and parents milling about.
But because it was present day, I was the only one who could see her. She's been gone now for seven years.
Somewhere between the mounds of mashed potatoes, turkey drippings, gravy boats and pie, I asked her...does it get any easier?
What do you mean, she replied with kind eyes and wrinkly hands.
Just...well...all of these questions, worry, longing, seeking, wonderment in the world.
I'm not sure that you really want it to go away...sometimes, the exploration reminds you of what it means to be alive.
Throwing cutlery into the dishwasher, I replied...but I look at them, these other women, wives, mothers, friends, random acquaintances at the grocery store and they are fine...they don't seem to be wondering, craving, desiring like me. Why can't I just be like them?
Well, they've either not asked themselves the bigger questions or they have and it's too painful or exhausting to fetter out the truth or they've asked and have come to peace with the answers. Everyone's on a different journey.
Fuck the journey. I'm tired of asking and worrying all the time. I just want to know.
Want to know what? said my Kate, all eight-years of herself in the dream.
And when I turned around, my grandmother was gone.
I woke up feeling disheartened like the time as a child when I thought I had a Strawberry Shortcake doll under my bed, excited, I jumped down, peered my head under only to realize that it was just a dream.
My whole life I've asked questions and rarely am I satisfied with the answers. Often, one source of information is not enough. As my dear friend says, "Are you crowd sourcing again, Kelly?" I don't think it's a mistake that I was a philosophy undergrad major or that my graduate degree is in Conflict Resolution or that I write about the places that feel broken or wounded or gray or where the longing happens.
It's just that sometimes, I don't want to keep searching. I just want to rest and let what is be enough. The problem is that it doesn't last very long before I'm scratchy, itchy, throwing out the questions to the universe, looking at the colors, feeling the music, listening to the stories and secretly hoping that I fade into the peace my grandmother referred to in the dream.
I guess it's true that everyone is on a different journey...mine just happens to be filled with lots of question marks and dialogue.