Last Thursday night, I dream of Raven.
He arrives out of a red gash in the earth. A hillside, the earth, cut open with an ax, a large square piece flying away like chips of wood from a chopped tree.
Out he flies. He doesn’t look like Raven. He looks like a red parrot. In the dream I try to give him to my husband. But no, Raven claims me instead, flips back his parrot disguise like a cape and looks me level in the eyes.
Tells me, Play.
Then he hops onto my shoulder. He should feel heavy, sitting there, grinning and clacking and gurgling at me. My body is prepared to feel weight tipping my balance sideways.
No. No weight. Play has no weight. Play is feather and cloud and dance. Play is all Raven.
I am not playing enough. I have been much too serious the last few weeks, and have forgotten play. I have slipped back into my old pattern of duty and work. A grim perfection of doing what needs doing before I allow myself time to do what I love–write and draw and imagine and read.
No wonder I have been waking each morning grouchy and out of sorts with the world and my life. I choose and move myself out of this mood each morning. I remind myself that happiness is a choice, and that I choose happiness, love, and joy in my life.
I have been forgetting to add that I also choose play, fun, and laughter. I do get to these sometime during each of my days, but not enough. Not soon enough and not for long enough.