The Golden Egg

Sometimes, when you share your dreams, it's like you let the air out of them. They end up sounding silly or strange outside of the space of your soul. Sometimes telling a dream diminishes it.

I don't want to do that to this dream, but it was, truly, too much of a gift not to share.

I gave birth to a golden egg.

I was expecting a baby, but I birthed an egg. It was smooth and soft, unbelievably soft, seamless and heavy. I thought it must be solid gold, it weighed so much. I was thrilled and amazed by this change in circumstance, and even more surprised with the egg opened and my baby was inside. It wasn't William--this was a new baby, a tiny little girl, cradled inside the egg. She had an incredible light about her, mostly I think from the egg, which kind of glowed, and when I lifted her up, she didn't cry but her eyes were open and dark and looking straight at me, into me, and for the first time since his death, I really felt William's presence, not his baby-self that I knew oh-so-briefly for the nine months I carried him, but the core of who he was, the "who" he would have been as a boy and a man - the "who" he had been before we conceived him and who he became after his death. I felt him very particularly in the light of the egg surrounding his sister, touching me, that light that had been holding (protecting?) her and it was pure gold, just absolute light and warmth, and I'd never known such peace or perfection in my life.

The baby began to cry, then, and I knew she was fully in and of this world at that moment, and I was glad, but so grateful, so very grateful for the gift of her brother's presence.

I couldn't have been a greater gift this Christmas than this dream. Thank you, William.

Maybe I am carrying his little sister (or brother) even now. What a blessing that would be. I'm nine days past ovulation tomorrow and hoping, again, still.

I'm not asking for miracles.Well... maybe just a tiny one. One tiny little miracle. I hope it's not too much to ask.