Yesterday, I made a lemon pie for a get together with friends. It had been a long time since I’d plunged my hands in a mound of dough, and it felt like talking to an old friend. I grew up baking with my mother at my side, and last night, I dreamed of her. The unconscious knows the threads that bind.
             
My mother has been gone from my life since September, 2010, but she is  never far from my thoughts. In the dream, we are spectators at a “worldwide” exposition. Acres of exhibits and thrill rides await us, as if Disney World and Epcot had been joined. Somehow, we kept getting separated, sending me in a frantic search only to find her riding the roller coaster, or navigating a raft down a raging river. I had no idea how she managed to do this, given she was confined to her wheel chair, and when I asked, she patted my hand, and smiled, her expression full of courage and unbridled happiness.

Dreams are mysterious to me. Often, I am left shaking my head: now where did that come from? But this dream spoke with conviction.  My mother was my # 1 cheerleader. She always knew what to say when I was full of doubt, or afraid.  Now, I can only look at her picture, or find her in my dreams. I must remember to bake more often.