Moving Forward

So, I’m out walking this morning and I’m unable to get the dream out of my mind. I was at his house. My ex. The Old Etonian. It wasn’t the same house as the house he lives in during my waking reality but it was unmistakably his house. We’re out in the fields. This dream house has much more land than his actual house. Perhaps in my dream I’ve augmented the size to prove a point. Perhaps my mind was suggesting he now has what he’s always wanted. Now that the new gal has moved in. I’m neither surprised nor particularly bothered that there is a new gal. I expected it before I left. He’s not a man who is comfortable being without a minder. And that position, I’ve happily left. But there’s something that rankles.

So, we’re in the fields. He’s there, she’s there, I’m there. Not sure why the grounds keeper isn’t there. I sense his presence. His energy around the place is unmistakable. He’s a modern day Mellor’s, without the scandal, with the rugged earthiness. I think Lady Chatterley’s ex also had a hard time accepting reality. We were in the fields casting grain on the newly tilled soil. As in the days of old, from a sack slung over our shoulder. She wasn’t seeding or speaking, but she was there. He was speaking. He was telling his version of reality, just as he always does. Reworking the details of the past events so it suits his autobiographical picture of himself. He’s constantly in the process of writing his autobiography. In his head. In his retelling of the events of holidays or a dinner party or for instance whether my son’s cat actually is my son’s cat. He writes in a diary in preparation for the day when he writes the book of his life. He will look very good in his autobiography. He writes in his diary the way he would like for things to have been. It’ll be easy for him to write the book of his life from the perspective of how he wanted it to be because he has the diary. I’ll be the beautiful one with a pointy hat.

So in the dream he’s doing his latest rendition of how things really are, casting the seeds around himself and making a rather poor showing of it. The seed sowing, I mean. I notice that as I cast the seeds they fly out in a wide arc, flying far from my body. Like a ripple on water or a dance. They fall very beautifully, quite evenly, thoroughly carpeting a large swath of land. He throws his seeds and they plummet to the ground very close to him. I notice this and yet it means very little at this moment because I’m listening with fascination to how he has rewritten the details of our life together in such a way as to obscure his bad behaviour, completely, and once again do his best to paint a dark picture of me. I’m a ‘poor me’ in his story. Poor me for not staying with him.

We walk into the house and once I remove my mucky boots he hands me a pair of chocolate coloured sheepskin boots and asks why I stopped wearing them. I notice that the kitchen and the entry have been tidied. Perhaps it’s been done in preparation for her arrival. Perhaps that’s why he’s been too busy to get round to returning my remaining clothing, jewellery and most importantly my sons cat. He might have been very busy giving instructions to make the house guest-ready.

And now here are my sheepskin boots! I haven’t seen them since I walked into this house with them 7 years previous. I love these boots. They’re comfy and warm, soft and natural. So very me. I never realised how much I miss them until I see them in front of me. And as I slip them on, the house and it’s inhabitants disappear.

And I’m standing in a field of wildflowers. Thousands upon thousands of wildflowers carpeting the land. Just like home. Feeling the warm breeze in my hair and the sunlight on my face, I awaken.