dreaming

It has been too long. I have tried to write, and words couldn't come. There have been too many things that I didn't want to say; too many things that I couldn't say. And once again, I couldn't dream. 

And then, last week at my book club's Christmas book exchange, I came home with I Dreamed of Africa. As soon as it was unwrapped, I knew it needed to be mine. And then it was; that's the beauty of those kinds of gift exchanges. I have only just finished the prologue and chapter one, and it is mine - my dream, my story, me as a young girl growing up in Italy (irrelevant detail) and dreaming of a different home that calls to her. Its heat. Its vastness. Its colours. Its people. An ancient knowing and yearning and being known. 

I have only just begun it, and already I am remembering how to dream.  

Photo courtesy of Eirasi