The following is called an essay by its author, Laura Bayless. To me it seems more like a prose poem. It is an introductory piece, in either case, to a slim volume entitled Persistent Dreams: A Collection of Poems and Essays. I discovered the book in a friend's bookcase. This piece immediately engaged me in a deeply personal way. It’s one of those things that I come across every now and then that I wish I had written, or – to be more accurate – I feel like I did write, on some unconscious, archetypal level. In other words, I can relate to the feelings expressed in it. Perhaps it describes my own rather recent impulse to blog.
I have strayed from what is calling me, not out of neglect or temptation, but out of a need to heal. I have begun to hear the summons, the muted drumbeat growing louder. The mind has not forgotten. The heart has not forgotten, but the spirit was raw and weary.
I have seen the beasts waiting for me at the edge of tangled woods, their eyes like great dark stars, watching, waiting for me to walk into their caverns and lay down to sleep. I do not sleep now, not for long, not deeply – as if I know I might not want to return from the everlasting dream.
Discovery is my life task and I am not finished. I am called to explore for as long as I am able, to delve into the essences of nature, become integrated with mysteries, not disconnected from secrets but sifting through them like beads of mist through the forest, nourishing the limbs and roots of my body, the sap in my veins.
I am called to make stains on pages, crimson-rimmed clouds on a canvas, complete the vision.