I dream in flavour and memory
{ why the taste of things are my remembrance dreamscape }
I’ve been dreaming about this bittersweet flavour. In some way it mirrors what motherhood has felt like for the past sixteen years.
Soon, my daughter begins her new life in Chicago with her father. Maybe I do not realise the profound shift of energy my being is to witness. I’ve never been one of those gushy mothers, or even as a younger woman I never ached for motherhood.
But that changed the day I became a parent.
The past ten years of single parenthood has had its challenges. But as I witness my nearly sixteen year old make decisions for herself, grow into a beautiful young person, I know that letting go is part of the journey. I’m proud and my sadness is married with joy.
Writing for me has been an alchemy of emotion, and memory - and cooking has always been a spell that invokes lost parts of my heart that no words can discover.
At this time, I can only find release in words, and in the kitchen. But also it seems, in dreams.
For the past couple of years I’ve been keeping a dream journal. Sometimes I incubate dreams (make an intention to dream in a certain way) and sometimes I don’t dream at all. But I dream most vividly, and lucidly when profound changes are imminent. With this upcoming change in my life, I have noted dreams that are not only bizarre but haunt my days. Not in a negative way, but almost in a way of guidance. The way I manage to remember them is by keeping a dream journal. I’ve shared a sample of the sort of questions I note, for you to try.
In one of my dreams this week, I was reminded of a childhood memory. Growing up on ships as a child, my mother would make me this fudge (recipe card below) that would remind me that even in a place cut off from reality; I was still a child. I found comfort in it, when nothing else helped.
In my dream this week, I was alone, sailing a small boat on a shimmering silver ocean. It felt almost animated. As I felt lost with no land in sight, then all of a sudden a piece of this fudge appeared on a plate before me. As I bit into it, I looked out to the horizon and saw lights and land. The memory of that cocooning overtook my being.
Perhaps, the fudge represents the adventure of being on my own that’s ahead, and the shimmering ocean, the best version of the mother I’ve tried to be.
I do know this, as I woke up I felt compelled to cook the fudge. With the aromas of smoky black cardamom and astringent saffron, the honey essence of condensed milk turning to fudge, I found answers:
I will be ok on my own.
My daughter will find her way in the world.
I have done all I could to be the best mother I could be.
I’m grateful for this opportunity.
Let go. Let go. Let go.
So as my empty nest syndrome beckons, I know that a touch of sweetness, and trust in my reveries will bring much needed comfort.
Here is wishing you sweet dreams.
Until next week,
Beautiful piece Sumayya! 💕
Words written beautifully and describing your feelings ever so vividly 💕