The Oake Raven

I have been writing every day for the last 6 days, getting obsessive about words and sentence structure and flow, yet I can’t put into words what has been going on in my spirit the last few months. I’m going to try anyway.

When not writing, I’ve been doing a lot of dodging these days–dodging on one side and juggling on the other. Dodging new expectations and juggling the caretaker role and all the while, I’m noticing a storm brewing off to the side, coming right toward me.

Back in late 2023, I had a dream of wandering a desert at night with my older kids. I looked behind me and saw a lamp post in the middle of the desert, giving off just enough light to notice a pack of wolves or coyotes walking the edge of darkness. I mentioned it to my kids, but they didn’t hear me. I paused for a moment and let them all walk in front of me so I could keep an eye on them and protect them from a place where I could see everything, and one of my kids wandered further ahead than the others. I could still see her and keep her safe…she just wasn’t walking with me anymore.

When I woke up, I told my husband that we needed to expect some chaos coming our way, especially in regard to that kiddo. And in January 2024, all hell broke loose. Things are okay–kiddo is learning some major life lessons and I am, too. I mean, no one is dying or in prison. Things could be worse, you know? She’s just far away from me and I’m trying to do the right thing and “keep the wolves at bay” while she goes through what she’s going through. (I love you, dragă)

But…for months now, something particularly heavy has come over me, pushing me to look at that experience in January, at who I am in my eyes, who I am to my kids and to others who see me, and what I can expect to be in the future. And I don’t resist looking. I teach others about the importance of taking the time to sit with your thoughts and feelings–particularly the ones that start haunting you out of the blue–and I do follow my own advice.

I think what’s happening though, is this: I’m not crumbling at the feet of time or begging for the Universe to twist and turn to fit into my will and desires; I’m starting to feel like I’m peeling away from what I know, settling into a calm knowing that my time to give what I have to give is fading, and some of it is already gone.

Understand, I’m not talking about death here. I’m not having an existential crisis or playing with dark ideas around my livelihood–just, something is changing around me and I’m going to wake up one day, facing my own reality in a crumbled heap in the doorway, and I’ll have no other choice but to step over the heap and start over again. Be it emotional, spiritual, physical in some way, I have no idea. But it’s the lingering feeling I had when waking from the dream with the wolves or coyotes, knowing something is right there, and I can’t protect myself from it–I can only prepare for it. And that’s what I’ve been doing the last few months.

I’ve been burned out since we moved into the new home and I haven’t had a single night of solid rest. I’m constantly waking, hurting, wondering. I just can’t seem to get comfortable when I can’t feel like I’m in the right place, at the right time. It’s like a chunk of my soul is off in the future somewhere–maybe on another plane–but right now, I’m standing in the doorway, waiting for the storm to hit with the gust that will knock me into the timeline where the rest of me wandered off to. I’m not hiding behind the walls or hunkering down to brace myself–I’m standing there, waiting for full impact.

I probably sound crazy, but my entire life has been directed by this intuition since it kicked in when I was fourteen. And ever since having my entire belief system shattered in 2015 and hitting the proverbial mental and emotional rock bottom, I can’t say I’m afraid of much of anything anymore. I feel strong. I feel capable. Waiting is just drag, especially when already burned out.

This doesn’t steal my happiness, because I refuse to let it. I focus on the glimmers I find because I know how to look for them and it keeps me feeling like I can breathe. But this weight on the mind sure does make it harder to feel like everything is the way it should be. In the end, I have to accept that it is, because this is my reality right now, and I’m already doing what I can to form my path and lay it out for myself. The birds are still singing. The trees are still dancing in the wind. Coffee still hits the spot. And I’ve been writing, which means everything is okay.

Diana Cael Robertson

Selfie to show I’m fine.