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One Woman's Knowing
Please Don't Force Me to Have Fun!
The Voice of a Dream
Cheryl Nicholas
Editor, Inspirations

The essence of our creativity is our ability to know who we are. Angels whisper to our soul what we already know and have forgotten. Dreams, memories and voices from unearthly plains guide us in our quest for our truth. Voices from the spiritual realm, for which we have earned admission simply by being who we are, speak to us. All we need do is listen...

* * *
Electric Dream by Carmin Karasic Alone, I stand at the kitchen sink washing my hands. Through the glass, into the darkness I see the empty hole of my soul, where rage resided for so many years. We lived here, in this low income project, when I was thirteen. Stained and tattered yellow curtains have been replaced with bright red, plaid, ruffled ones. They have been starched and arranged with care. The window sill holds two fresh cigars in their wrappers.

I turn to see, on a counter, a small carboard carton with the flaps open. Inside are neatly stacked documents. On top of the papers are two photographs, both portraying females. One of them I don't recognize. The other is of a dark haired woman in a sensuous pose on the green paisley sofa I remember as a small child. The woman is clad in a leopard-skin bathing suit. She is smiling and looks familiar. My mother?

I know that I must go up the stairs. The darkened living room is clothed in eery orderliness. I am plagued by visions of empty wine bottles and overflowing ashtrays, but I climb the stairs anyway.

On the third step, loud snoring pierces the darkness. The stairs whine. The snoring ceases, then begins again.

My Dad.

I know it is my Dad.

An urgency propels me up the steps. They creak again. My heart leaps with fear, sensing he will awaken and charge me like a raging bull, out of his mind from rot-gut wine. Whispered screams tunnel down the staircase. I freeze, suspended on the edge of a nightmare. The battered face of my brother, bloody and swollen, greets me in the darkness.

I reach the top of the steps and glance into the bedroom from my lost youth. I see a thirteen year old girl, burying her tears and agony in her bed pillow. That nightmare is detached from my soul. I turn my back on the terror and Move toward his room. There is no fear. I turn to the right, into his bedroom. The snoring stops.


He is lying in the middle of the room on a gurney. He is dressed in pressed brown slacks and a brown sweater. A brown leather strap holds him on the gurney. On the other side of the room is a table that holds assorted cardboard cartons. They are all lined up with all of my dad's belongings neatly arranged within them.


He turns his face toward me. His eyes open - clear, warm and brown. He holds out his arm. "Come here, honey. Where is your baby brother?"

I fall into his arms and sob. I feel the roughness of his sweater, the smoothness of his face and smell his old spice cologne. His strong arms wrap me in safety and in love.

I awaken to the taste my of tears.

* * *
After twenty years of flaming red rage and a decade sweeping away the ashes of burned out dreams, I surrendered to the possibility of forgiveness.As I gazed at the lavender, shadowed mountains at dawn one morning I said, "Daddy, wherever you are I hope you are doing okay."

Two weeks later he answered me in this dream.

The seed planted by my willingness to let go blossomed into forgiveness that predawn morn.

* * *
The voices of our journey speak to us in many ways. Part of who we think we are is reflected back to us from others. Much of this is a simulation of a self portrait painted with our own oils of discontent and misinformation. To know who we truly are, we must listen to our truth. This truth comes from within and is nurtured through the love that surrounds us. One of the voices - our dreams - gives us knowledge of the journey of our spirit.

Artwork "Electric Dream" by Carmin Karasic
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