Skip to main content

A Dream Journal



It was a normal end of school day, I was ready to pick my boys from the Shine Club- the after school club, right after concluding my very own fabulous chores  in the classroom that I work. Everything and everyone seems so busy, I picked my boys and just then I remembered, I left my bag in the classroom that I was covering previously. So, I went to the other class, got my bag and exited through the main office when I saw, the familiar face, the most respected figure in my life, my idol and my world, my everything waiting there for me and my boys with her kind smile, she held my little-one's hand and the four of us started walking home...and this is in real-time until I was wide awake when my nightly brain saw the fair flash of the wintry sunshine through the little opening of my blue velvety curtain. Time was 9 am and never in my life since I became a mother myself, I slept till this late morning. I woke up with a smile, feeling loved once again by the most important person in my life, care free and confident; once again, I am 'me'...

Don't go into the details.  A dream is just a dream. This journal is not an interpretation nor am I musing myself because I am a poetic philosopher; but on a simple fact- I am just a 'just' human being in this vast wide mysterious planet  that we call Earth- a mum, a daughter, a wife, a friend, a teacher, a writer, a student, a former broadcast journalist or a  TV personality, a colleague, a stranger... I fit into many shoes as you call me...

However, the motherly bond from a 'maami' who was not my mother by blood is definitely precious and many who did not experience this strange mother and daughter love will never understand it, even if they do- there will still be something unknown to them. She did not rob away my love for my own mother nor did she be envious about my mother's love to me, but she nurtured it even deeper; creating ever-so strong bond between both of us. She taught me the righteous. She was my everything and made me who I became now. Dreaming her certainly made my day this morning.

Whenever I dreamt about her,  my precious loved one -who left me too soon, I held on to the feelings  that I experience in that dream for a little longer. I will always be delighted because once again I get a chance to feel her love.  The dream reminds me to be myself and take on pieces of her characteristic that I admired the most in her- the wisdom, her kindness and patience. 

After a very long gap, (I hardly have  dream these days),  today's dream is certainly a comfort. It seems like a gateway for me to live out my destiny. It didn't fade away in my awakening but stayed close to my heart and awareness-remembering it by putting me in that comforting moment of being with her, celebrating her life, and healing her absence in my missing heart. The happy thought is she was with me, in real-time today. She is with me- in me. 

So, like me, if you had a dream of a deceased loved ones, don't go about analysing it but merely hold on; cherish the moment that once again you are given a chance to be with them and being loved just as how they always did and will do if they were to be around. Think back how you'd feel in the waking life when you dreamt of them. Treasure it and heal in it's purity and warmth. Smile and savour the experience. Trust they are at home and at peace.

Thank you to a dream.

Till we meet again...


Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Bit of Amma, A Bit of Appa

Every time a writer writes, she reveals a bit of herself... just a bit. The rest is purely imagination.   I still see her — clear as day, though it's been years. Amma at the wooden table, her back slightly hunched, hair pulled into a tired bun. The house would be quiet by then — dishes washed, clothes folded, lights dimmed. The smell of coconut oil and cumin lingered in the corners. Midnight. Maybe later. She’d sit with a chipped cup of coffee, the steam curling into the silence like a quiet ritual.  And she would write.  Not for fame. Not for money. Just... because something in her had to be put into words. It looked like breathing, almost — the way she would pause, stare into the distance, then bend her head and begin again. Her stories were filled with emotion — layered, subtle, steeped in the textures of everyday life. Women with untold stories–who never got to speak. Moments of quiet rebellion. Love that waited, sometimes too long. Dialogues borrowed from overheard...
2 comments
Read more

A poem for my Malaysia

This poem is written in Malay Language, my homeland's national language. It is written in the spirit of the celebration of Malaysia's 62nd Independence Day. It is not meant to condemn or based on any specific ethnicity, or person. It is purely from the heart and mind of mine for the love of my birth country, a moment simply for my homeland. Sejenak untukmu Aku bukan bukan Melayu kerana aku cukup Melayu, cukup Cina, cukup India, dan cukup lain-lain kaum. Aku anak Malaysia. Aku bukan bukan Melayu kerana aku atuh pada rukun. Rukun aku rukun negara. Usah disindir kepercayaanku kerana aku bukan calang-calang orang. Aku anak Malaysia. Aku bukan bukan Melayu. Aku tahu Melayu, aku hormati Melayu, dan aku cintai Melayu kerana aku anak Malaysia. Aku bukan anak India. Bahasa ibuku Tamil,  kampungku pekan Melayu, sekolah rendahku sekolah Cina. Kerjaku merantau dunia. Kini sudah dekad lamanya aku dikota Lon...
11 comments
Read more

My Spice Dabba

  My Spice Dabba In the serene village of New Village, Beruas , where the rain tapped zinc rooftops and chickens wandered like old gossip across dirt lanes, my kitchen whispered stories—stories that began with a round, dented brass box: the spice dabba . The gilded casket sat like an heirloom moon on the corner shelf, above a gas stove that hissed with the tired breath of age. The dabba had crossed oceans from India, tucked in the arms of my great-grandmother, who arrived in Malaya with a suitcase of silence and a soul full of spice. Among rubber and palm oil trees and dusky roads, she found a home—and in the heart of her home, she placed her flavours. The brass dabba was nothing grand—just seven little tin cups tucked into a timeworn circle, glowing softly with the patina of years. There was manjal (golden turmeric), kaanja milagai (fierce and red), natchiragam (cumin’s soft sigh), kadugu (tiny mustard seeds that orchastrate in hot oil), venthaiyam (bitter fenugreek), malli ...
1 comment
Read more