Wandering, Until I Find the Words

I often wonder if I’ll ever be bold enough to tell certain stories.
The strange, vivid, raw ones like the dream I had last night.
The dream was so unusual. It was hauntingly real. I woke up trying to understand it. Was it random, or something from my subconscious?

Will I ever have the courage to write about that?
Should I?
Maybe some things are better left untold.

I understand dreams are just dreams, strange visitors from somewhere unknown.
But real-life stories are different.
Will I ever find the courage to write about the ones that didn’t shape me but broke parts of me, left me with fear, guilt, and shame instead of strength?

It’s easy to share happy stories, or even the difficult ones that ended well.
But the ones I’ve never said out loud, the ones that still tremble in silence. Those are the ones that need a courage I haven’t yet found.

Until then, I’ll keep writing something, anything that calls to me.”

Like today, when my dog followed me with the soft pitter-patter of his paws.
I felt like writing about him.
His freshly trimmed face makes him look a little silly. His eyes meet mine, and oh, how he looks at me.
He makes me feel like I’m the most important person in the world.

It’s funny, because I used to be terrified of dogs.
If one ran toward me, I would climb onto anything nearby and cry.
My kids always wanted a dog, but seeing my fear, they stopped asking.

Then one day, my neighbor got a new puppy.
I dreaded visiting her house, that little creature barked and jumped at me every time I came by.
But he relentlessly kept trying me to acknowledge him, pet him.
One day, I decided to face my fear. My heart was pounding, but I reached out and gently petted him.
He came closer and rested his head in my lap. He looked into my eyes. Just like that, my heart melted.

That moment changed something in me.
I realized I didn’t want to deprive my kids of the joy of growing up with a dog. I didn’t want my fear to be the reason.
So I made a promise — to them, and to myself.

And that’s how Hershey came into our lives, a tiny, nine-week-old brown bundle of joy.
My sister took one look at him and said, “He looks like Hershey’s chocolate,” and the name stuck.

From the moment he came home, he chose me.
He’s been my shadow ever since, my companion, my comfort, my reminder of unconditional love
He’s like my little Krishna.
Just as Yashoda saw the entire universe in Krishna’s mouth, I see the divine universe in Hershey’s eyes.
And when he looks at me like I’m his universe, it feels as if he’s showing me the divine reflection of myself.