Dreamer

The years have woven their tapestry, each thread a memory, a lesson, a subtle shift in perspective. The dream, once a tempestuous visitor, has become a quiet inhabitant, its white fire a constant, gentle hum beneath the surface of my days. It no longer demands interpretation; it simply *is*. It is the stillness in the eye of the storm, the unyielding core of a burning bush that offers warmth without consumption.

I see it now not as a singular event, but as a continuous state of being. The white fire is not just a symbol; it is the very essence of my spirit, a flame ignited forty years ago that has steadily, patiently, illuminated the path I walk. It has guided my hands as they’ve offered comfort, my voice as it’s spoken truth, my heart as it’s learned to hold the weight of others’ pain without being consumed by it.

The storm, once terrifying, is now merely the backdrop against which the fire’s brilliance is most keenly observed. The ocean, that vast, indifferent expanse, no longer seems a threat, but a canvas upon which the unquenchable light can be painted. The people, once flailing in the water, are now the faces I see in the quiet moments, the ones whose stories I carry, whose burdens I help to lighten.