She pulled at the quilt until she had it properly tucked up under my chin. Hopping about the bed, fussing in her endearing manner. Raven walked across my headboard, one leg gracefully over the other, one wing softly pressing down on my shoulder. With her beak close to my ear, Raven would whisper, “Remember your dream, my dear.”
Then she would fly to the window, look back with her dark eyes, and fly away in to the night. I would lay there staring at the night sky till I drifted off. Who’s that raven on my bed telling me to remember the dreams in my head?
Each morning before I left the house, I would sit at my desk close to the window and record any part of a dream I could piece together.
I still have my childhood bedroom furniture. I have it set up in a spare room of my home in the country where I still sit each morning. I write poetry and children’s books, encouraging children and adults to follow their dreams.
The book shelves are lined with some of my favorite childhood books. A few, I added, for our children and grandchildren. The Tale of Peter Rabbit. The Wind in the Willows. Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series was bought for our daughter.
One summer morning, many years since her last visit, I realized what a privilege it was having Raven tuck me in at night. Even though she was a bird, she was a dear friend. I gathered from Ravens disappearance that it was time I grew up.
She sat on top of my book shelves, walked to the edge, and fell off. When she did this I gasped, but at the last possible moment of hitting the ground, Raven flew up to my ceiling and then gently flew over head, singing a song of praise with my name. She received a laugh and I sat up in bed, clapping. Then she pulled on my covers, hopped to the headboard and whispered something slightly different. This night, instead of telling me to remember my dream, Raven clearly said to follow my dream.
She hummed a little tune as she fussed over me. Before she left, Raven landed on my desk. Turning, she looked at me for a long moment. Then, snatching up my small cloth figure of a raven she had given to me a long time ago, Raven flew out of my life.
I’m all grown up now an have been diligent to daily record not only my dreams and also, nightmares, but to weave stories and poems from them.
I write about my childhood. I write about being a young man in the 1950’s, going to college, choosing my career. I write about my raven who taught me to not only remember my dreams, but that she really meant to follow my dreams.
My dreams took me to other worlds, in words, on paper. Worlds I could share with others, encouraging them to dream.
Each day, I look out the window, wishing to be a little boy again, for just a night. This morning, when I came in to write, I took up my pen. It’s silly, I know, but I wrote her a note.
My day went as planned, writing and heading to our daughter’s home for dinner.
As we had sat at the table, our daughter told a story of being a little girl and of the raven that visited her room each night.
Today, she said, before I arrived, a note from someone and this little cloth bird was on her desk. With tears in her eyes, she handed me my note, and I drove home with a small cloth figure in my hand.
