Stones on the path toward dream telling

Don’t look back. Keep going forward. Tell it again.
I used to pour over a poem, crafting and refining until there was no spark left in it, no grace but contrivance. It wasn’t working, wasn’t getting me to truth. It was limited by the scope of my mind and what I knew, which in the scheme of things, wasn’t very much. So I hushed my mind and it’s will to fix and I set about going forward, only to write first drafts, in an effort to practice moving the telling closer and closer to the moment of experience.
I don’t want to leave my life to be immersed in a fiction of my creating. When I go, I go far and then what happens to my body? What happens to my house? What happens to my family carrying on here without me? My husband might say that I still wander, but my going is a diving in rather than away. The affect on the household is very different. What I do sustains us, makes room around everyone, keeps the skin and bones vital. Its not deflecting.
I discovered that there was only one story I wanted to tell and that is the story of: I am. Often that plays out as: I am here. I am here. I am here. Because context is so Telling, isn’t it? So deliciously telling. Dreams tell me what it is about me that I don't easily see.
Engaging in this conversation changes everything