A snowmobile hauls a train of small carts up a steep, icy incline. I sit alone in the last cart, listening to the engine choke and sputter. It’s nighttime, but the moon must be out because the landscape is bathed in a ghostly, pale light. There is a cliff thrusting out of the earth on my right, and a sheer drop-off to my left. The snowmobile is struggling, and I am afraid. Suddenly my cart detaches from the one in front of me. I bump and slide backwards down the path, and come to rest a ways down the hill. The train of carts continues on, and I am gripped by panic as I realize that they’re leaving me.

After a moment of indecision, I resolve to continue on foot. I know I must go on. I struggle up the slippery path, my breath coming in clouds. As I near the top I glance up and see a menacing figure step onto the path. I turn to flee and am suddenly surfacing, warm and safe in my bed. No, no, no, I think dimly. That person is a part of you. You must find the courage to return and look them in the face. Do not be afraid. I slide back into the dream and continue to struggle up the path. I am almost to the top when I take a deep breath and force myself to look up, only to find myself staring into the eyes of my daughter. Relief washes over me, and she reaches out her hand to help me scramble up the last few steps to safety.

I am standing outside a warehouse. It is still dark, but not so cold. I sense that I have traveled by plane after reaching the top of that snowy hill, and now I am home. A little flatbed truck picks me up and winds through the maze of the warehouse. It drops me off in a dimly lit hallway, and I push through a heavy, metal door with my bags. I enter into one room; walls, floors, and ceiling are concrete, stained and dirty. There is not a single window. My possessions are scattered about, the bed is rumpled and unmade, the kitchen counter on the far wall is cluttered with dirty dishes. Tears well in my eyes as I realize, this is my home. But in the next moment I think, I don’t have to stay here. It is suddenly crystal clear that this is home simply because I have not chosen to make it elsewhere. The whole world is open to me; I can live wherever I want. My heart sings with joy, and I eagerly prepare to leave. I notice several file cabinets, and decide to lock each drawer. I don’t know if or when I’ll be back, but I don’t want anyone rifling through my papers. As I slide the key into a lock I am awake again, and again I think no! Those papers are a part of you too. It would be dangerous to keep them hidden and locked away. Again I slide back into the dream and squat in front of the cabinets, unlocking the drawers. I pull a folder out and start to leaf through it. It’s just a bunch of junk. Paperwork wrought meaningless by the passage of years. I stare at the drawers, full to the brim, and my heart sinks. Surely there are some important papers in here somewhere. I can’t just leave them behind, but it would take hours – days – to sort through and organize everything. I’m ready to leave now. I rock back on my heels, defeated. What do I do?

I awake with a feeling of sadness and indecision, the answer to my question no clearer.

We’ve had a rough go of things here lately. Our trip to Vegas was fabulous. The emergency appointment with the homeopath before we left (for help with the endless nighttime gas) seemed to have mostly done the trick. My fears about M sleeping in a strange room and a strange crib were for naught – she slept better than she did at home. The weather was gorgeous, the company was good, our days were full and tiring.

I was absolutely thrilled that M was sleeping so well at night. It seemed that her lifelong struggle with digestive issues was finally ending. The restless sleep, the crying out, the up and down – all of which I believed were due to gas pains – were gone. I thought we were finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.

And then we came home, and I found out it was a train. For the last year I have been able to put M in her crib, turn out the light, walk out, and she goes to sleep. She did not want to rock and cuddle. If I held her, she thought it was time to play. Sometimes this made me sad, but for the most part I have been very grateful that she didn’t need me to help her fall asleep. It was the staying asleep that was the problem. Well, now that she is sleeping well for most, or all, of the night, suddenly getting her to sleep has become the issue. Naps were refused until I figured out I had to cradle her in my arms like an infant (all 25+ lbs of her) and sway from side to side until the urge to sleep could no longer be resisted. Bedtime is a battle that sometimes stretches for hours. Papa is not wanted, not tolerated. It is mama, mama, mama, mama, never mind that mama’s arms feel like they’re about to fall out of their sockets. Oh yeah, and she also started waking up at 6:30 AM instead of 8:30 AM. To bed later, up earlier, naps dropped or drastically shortened. And tired – she was so, so tired. I was baffled. And also angry. Really angry. I was back to being a sleep-deprived, psycho-angry mom, raging at my daughter, terrified at who I had become. I screamed and threw things and had unspeakable visions.

And then I have this dream. This dream of a steep and dangerous journey. One that is made alone, with no help. Where an enemy turns into a friend … my daughter. How many lessons does she have for me? How many ways has she pushed me as I grow and change? Held out her hand to help me on my path? Encouraged me to continue? And what about the child I carry within me … the little girl I once was? She has lessons for me too, and has helped me on my way.

The first part of the dream is obvious. My journey as a parent – as a person – had clearly hit a rough spot. It was tough going, but when I had the courage to face myself – to go back into the dream and look into the eyes of that menacing figure – I found a source of love and healing. I had thought the way forward was filled with fear and danger, and I wanted to turn and run away. But when I opened myself to it, I discovered instead a hand up, a light step, a scramble to safety. This taught me to trust and keep going. That I would not be a psychotic, angry mom forever. That I would find a better way.

But the second half left me scratching my head. My home was a dark and dismal place. Easy enough … the home represents me, and it’s pretty clear I needed to make some changes. I had journeyed and learned, and it made no sense to return to where I was before. And then the flash of insight … change is easy, I’m only back in the same place because I haven’t chosen otherwise. I can be and do whatever I want, I just have to decide to do so. Okay, good. But the filing cabinets, the important papers, the fear of missing something important – what did that mean? It’s clear the papers represented parts of me. Most of them were junk, and that makes sense too. I’ve spent years growing and changing, and left behind much of what I used to be. Those parts of me are outdated and not needed anymore. But the fear of something important being left behind … what did that mean?

Then I talked with my homeopath/healer, and she helped me understand (dear god do I love her). She said that people who do a lot of work on themselves are often afraid they have left stones unturned, issues unaddressed, hurts unhealed. We become so expert at seeking, seeking, always seeking – to better understand ourselves, to change old habits, to grow – we feel like our work is never done. And in truth, it never is. But it is not necessary to go through my life with a fine-toothed comb, to not take a step until every rock, down to the tiniest pebble, has been hefted and inspected. I don’t have to fear leaving important work behind. I can move forward with my life, and if there is work to be done, it will find me. I will find it. Ah-ha, I thought, as I leaned back in the chair and slowly nodded my head. It made perfect sense.

I didn’t “move out of my house” overnight, but in the weeks that have passed since that conversation, I feel like I have slowly morphed into a new person. Gone is the self-righteous indignation when things don’t go “my way”. Gone is the feeling that my daughter is “defying” me and needs to be bent to my will (whoo boy, was that a big one left over from my mother). Gone is the simmering anger that explodes into uncontrollable rage; that sweeps over and consumes me and won’t return me to myself until I’ve yelled or thrown or purged it in some outrageous way. I am left instead with a sense of overwhelming joy at the presence of my daughter … almost disbelief that I get to share my life with her, am graced with her beauty and love. Yes, I still get irritated, annoyed and exasperated. Yes, I still really want her to be able to fall asleep without my help. But I no longer feel wronged by her, or my life. She is who she is, and I am who I am. Life is what it is, and I’m okay with it, know that I’ll make it, know that her sleep will get better, only for other challenges to rise up and meet us. I am “in the flow” as my homeopath would say, instead of kicking, screaming and biting as it drags me along by the heels.

I have had other help on this journey, including some beautiful inspiration from Scott Noelle’s Daily Groove. His daily emails, which always seem to be exactly what I need to hear, when I need to hear it, helped me better understand my anger. Yes, it is a signpost that I’m being wronged, but it’s a wrong I am perpetrating on myself (at least in this case). He helped me stop blaming my daughter and start taking responsibility for myself. Sure, I would be a lot less tired if she didn’t get up at 6:30 AM (a trend that seems to be diminishing, thankfully). But I would also be a lot less tired if I went to sleep at 9 PM. Maybe I don’t go to sleep at 9 PM because I have my own sleep problems – but that isn’t my daughter’s fault. It isn’t my fault either. No one is to blame. It just is. By accepting instead of resisting, flowing instead of fighting, there is a sudden ease to my life that brings a deep sense of calm and joy.

I know this won’t last forever. My homeopath loves to remind me of the cycles of life, as she dips her hand in a circle in the air. We go up and come down, it’s just the way things are. But as we grow and move forward, the downs become shallower and shorter, the journey back up less tortuous. For now, I’m glad to be up; and when I go back down, I hope to hold fast to the knowledge that I will be here again.