Wanting to Be Transformed

I had two dreams last night. In one of them, I was visiting the only house where my mother, father, brother, and I lived together before my parents divorced. I walked down a hallway, turned to the right, and found myself in a room I didn’t recognize. It looked like an old office or maybe a newsroom with old wooden desks and swivel chairs. I don’t remember this, I thought in the dream. But I kept going.

In the next room was a recording studio, all warm wood paneling and glass. A blond woman walked over to me to ask who I was, so I gave her my name, including my maiden name since it was the one I’d had when I lived there. She nodded, then suddenly I burst into tears of recognition looking at this room I’d never seen before. Memory flooded me and I couldn’t help but cry.

But this was a dream. The actual house never had an office or a recording studio.

In the second dream, I had to go to school but couldn’t find my clothes. I tore things apart looking but gave up and went to school anyway. When I got there, I couldn’t find the classroom and ended up outside in the cold rain with no shoes on. Apparently, the classroom was down the street, which required not only walking in the rain without shoes but also walking over slushy, iced-over driveways. I stood under the eave of the building, sheltered from the rain, put my head down, and forged ahead.

I recorded these dreams in my journal, then asked myself what they meant. The first seemed a sign that I have more rooms of my life to explore, that perhaps I’ve been underestimating what I could potentially write about. It’s a question that’s been on my mind a lot lately, whether to return to old writing projects or forge ahead to something new.

Here was an answer: new rooms, something I hadn’t seen before.

The other dream seemed more straightforward. I was searching for something I needed and got lost on the way to where I was going. Then I was able to move ahead, even in less-than-desirable circumstances: treacherous weather and no shoes.

All signs point to moving on.

***

There were no gardens here when we moved into this house five years ago. Grass sprawled from one edge of the property to the other, a blank slate waiting for something new. Having never started a garden from scratch, we did the best we could, drawing up plans and tilling the earth, which was filled with rock, clay, and surface-level roots from the neighbors’ old trees. We sprinkled wildflower seeds, transplanted hastas from another neighbor’s yard, and called it good enough.

Things started to grow, but the garden looked like a mess, bare in some spots and wonky in others. Some seeds thrived in the sunshine, others were choked out by roots and no sun. All of it was frustrating. Adam and I didn’t consider that different parts of the garden would require different types of plants or the extent to which the tree roots would prevent almost any growth.

To be fair, we were still new at this. At our last house, we’d planted a vegetable garden in bright sunshine. In another part of the yard, the seeds we’d scattered grew tall and wild. Despite the more challenging growing conditions, we expected the same results in our new yard but instead found ourselves confused and frustrated.

For several years, our new garden looked shabby and untended, but year after year, we took plants from anyone who’d give them to us—neighbors needing to split hastas, friends from church with lilies to spare, our mothers who each had mercilessly growing flowers. We were more than happy to be the benefactors of other gardeners’ successes and filled our beds with lamb’s ear and zebra grasses, cone flowers and goose neck. Whatever it was, we threw it in the ground and prayed it would grow.

A few weeks ago, Adam transplanted more tall grasses from our neighbor’s garden. He moved some of the lilies that had migrated during winter and tried to organize the hastas. “The garden’s going to look better this year,” he said, hands caked with dirt.

A few spring rains later, I could see that all the cobbled-together hard work was finally starting to pay off.

Maybe we’ll make something out of this after all.

***

Thankful for a gift card I still had from Christmas, I ordered a few books online a week or so ago. Buying books shouldn’t be a big deal, but I always choose carefully, selecting something I hope to return to again and again. Buying these books felt urgent as the weeks have passed. With the library still closed, I’ve leaned heavily on my spare and curated bookshelf, but it’s left something to be desired. I was ready for something new.

Buying books always fills me with possibility. Who do I want to be after reading this? How do I hope this book affects me? These questions are borne out of years of literary analysis and critical theory, but also years of studying poetry, form, and beauty. Over the years, it’s become clearer to me that I don’t read like most other people, to be enthralled and entertained. I might sometimes read to learn something, but what I mostly seek from the books I choose is this: to be transformed.

How will reading this book form me? How will it affect my worldview? Will it leave a lasting impression?

These types of questions are why I tend not to like books that are popular or bestsellers, why I got a reputation in my book club for never liking anything and being too hard on what we read. Being entertained is not my goal. I’d rather read something that’s going to make me think more than anything else, whether I love it or not.

That’s an important distinction because we all read for different reasons. Being entertained isn’t necessarily bad; it’s just not my primary reason for reading.

I want to be shaped by what I read. I want to think, not necessarily be entertained.

When the books I ordered finally arrived, I opened the box and realized they all have similar themes: slowing down, paying attention, living a faithful and creative life. These are the kinds of books I love to read, and these are the kinds of things I want to write about. I read them because they remind me of something—who I want to be and how I want to live.

Somehow, all too often, I forget this. I get sloppy or distracted and lose track of what really matters to me. But then, something as simple as a package comes in the mail. I flip through a stack of books, and I’m surprised once again.

I want to slow down.

I want to pay attention.

I want to live a faithful and creative life.

I want to be transformed by this.

I want to find new rooms I never knew were there, move on despite not having it all together, plant seeds without knowing what might grow. These are the things that are forming and transforming me. This is what’s shaping me into who I have yet to become.