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Sandra Waugh
Sandra Waugh Sandra Waugh
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I sometimes write little dreamscapes. They are meant to be read aloud softly and very slowly to the accompanying music (no mind paid to grammar!). May they drift you gently, faraway. And if you enjoy, please return at the change of each season for a new journey!

(Accompaniment: Christina Ortiz with the Royal Phiharmonic Orchestra, Vladimir Ashkenazy conducting, Piano Concerto No. 2 in F, Opus 102, Andante, by Dmitri Shostakovich )




A forest of evergreens in snow. Towering above. Heavy laden. Drooping low. The sky overcast. Heavy, too, with the promise of more white to cover green... the gray sweeping over all.

And then: a path—trickling down the hill, leading between the trees. Footsteps to follow into the forest. A way to lose yourself within the ancient stands, within the white, and green, and scent of pine and cold.

So soft.

So quiet.

You face up to scan the sky, waiting for the snow to fall, for the first flake, which weaves down... and down... and floats, and twirls, and drifts. One. Another. Another. Another. And then world is suddenly filled with white, all swirling. All dancing. A whim of wind and weight.

The hush that blankets the little world in which you stand overwhelms in its silence—majestic silence—drawing you deeper and deeper into the wood. Winding onward between the trees. Surrounded by these guardians of Earth and Sky who keep their watch within this silence.

Lost and home.

To be far away and close, all at once.

Pieces of cloud falling to earth. Softening the bruises, calming the pain and covering the scars. A new palette to draw on, to make fresh. What colors to use—how to paint beauty in all that you see. How to choose what becomes you, what grounds you... what makes you fly.

The hush. The peace. The dance of these tiny crystals that float and soothe and mend.

And you breathe and you walk and you follow the footsteps along this path, even as they disappear under the white, and you make your own new steps, and you make your own new path, and the evergreens bow as you pass, heavy with offerings from the sky. Surrounding you in peace, a gift of hope.

And you dance, and you spin, and you twirl between these trees. Arms wide to accept, to give, to share. The snow falls and dusts you clean. Sparks of cold, melting. From white to the colors of the Earth.

The path to shelter lies just behind, winding its way back and up. To choose to leave the hush, and that which, for a moment, is Home.

To look back...

To look forward...

To look up...

To return... different.