Yesterday afternoon, my mom asked me to accompany her on a shopping trip to the town of Sebastopol. She was looking for essential oils to make salt scrubs. The small two block downtown area was crowded with visitors walking their dogs, window shopping, and taking advantage of the warm early spring weather (today it\’s cold, high of 53F).
After finding her supplies, we stepped onto the crosswalk in the direction of the parking lot. Across the street, The Italian Restaurant caught my mom\’s attention. I followed her as she made a beeline to the storefront with two empty bistro tables out front. Upon entering the restaurant, the allure of frosted white cake in a glass stand hypnotically lured us to the young woman behind the counter. My mom ordered two slices, we agreed cappuccinos would be the perfect drink to complement the dessert. The young woman took our order, letting us know, we were fortunate to have the last two pieces of cake.
I chose one of the bistro tables on the sidewalk, as we waited for our afternoon treat, I eavesdropped on a couple speaking in French with their chocolate cream spaniel tugging behind them. Soon, plates of cake and large cups of cappuccinos appeared from the kitchen. Before the young lady left us to our cake, I asked her what kind it was. She smiled and said \”It is the Italian Wedding Cake\”.
I looked at my mom and said \”Oh the cake, the cake from my dreams\”. I found the cake from my dreams, the cake Scott was admiring in my night dream over two months ago as I stood behind him smiling while white beams of light showered us. The night dream I awoke from filled me with love allowing me to escape the retching painful grief for a few minutes as I continually replayed the dream before rousing from the morning light softly falling from my bedroom window.
Finishing our cake and cafe, we continued our walk to the parking lot. As we were leaving the restaurant, my mom turned around to look at the name above the entrance. Portico.
Portico. My mom\’s face smiled in recognition. Portico. The Italian word meaning entryway. A porch leading to an entrance.
In Christina Rassmussen\’s book \”Where Did You Go?\”, I learned for the first time how to access the portal, a doorway to the other worlds to meet lost loved ones through meditation. In my dream workshops, I am going deeper learning the signs and symbolism from our waking and sleeping dreams following us in our \”reality\” here.
The perfume and taste of the Amarena wild cherries lingering on my lips, my dreams and connection with Scott, a warm spring day in Sebastopol, and confirmation that I am on the path opened my heart and desire to continue my search to solve the riddle of my daily life, death, and immortality while appreciating the gifts and signs that surround me.