I dreamed the other night about going for a walk. Not just any walk, though. I was back amongst the vibrant greens and soft browns of my favorite trees. I’d left my shoes behind and my toes sank into the soft, damp moss as I padded past the massive cedars, firs, and spruces. I greeted them all with gentle high fives across their ridged bark and I breathed in their fresh, earthy smell. Somewhere ahead a crow squawked, letting everyone know a human had arrived. I walked slowly, intentionally. I felt the crisp raindrops on my cheek. I closed my eyes and listened to the scraping, wispy sounds of the trees doing their secret handshakes in the canopy above. I inhaled until my ribs were stretched tight, imagining that I could permanently absorb the woodsy, fresh air into my lungs. As I exhaled, I reluctantly let my eyes slowly open to the stark, white, marble-floored bedroom I’d fallen asleep in the night before. It was a shocking contrast to the world I had spent my night in and I resented it for a moment while my body and mind readjusted to our reality. It usually takes a bit after a vivid dream like that.

I’ve had vivid dreams my whole life, and often wake up still smelling or hearing or feeling whatever I was doing last in the dream. Most of my dreams as a kid involved flying through coral reefs on the backs of manta rays and I’d wake up still feeling the salty water on my skin, blinking away the vibrant colors, or still flexing my toes to feel the sand beneath them. I dream about the reefs and the manta rays these days too, and they’ve been joined throughout the years by the red cliffs of Utah and Arizona, a river somewhere between Flagstaff and the Grand Canyon, Gold’s Beach in northern California, and now the lush forests of western Washington. Almost always, these dreams about places I’ve felt most connected to the Earth leave me with a feeling of longing when I awake, and the dream about walking through the trees was no different. Washington never felt like home, but the trees were always a quiet, soft retreat when I needed to reset and realign with myself. My PNW version of a manta ray’s back.

We’ve had a rough couple of weeks in our household, and it’s all been exacerbated by the fact that we’re only 90 days into living in a new country, our belongings still haven’t arrived, and we’re adjusting to being together everyday instead of being separated most of the time. It’s overwhelming most days, and I find myself longing to go to a place that doesn’t exist yet. In Pensacola, it was underwater with the fish and the rays and the dolphins. On my many roadtrips, it was the places I’d find by accident and fall irrevocably in love with. In Washington, it was walking barefoot through the forest during a Seattle rain shower. All places where I felt plugged into the world around me, where my big feelings didn’t feel so big and where I could gain perspective. I don’t have that place in Italy yet and I miss that feeling of connection. I’ve made friends, found creative outlets I love, and found the sunshine again, but I don’t have my quiet place yet. I suppose until I find it, I’ll settle for revisiting the ones I miss while I sleep.