Writing with Juliet Iwelunmor

In your dream like days, you will come to a place called house, and there you will wait for awhile by the ocean and it’s waves, some of which are soft, some rushed, all crash into each other, like the days of our lives. Still  you will stand and wait for awhile, by the ocean, until you feel grace, feel peace too, wash over you, anew. Look, you are still dreaming.

The sign may be the building or the green miniarets or their tiny light that looks to Mecca, or black birds flying to the skies above or these words coded to you, from those watching and praying as you soar. Look, this is truly their dream.

For where else can the one they named and framed, the one whose eyes see buildings born near skies and oceans, the one who knows to pray and praise our creator on firm soil. Where else will those eyes see handcrafted marble dazzle underneath a sky full of rainbows.

Look, nothing may even connect. Not even these words we conjure together. So stand still, and pray, plus praise and still dream, through the water, through the building, through the tiny lights you see weaving through skies that know, people that see how hands built all the way we see good through moments when nothing connects, and moments where everything else feels like air. For when you stand, when you praise, when you still dream, the meaning is always in the waves you see, the patience of the oceans.