“Dreams are illustrations…from the book your soul is writing about you.” Marsha Norman
In my dream last night I saw life clearer than I had before.
There was no cloud of fog or smudging of boarders. Everything was crisp and clear and good. It was a dream where buildings were white with colonades and archways, elegant without being intimidating. Where children spoke poetry on weedless lawns in front of porticos and the elderly sat in striped lawn chairs sipping lemonade nodding and gently murmuring to each other.
I had no place to go, no person to see. What I was meant to do at that time was just
I was to observe the blueness of the sky without prejudice and feel the gentleness of the breeze without complaint.
As I walked in and around the buildings and the people the grass felt cool and spongy beneath my bare feet.
I didn’t feel hunger, or fatigue
Nothing required anything. No one demanded or expected or surmised anything of me.
Everything seemed at peace.
Then my dream was scattered, as often they are, by the encroachment of reality.
A raucous laugh from beyond the horizon drew me out and up from this place and I found myself awake in my bed listening to late night revelers screeching and hooting outside my window as they walked home,
sounding harsh and accusatory.
I lay in the early morning light listening to the voices drift further away.
And willed myself to return to that place my neurons
and my cells
and my soul had created.
And I knew it couldn’t be.
But I felt no resentment for having been disturbed because my brief visit there had made me feel rested and happy.
And I wonder what memory it was that created such a dream.