Do you like it when people talk about their dreams? I go back and forth about it. I often have strange, interesting, bizarre, and vivid dreams so I always seem to want to talk about it, but as soon as I utter the words, "I had the weirdest dream last night..." I usually see my companion's eyes glaze over.
Every now and again I meet a Dream Interpreter. Sometimes these people seem to want to suck every dream from my head for examination and instead of my usual forthcomingness (call Webster's), I sink back into a shell and hide my dreams, saying something like, "Oh I never remember my dreams."
Other times these people are happy to listen to every recalled nuance, and deconstruct my dream as if it was just as important to them as to me. They often have books or knowledge of dream symbolism and meaning. The times when you wonder if you've gone nutters and missed the memo because you had a dream so bizarre, these people are blessings.
In case you are wondering, I had a weird dream last night.
I was at home, a home you understand, not per se my own. It was important this was not my house because it needed to have certain elements to help along the plot. Sort of sloppy CSI-style writing for dreams, only no blood and gore.
Different bloggers I know dropped by unexpectedly, one after another. Some of the visits weren't part of the dream; I simply mentioned them to others who came by, and suddenly I had memories of the visit. I won't specifically name who did or didn't come by; if you're wondering, it probably was you. :)
Until the last visitor/blogger came and suddenly it turned from something simply enjoyable to something enjoyable and meaningful. I don't know if this visit lingers most strongly in my mind because it was last or because it varied from the others. This visitor, I had an obligation to in some way. She didn't ask, but I knew I had something she needed, knew something she might not realize she needed to know. I wasn't the important thing in the dream, I was simply a sort of conduit.
I could tell she was worried, even though she was very pleasant and fun.
She was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and I remember thinking, oh she looks just like her photo...because all I've seen of her is a photo. Slightly out of place (now that I think of it although it didn't strike me as odd at the time) was a fanny pack that was so neutral it faded into her clothes. After a bit, she unzipped the fanny pack and pulled out a carved stone rabbit, some grade of stone that somewhat resembled wood with variations in tone and grain.
The carved stone rabbit was small and would fit in the palm of your hand. Somehow I knew the rabbit was a symbol for her son. So I pointed to it, and asked. Her son had given it to her, trusted her with it, she told me, even though it was really his. But he wanted her to have it, she explained, when she left to come see me so she'd have something.
"Isn't that funny that he's the one being left behind and he's worrying about me," she said, very fondly.
"Sometimes it's easier to worry about someone else than ourselves," I said, "And sometimes you need the person leaving to carry a sort of talisman that you believe will bring them back."
"Oh I promised him I love him and will always come back," she said.
"I know. I think he knows," I told her, worrying I'd upset her, "But some of us need love to be tangible, especially if we're being left behind, something to tie us together."
I saw her concern for her son etched in lines on her face, a sort of shadow that cast over her features. Suddenly, I knew what had been worrying her the entire time she'd been visiting and I knew what she needed.
"I know where he got that rabbit," I told her, "Or rather, I know where ones just like it are."
She looked happier and I realized I was right: she needed another rabbit.
So we went to a place, maybe the zoo, and there were people with stalls of things they were selling, including one with carved stone animals just like hers. I looked carefully through the selection. It couldn't be any animal, it had to be another rabbit, but this one needed to be smaller. After some shifting of animals, I found it: a slightly smaller rabbit, like a baby size compared to the other one she held.
"Here it is," I cried triumphantly, "Just the rabbit and size you need!"
I held it out to her and she took it joyfully.
"See, they both fit in your hand."
We both stared at the two rabbits in her palm for a minute and then she said, "Thank you," tucked the two rabbits into her fanny pack, waved goodbye and left.
I woke feeling happy.
And then, I got up and got my family ready to take Patience to her first day of kindergarten. It went well, the drop-off.
When I get my thoughts together, sooner or later, I'll write about it or something else. But for now, my dream stands alone. :)
Have a great Monday, a great week and if you are starting school today like we are, a great beginning.
Copyright 2007 Julie Pippert
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