A Woman's Briefs #8
A Woman’s Briefs #7 DREAM
It was at a church (Not surprising, since much of my life, most of my training, much of my thinking took place in church). The dream’s church was massive, Byzantine in style, surrounded on all sides by parking spaces.
We all know strange things make sense in dreams. In this one, my friend Karen and I arrived at the church in her car. She immediately found a parking place, but I, somehow suddenly and sensibly moved from passenger to driver, I could not. I drove a white Cadillac (never have in real life) around the building’s perimeter, finally finding an open spot, one near an Abby-like massive wooden door through which I entered the building.
Whatever the “Why We Were There” was, was worked out in a room full of agreeable people.
Where was I in the dream when a person suggested I shouldn’t wear my hair long? It was in passing, in a crowded corridor, I remember that much.
Whatever was it after the meeting, that my friend said, managing to offend a pastor’s wife who gave me a warm hug when, with words, I whittled away my friend’s offense?
Where in the dream did it cut away to a farm road that intersected a busy highway (cars again), requiring me to back a car onto the highway shoulder so my husband, in his car, could pull into traffic.
It’s so hard to record a dream, even when at 4:18a.m. one rises and moves directly to the computer to record it – well, not directly directly – coffee was required.
Back to the church, post meeting; time then, to drive to an evening gathering of a few close friends. Time to find my car.
Only, even in dreams, I am spatially challenged. Not only Where Was I in the massive building with doors and rooms aplenty, but Which door led outside to the white Cadillac, one parked in a crush of Cadillacs?
It was a dream, and if you remember from your own experiences, dreams mostly make sense in sleep. I searched the parking lots. I even had help searching. “Is that it?” “That?” Round and round the building I went. I’m not sure the car was ever found.
4:18a.m. Monday, November 9, 2020
I made coffee.
I cut a slice of ciabatta bread made yesterday while the Seahawks died a thousand deaths I heard, but couldn’t watch. In today’s morning darkness, I came to the computer to record the dream when, fingers at the keyboard, Self said, “Why didn’t you press the panic button on your car key, and listen for the horn to honk?
Then Self said, Wait. Is that happening in our amazing country today? Are some people pressing the panic button, finally exhausted by circling, circling, seeking the Good in a field of injustices so settled that few even notice, pressing panic, making infuriating, bothersome noises, earning resentments and threats, but desperately searching for the vehicle of fairness, of reason, of civility. It may take some noise, finally to find the Good tucked somewhere in the thick of American Character given over to tolerating crass behaviors, to a preference for prejudices, to violence, to armed fears, to hateful rhetoric, to genuine complaint and confusion in the many spaces labeled “Reserved for Left/Right, Religious/Non, Pro/Pro, Con/Con, Native/Not, Fact/Fiction. Oh look, there’s a space reserved for this: “#.” Ah, easy! The pound sign. No. The number sign. No. A hash-tag. No! It’s not easy, finding space for even common things without rancor.
The “#”? It is, in fact, an octothorpe (or, octothorp, if you wish to extend the quibbling). It’s not always easy, in the crush of competing opinions to agree on a common good, but it does seem we should be doing some serious searching.
And I shall, tomorrow, when I talk about failing (again) to make a beautiful loaf of Ciabatta bread.
