I wake this morning to a voice like a wagging index finger. It harkens from some hazy dream space but is crystal clear in her critique:
“You had all day to work on it, but you didn’t, and now it’s a whole ‘nother problem today.”
Well good morning sub-conscious!
I understand the ‘it’ she’s referring to. It is a work-related task that had to be tabled yesterday by no fault of my own. It’s a minor issue and her criticism stems from misunderstanding.
So, this morning I wake to being wrongly accused of negligence by some dream-time hall monitor. Hmmm….
Strangely woven between this dictator’s words are images of red hibiscus flowers.
Ok, I realize retelling your dreams to others can be yawn city. Interpreting them ourselves can be dicey. I’ll summarize here with a simple attempt: go easy, cool your jets and stop to smell the hibiscus (or at least look, there’s no scent).
I’m 11 days from the deadline for my submission and I’m in the phase of having read the piece so many times the letters begin to blur. I am gaining new appreciation for the economy of words by the sentence.
Along the spine of Dry Creek road, soft foothills have watched me grow for a lifetime. At least once a year I return to this place to see my family and let Jeb roam the creekbed where I once swam in summer.
Occasionally this place of my family roots makes its way into the landscape of my dreams. About a week ago I dreamt that I was walking along Dry Creek with Jeb at my side. Though the area rarely sees a sprinkling of snow dust, in my dream the ground was thick in a blanket of snow. We approached a curve in the road, the place where the asphalt cuts through a small hill. To the left a sacred fire was burning low in the soft whiteness. Smoke billowed up to an alter of a few animals. It was understood this was a ceremony conducted by a Native, a shaman, a medicine man, though no one was in sight.
This afternoon I’m back on Dry Creek, Jeb and I driving along the road – no snow – just golden hills with winter green grass beginning to peek from beneath tufts of brown. Suddenly I notice the shape of a snake in the road, unusual for this cold time of year when snakes usually hibernate. Intrigued, I pull over and Jeb and I begin to walk the road. As we approach, I realize I am traveling the path of my dream. Jeb by my side, the exact spot, right at the curve.
Here we see the long shape of a gopher snake, clearly deceased, with the story of its demise marked along its back. Jeb’s first sighting of a snake in real life, this close.
photo by Jessica Dofflemyer
Later, I enjoy sharing my snapshots of the snake with family, all of them agreeing it is odd to see one this late in the year. I ponder the symbols: dreams of snow, a sacred ceremony connected to the land, a curve in the road, a snake out of season, shedding of skin…
Long after dark Jeb and I are once again driving back the way we had come. We wonder if a hawk or other bird may have come along and taken our snake friend for a meal. With our headlights blazing, we slow at the curve in the road and discover the long thin body glowing in our brights – the snake is still there. Leaning forward towards the windshield, we gaze then pass it slowly. As if on cue, the bright white underbelly of an owl swoops just above our car in the dark sky. It hovers in flight, flapping wild wings alongside us in some kind of mystical, night time omen.
photo courtesy of Dry Crik Journal
What any of it means, I do not know. A cluster of wildlife sightings all in one bend in the road – dreaming and waking.
What would the Natives say? The zoologist? The poet?
While this morning’s coffee percolates, I come to the butcher block to write last night’s dreams on the page. Here in the scattered gecko poop, dusty gemstones and papery peels of old garlic cloves the details filter through my pen.
Two young girls are hospitalized while in my care due to dehydration. I tossed myself awake and thought “must remember tomorrow to tell coach at soccer camp to make sure Jeb is getting enough water!”
Then back to sleep where I found myself in a new town with a lover from my past. There’s a restaurant down the street and I’m excited to go with him. I’m inspired to get dressed up: nice shoes, stockings and a skirt. I keep trying to find the right clothes to wear. One green crocheted shirt in my bag with sparkled beads reveals a salsa stain in the lower corner. Can’t seem to get the stockings to fit just right.
Lover from the past is hedging while I sift through my suitcase. He’s feeling too much between us, not sure we should even dine together. He considers saying goodbye and leaving me there in a pile of ill-fitting, mismatched garments.
Coffee’s ready now and the dreams are in the archive. I observe my dull headache and wonder if I’m the one that’s dehydrated.
For the Archives 