Dreaming

I had a dream last night about my wedding. It was a disaster. Crazy things kept happening and Ron & I (yes, I was marrying Ron in the dream) had to keep postponing until the next day. But we had good spirits about it and remained determined to get married. I woke up before we finally did, but.....

I had another dream the other day - a nightmare, really - where I was being stalked by a man who wanted to kill me. I can remember running from this man, and hiding. I remember walking through the house with a flashlight every night - double-locking doors, checking corners and under beds. I never felt safe, I was never able to rest. That dream haunted me all through the next day as I was tense, on edge, and a little bit afraid.

A recurring image in my dreams is a male lion. I don't know what that means, but lions seem to pop into my dreams often.

I also dream often about running - running from something, running toward something, or just running. I don't know if I am trying to escape, searching or just enjoying myself.

My dreams often stay with me on into the next day (and longer since I can still remember these dreams). Yet others disappear without a trace. I don't know what they mean. I often do not know how to read them. I am not a skilled interpreter of dreams.

But I think I'd like to start writing them down, looking for themes, recurring images, and searching for meaning. There have been extensive studies about the significance of dreaming. And many (journal therapists among them) stress the importance of dream journals. Maybe I'll try it. What do I have to lose except my ignorance (of the meaning of my dreams)?

...things that we have lost in the past will be recovered. ~Isabel Allende

(Here's a little "fastwrite" I wrote this morning at my Women Writing for (a) Change writing group. I used the line above as my prompt.)

Things we have lost...

• the courage to be ourselves
• dirt under our fingernails
• skinned knees
• the ability to run free
• giggling
• Friday night movie dates
• eating whatever we wanted
• baggy sweat shirts
• snapping bubble gum
• cuddling with dad on the couch
• cloud-watchin g on the front lawn
• getting lost and not caring
• letting things go
• bright colors and crazy earings
• making a statement
• recovering quickly from a hangover
• playing sports
• wandering
• comfort food
• being taken care of
• piles of presents under the Christmas tree
• sibling rivalry
• house rules
• photographs of the happy family
• sharing weekends between parents
• high school dances
• girlhood crushes
• studying for a test
• fighting to be noticed
• drama
• fist fights
• lazy summer days on the beach
• being home before dark
• long rides in the car
• the smell of someone else cooking supper
• homemade pie
• birthday cakes with candles blazing
• picking fruit off trees
• hay rides
• pumpkin picking
• dressing up for Halloween
• Valentines cards
• overflowing Easter baskets and gigantic chocolate bunnies

In the Midst of Living

The story is written in the midst of living.
While making coffee, feeding the dog, taking out the trash.
During the drive to work, food shopping, working out, lunch with friends.
Through dinner, and an evening walk around the neighborhood.
While showering, brushing teeth, watching the 10 o'clock news.
In the midst of making love, drifting off the sleep.
In dreaming.

The ideas float in like morning fog and drift away as the sun rises above the dewy grass.
Snaking around the edges of my mind like a wisp of smoke.
Blowing away quickly in the wind.
Rising and falling like the tide, building like a storm.
Fading away like a memory, slipping from the mind like ice.

The lesson is in learning to listen, learning to hear, learning to see.
The significance of little things:
a shy smile, the touch of a hand, paper fluttering in the wind,
the smell of cinnamon buns, a rainy Tuesday, how the car won't start,
black coffee, yellow cheese, moldy bread, a chocolate bar,
the smell of a campfire, hotel sheets, a watermelon lollipop,
the sound of trickling water, a striking match, a doorbell,
sun shining through a window in the morning, storm clouds rolling in,
a yellowing photograph, a ripped dress, red high-heeled shoes,
a necktie, cigarette smoke, a bottle of wine,
the smell of fresh-cut grass, a trash can, lipstick on a collar,
the lingering scent of sex.

The story is written in the midst of living.
In the every day.

Procrastination

I have so much to do - papers to write, books to read, boxes to unpack, people to call. But instead I choose to sit on the front porch with Ron and throw toys to the dog. I choose to play with my Facebook page, browse Amazon.com and write this blog. I choose to lay on a lounge chair by the pool, soaking up the sun and flipping through SELF magazine. I choose to cook elaborate dinners, challenge Ron to a game of Jeopardy and watch Big Brother. I choose to sleep in, drink coffee and read the paper at the kitchen table. I choose to go out for a drink with the girls, knowing full-well I won't get home until after two. I choose to procrastinate. I choose to put things off. I choose to enjoy the moment. Is that so bad?

Walking

At home, in New Jersey, I used to walk at the ocean. I'd walk along the beach or through sandy trails or down the bike path that wound through holly forests, beaches and historical landmarks. In the morning, when the sun was rising gloriously over the blue and white waves; in the afternoon after a work-out at the gym, still invigorated from the exercise high; in the evening, just before sunset, when it was quiet and still and I had a moment to sift through the day; I'd walk. I loved smelling the salty sea air, drifting in from the open waters; hearing the cries of the gulls, soaring above me on a gust of wind; and listening to the waves singing their meditative song as they crashed upon the shore. I enjoyed the peace, the quiet, the solitude. I liked knowing that I was doing something good for myself, working toward a goal, taking steps toward fulfilling a dream. I felt accomplished, healthy, strong. I felt alive.

In Yellow Springs (Ohio), I walked in the Glen. The nature preserve, a block or two from my tiny apartment opened up before me like an eden. I tackled the trails - across the river, up steep grades, over rocks, through thick forests. I followed unknown paths - not knowing where they would lead, but hoping for a great adventure. I meditated by the waterfalls - just listening to the sound of the water. I sang songs to myself or made up stories or worked through a problem or just quieted my mind as I strolled along the wooded paths. I talked to trees. I searched for birds. I marveled at the vistas, a new one always up around the next corner. I walked every day, at one point. It was my meditation, my practice, my routine. When I didn't walk, I felt lost, something was missing. Walking centered me. I was focused, at peace, alive.

I'm not walking anymore. I've moved away from the ocean, away from the woods. I live in a small mid-western town with no hiking trails, no bike path, no water. Walking here feels different. It's not as fun, not as fascinating, not as wild as the ocean or the woods or the waterfalls. It's a nice town - pretty, peaceful, safe. People say hello, they wave and smile. The yards are manicured, flowerbeds pepper the lawns, and the sound of the church bells ring quietly through the air. I'm not complaining about the town. I live here now. I chose it. But I haven't yet found my walking place. I haven't settled into my stride.

I am reaching, now, searching. I need something to grab onto to ground me, center me, settle me. It is different here. It's much less "me" than anywhere I have ever lived before. But it is who I am now. Or it is who I have become. I need to get back to my walking. I need to find a place to call my own - one of beauty, of peace. I need a place where my feet can feel the earth, my lungs can fill with fresh air, my mind can be free. I need to find a path - or make one of my own - that will keep me alive.

First Lines

Last night, at my writing group, we practiced "First Lines." This is practice in detail, in action, in story. The first line should grab the reader, hook them, pull them in. Playing with these first lines (created on the spot, off the cuff) was actually a lot of fun. I know mine aren't prize-winning, but I kind of liked them. I think I will play with them a little more. Who knows, maybe something will come out of this. Here they are:

• She noticed him watching her as she stepped onto the crosstown bus.
• The pain paralyzed her with each step as she pushed on toward the top.
• Aunt Sue came over last night with the apple pie she had made for daddy's hogs.
• Their laughter, echoing down he hall, sparked memories of her childhood.
• Parsley, that's what she had forgotten; now she'd have to scrap the whole thing.
• Between the two of them, he could see the shadow of his father.
• Bubble-gum lip gloss sparkled on the lips of the girl in the hot-pink mini-skirt.
• Her favorite flowers were daisies, but she hadn't seen any of those since the year her daddy left.
• He ate yellow cheese and moldy bread because the cupboards were bare since Laura left.
• Lucy was sitting on the rocking chair, gazing out at the yellow corn when Rob raced up in the jeep.
• She used to cruise the main drag in her cherry-red convertible, silver fenders sparkling in the sun.
• When she was ten, she'd steal pickles from her grandmother's deli and eat them out among the weeds.
• He filled the pickle jar with bottle caps, then trudged among the weeds to find the hiding spot.

Beginning

I am beginning here. I want to share my words, my ideas, my thoughts. I want to begin to feel confident or at least comfortable sharing my work. I want to discover and develop my writing voice. I want to write. Though the idea of posting my raw and unpolished work frightens me, I am taking this step, pushing myself - because I need to - for me, for my writing, for my future.