|“Iris,” by Auguste Rodin (detail)|
photo by the author, April 27
By Morris Dean
[Editor’s Note: The following account was dreamt early this morning, and we are pleased to assume that Bob Boldt’s post of yesterday (“Tony”) deserves some credit for it – at least for the fact that the dreamer wrote the account.]
It’s early morning as I start to write. Coming to my chair, I had the thought that I was dreaming even then, that “dreaming”as ordinarily understood – something we do in our sleep – extends, really, to our waking life as well. That is, our very life is a dream.
Anyway, in bed an hour ago I became aware as I was waking up that I had just been dreaming of driving down a dark, rainy road. Boulders were scattered in the road and it was only luck (or dream management) that I didn’t strike one with the car. Unidentified others seemed to be in the car. That is, I don’t think I had a sense that I knew them.
At a point where other cars were stopped, we got out and someone was directing onlookers to help. He wanted someone to cut down a birch tree (my wife and I had watched the final episode of The Night Manager the previous evening, in which pivotally figures a character going under cover by the name of “Andrew Birch”). Someone started to cut the birch tree down, but a young man in the crowd challenged the act, pointing out that the tree was not damaged; it was a good tree, it didn’t have offspring, which I thought was curious for him to say, seeming to be an indirect comment on over-productive human reproduction on a vastly overpopulated planet. Anyway, everyone agreed, and I felt relieved that the tree was spared.
I realized then, lying in bed, that earlier I had dreamed about another tree (the details have flown) and later someone was advised to write up the “case.” The tall man who was to write it up (somehow he reminded me of Ed Rogers) put enough sheets and carbon paper into a typewriter to produce I think seven copies of the report. (At least, lying in bed then, thinking about the dreams and thinking about writing about them, the number seven came to me – did it “suggest itself”?).
In the earlier dream, I remembered that I had advised the man typing up the “case” that he could get only maybe two carbon copies that would be legible, but he insisted on making seven copies. I couldn’t then – and can’t now – remember any more of that dream, but lying in bed I then remembered that yesterday I had advised a former colleague who wants me to help her identify a topic about which she might write a book to “auto-suggest” a revelatory dream, but she wrote back that she had already tried that several times, but no dream had “manifest.”
I told her I wondered what her “inner self” was trying to tell her by withholding a dream – stick to gardening?
And then, lying in bed thinking about all this, I remembered having a waking flash yesterday of a rule-bound woman of my acquaintance at the Buddhist retreat she will soon be attending with her husband. In the vision, she is focused more on making sure her husband is following the “rules of mindfulness” than she is on being open and mindful. It struck me, lying in bed, that this “flash” had itself been a sort of dream.
And then, walking to the chair I am sitting in now to write this, I had the thought that everything is a dream, the dreams we have when asleep, the conscious flashes of insight, this walking to a chair, this sitting down, this writing. And it feels now that I have come to the end of this account.
|Copyright © 2016 by Morris Dean|