Only a Dream Away

Strange town, strange school, and the blue-headed child

I find myself the only adult sitting at a desk in a classroom full of children. It feels a bit back in time; earlier in the 20th century. BUT -- we are being shown DVDs. The teacher passes around red Netflix envelopes as she puts the DVD in the player. It is midday but the blinds are drawn. Shafts of sunlight sneak into the dimmed room. Everyone gets a red envelope but I get the DVD's actual sleeve with mine, so I know the title of the movie playing (and, I suppose, I have to return it!). The sleeve says something like "The Dark School" or "The Dark Classroom." The movie plays in black and white. The opening scene is of unifomed children in a classroom. I remember a little girl with fat blonde braids in ribbons. Strikes me as late 1950s to mid '60s.

The children, all about 9 or 10 years old, steal glances at me and seem bemused that I'm there. I feel welcome, if a little bit on display. They look at me like I'm some kind of curiosity, which I suppose I am. I rest my chin on my fists on the desks and relax completely, thinking how great it is to just sit quietly in a classroom and passively learn.

Then we are about to be dismissed. We all stand up in a crowd around the door. Something (I can't remember) is going on with the children. Nothing bad, but something needing adult intervention. I bend down and help out. The teacher appears from the hallway. I try to hide behind the door but she  points out that the door is frosted glass, so she can see me. It's all very gentle and relaxed, good-natured teasing.

I am going down the stairs out of the school and someone hands me a small sleeping child -- a baby even. Maybe no more than 2 or 3 years old. He is wrapped in a blanket. He is exotic-looking, dark olive-skinned, beautiful, also strange. His bald (or shaved) head is a sparkly green-blue color. He sleeps against my scarf, which happens to be the same color. His head against the scarf against my chest reinforces the memory of this color.

Someone -- and older child? -- behind me is following, either related to him or...?

I get outside and don't know what to do with him or where I am or where I am going. Like the school and the children, I don't recognize the town either.

I set him down. He has transformed into a tiny, adorable dog! I look at this little black dog -- with white accents -- with complete wonder. He is still wrapped in the blanket. He's awake and smiling that dog-smile, looking at me with bright, eager eyes.

Then I am all of a sudden asking directions -- to a place I heard someone speaking of, though I don't know what is there. Home maybe. But I don't know this place and I don't know where 'home' is. I don't know where my family is. It's like I've literally materialized in another world.

"Which way is ________?" I ask a stranger. They point in a general direction.

I see some buses going by and figure if I just get on one it'll take me where I need to go. I search for a place to catch one. The layout is confusing. I have to go under a concrete bridge. I look at the digital signs on the buses to see if I might recognize a place name.

Finally I catch one and sit near the front. The bus is full of seated people. After riding for a while I get nervous; I really have NO idea where I'm supposed to get off or if I'm even on the right bus! So I turn around to see a middle-aged woman with grey short curls and a somewhat loud floral shift sitting there with her purse primly balanced on her lap. She looks like she's stepped out of a Beatles "Penny Lane" video. I'm surprised to see her and her friend already looking at me with expectant smiles. "Excuse me, do you know if this bus goes to ________?" I ask her. She nods and says yes, and keeps staring at me. "I'm a little lost," I say, apologetically.

And she says:

"Oh no, you're not. We all knew you were coming. I could feel your presence for a long time before you even got here."

Now THIS dream has really got me stumped.

Back in high school, not seeing my teacher's face, fire, a baby

I am putting on a high-school uniform in my home (one I do not recognize). It's getting late, I have to leave, and it's cold out; I wish for tights and magically they appear on my legs.

In the next instant, I am walking into my high school cafeteria (not any place I've seen before, but it resembles the student center at my university). Friends of mine, including my girlfriend Christina (whom I met at herb school just two years ago), are at a table, eating something before class begins. The energy is easy, we're all girls, laughing, gossiping.

The bell rings for class. I hang around until the last minute. I begin to run for homeroom/class. I have to cross the gymnasium to get to the main school building. As I jog through, I spy my present-day herb teacher, Michael, off to the side, with his back to me. He is walking slowly in the same direction but is beginning to turn to the left, behind some kind of temporary curtained structure, like one where you might hide the sound equipment for a show. I do not call out to him but pick up speed and run through the exit.

In the next scene, I am not in any kind of class -- or at least, it doesn't seem like a 'class,' but it is still in high school. Some kind of student gathering? We are in a small, crowded room -- maybe 15 of us or so. It has elements of ritual. We are seated on the floor, singing. Cushions under some of us. Muted light, candles maybe. Reclining, propped on my elbows, I crane my neck and discover that  behind my head is some kind of vase that holds many feathers and incense sticks. All the incense sticks are lit. The feathers are large, brown-and-white-striped. Some of them poke out through holes in the bottom of the vase and their quills are lit, giving off incense as well.

I have the feeling I am supposed to be minding this strange vase with its smoking contents. One of the incense sticks set some object nearby aflame already, and I had to put it out (I do not remember what the object was, only that it was draped with fabric or ribbon -- and I think I just used my hands to extinguish the flames).

I face forward and see Michael again -- he has just come into the room, into the center. He is wearing his mustard-colored shirt. Again, his back is to me -- he is turned at the waist while seated on a chair, reaching behind him for something -- I sense that it is a musical instrument. Others are playing musical instruments in the room now.

I turn back to my incense/feathers and prevent another small fire from breaking out. All of a sudden this time there is a baby sitting next to the vase, dressed in a pale green onesie. He is surrounded by a circle of tealights. I'm mildly surprised that he's there, but I am not alarmed, in fact to see him there is pleasant. He's chubby, less than a year old, giggling, and adorable. I stand up and pick him up to cuddle him. I don't know whose he is.

Back in time, Matthew, petroglyphs, strange manuscripts

I really wish I would have gotten this down sooner; the day has worn on and now the details have lost a lot of their vividness. Here goes. This is from last night.

I am waiting at a bus stop. I do not recognize where I am but it does not seem to be in the United States. The bus arrives, seems to be going a little too fast, but it stops. There are many people with me at the bus stop. The bus' front and side doors open, and it is set up to admit passengers from both doors, which surprises me. It makes the boarding faster and more efficient. I think to go on the side door since it is closer, but run up to the front anyway. The bus is red. The city street I am on is not busy. It is an overcast day but springlike, the way I remember Wales in May.

The bus lets me off somewhere -- I just remember there being a cul-de-sac feeling to it.  Not close or crowded, but the presence of a curved, tall stone wall, or perhaps a place where the road curved into a narrower lane. Houses. The sun was out. It was mild in temperature. I alight from the bus and I see my university boyfriend, Matthew, approaching me.

His hair is long and curly and unkempt the way it was all those years ago. He is thin, tall, lanky, fluid, blue eyes beautiful under that brow I loved so much. All of a sudden I understand that he is there to pick me up, and he acts like everything is normal -- that is, that we are still as we were in college and no time has gone by. I can't remember clearly now but he seems to be receiving me in a shawl or blanket of some sort, wrapping me in it. I remember shades of chartreuse and cantaloupe. He greets me affectionately. I say, "Matthew? You're here to pick me up?" And he looks at me funny, as if I am asking a dumb question -- of COURSE he's here to pick me up, this is what we have arranged. "Just tell me one thing," I say, as we walk arm in arm down the brick-laid street. "What year is this?"

I asked this at least twice but I don't remember if he ever answered.

All of a sudden we are out of a European landscape and walking toward sort of tiki hut bar on some Pacific island. It is not by the ocean, it is roadside, in a dusty, somewhat desolate area. Once inside, I see several of his friends from film school all seated at a long table. They're casual, dressed like beach bums. They all look as they did in college. I am still trying to reconcile this reality with the fact that I am actually 31 now, but, when in Rome (or Wales or Hawaii, whatever)...

The sun is shining through the open door of the bar. There is a window across from the front door, at the end of the long table. Over it hangs a curtain. On the curtain are columns of what look like some kind of petroglyphs, painted in blue onto the linen-like fabric. Either he or one of his friends -- I can't remember which -- gesture to them and indicate somehow that they are being decoded. I feel in awe of these mysterious cartoonish little symbols. One resembles a flying saucer -- or was it a boat, or a rocket? In any case, something having to do with transportation. In the dream I gather that they were copied from somewhere on the island. They hold my interest, looking and feeling very important as the sun shines through them, even though they are displayed in such a mundane location.

Matthew and I sit down. He hands me a book. It has pages falling out of it; it seems old, and if not, then certainly well-worn. It is open to a particular page he wants me to read. Unfortunately now I can't remember what it was that was on that page. I start to flip through the book, not really that impressed with whatever it was he wanted me to look at, or at least it wasn't interesting enough to me to not flip through. "Who wrote this book anyway?" I ask him. He closes the book in my hands and turns it so the cover is facing up. "I did," he says. The title indicates that the book is in three parts: something about science, the next about Freud, the next about literature. Underneath the three-part title is his name. Whatever it was that I was reading didn't reflect the title at all. (Typing this now I think, "Don't judge a book by its interior?") Immediately impressed, I climb on his lap and say, "Oh my God, I think we should start making babies right now!" It is comical but affectionate and sincere. My semi-lucid dream editor rolls her eyes -- this is something I have never said and probably would never say, to anyone, past or present, in real life.

Then, the dream shifts abruptly to a quiet, sparse indoor space,  no longer with the island vibe. I'm not even sure if it is day or night anymore because this part of the dream is lit artificially. I am seated at a desk or a counter, flowing almost seamlessly in this respect from the last part of the dream. All of a sudden, it's Matthew's mother, Romayne, who is there (an artist and writer whom I very much respect and admire) and she has handed me a tabloid-sized piece of parchment with printing on it; it appears to be two pages from a large manuscript, printed in a very old style -- not as crowded as 17th century books; maybe 18th century. It reminds me of one of those old children's primers, but without pictures. I begin to read it and it appears to be a list of my herb school friends, each with a little rhyme or description about them. I only remember part of one -- my EastWest friend Sarah being described as a 'snow leopard.'

I notice that the printing is somewhat irregular, though I marvel at the beauty of the letters. Compelled to look closely because of the slight irregularities, I notice: this is not printed, it's hand-rendered, in pencil! Looking even CLOSER at the sheet, I see that it is not even parchment, it has been painstakingly sketched to resemble the mottled look of parchment! There are even fake 'tea stains' and other discolorations and tears drawn on. It looked so real and as a supposed real document it was impressive, but to find out it was handmade to look old was an unbelievable surprise! I look up at Romayne and wonder: Why would you do something like this? But still thinking it was beautiful. I don't remember her having any reaction.

Prunus serotina for Ben

I'm in a hybrid of Althea's farm and my parents' house. It is getting to be late afternoon. HT is there doing some work -- something class related. I ask him if he can help me harvest some wild cherry for my friend Ben (who has requested it in real life for his medicine-making business). I am concerned that it might be too late in the season for harvest, but I'd like to try anyway. Even though the sun is waning, HT agrees.

We go out and split up. I am nervous that my clippers won't work, but they do. I begin harvesting from different places. After awhile I look at what I have and realize the leaves are all wrong, even though the bark smells similar to wild cherry. The leaves are lobed and fuzzy -- not at all the smooth glossy slightly serrated leaves of prunus serotina. I go to a place I'm *sure* has plenty of wild cherry but find that this particular stand is already trimmed back too far to harvest more.

I end up with only a handful of odd-sized sticks, hardly enough to work with.

(I have to interject here that this dream perfectly describes my state of mind lately.)

Various dreams from Ireland:

1. I am at Michael's house again and he calls me out to a gazebo in the backyard (I have no idea if there is a gazebo there in real life) so that I can meet his new baby. "New baby?!" I ask, not clear on whether or not this is his own child or grandchild, or what.

He meets me in the gazebo, beaming, carrying this tiny baby in swaddling clothes. He sits next to me and I look at the baby. He gives it to me to hold. The baby is very beautiful but very unusual-looking, too -- like a changeling. It is olive-skinned, with dark, delicate little elfin features. It looks no more than three months old. Then, to my complete and utter amazement, it begins to talk to me in full sentences! I look up at Michael almost scared, nervous, and but he is gone and I am alone with the child.

2. Our friend Jim, a filmmaker and photographer in real life, has joined us in Ireland. He keeps showing me his big hunter's hat, lined with seal fur.