Of late, my dreams are filled with strong emotions. Anger spilling over into sorrow. They are a collage of things and people I’ve known in my life. Bits and pieces of me.
I don’t know what my dreams are trying to tell me, if anything. But I feel like dreams send us a message of some sort. Like little seeds scattered in our brains.
It may be convoluted, but I feel that it is trying to convey something to me. And I can’t decipher the message.
“Yet it is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.” – Virginia Woolf
I remember watching the children in my class playing at recess, and wondering how to be one of them.
In some ways, other children were an aggravation. An irritant that assaulted me with their loud talking and screaming. They seemed so carefree and their play is so animated.
I didn’t know how to talk their talk, and didn’t live in their world. Instead I was outside looking in.
These memories are pieces of me. Pieces I don’t always feel fully connected to. Maybe they are just dust motes that drifted into my thoughts.
As a child, I watched my granny scatter seeds into dirt that miraculously grew up to be flowers. And seeing this happen year after year led me to believe that nature was solid and reassuring.
And that fact, the one thing I could logically depend on, made me a gardener.
I look at the sun shining down on the patio and watch the tulips swaying in the slight breeze through the patio door. And I feel reassured.
There is a certain measure of security, of calm serenity, in watching nature. The fact that the wheels keep turning. And the seasons, like clockwork, keep changing.
That in winter it will snow, and in spring it will rain. And as it does every year, April showers will bring May flowers.
Birds will build nests and watch over their eggs. And then move on when it is time to go.
I remember lying in bed at night, next to an open window that looked out over the back yard, where a slight breeze came through. Staring out into the darkness through tiny squares of screen.
I would hear a train in the distance rumble through the night. The faraway sound that goes clackety-clack as it rushes over the tracks.
The horn became a sad song that blew and blew. Until it passed on through. To places unknown.
I sow my seeds. Scatter them in the dirt.
And while I sleep, nature tells the seeds to grow into flowers. Season after season. Just like always.
“Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds that you plant.” – Robert Louise Stevenson