I woke up from a dream last night, and talked myself out of the emotion of it. There was a frail woman in my basement. She was dying. Her name was Pat. She knew she was dying, she didn't want to be alone. She collapsed on the floor and started crying "it's time for me to go...don't let me do it alone". She made me call another woman in the room to join us. She was calling her by name, "Sherri, come quickly! It's time." 'Sherri' came (a face I know in real life by another name), and I picked the woman up like a child and laid her in the bed. Sherri was carrying a child's book - Peter Cottontail. She threw it to the floor as Pat called her. We were all surrounding her in her bed when she said "there's children singing", and she started gently singing the Whoville theme of Christmas, "wahoo, wahoo, wahoo, wahoo...welcome Christmas, Christmas day...' She took her last breath, and she was gone.
Odd. I woke up full of emotion; full of fear for death, and sadness for Pat, the joy for children's voices that brought peace. It took me a bit to be able to go back to sleep. And when I awoke again, I was filled with this feeling of self satisfaction, of gentleness, and a sense of being that often escapes me, and I was so grateful for the feeling.
I am also grateful for the wonder and awe of dreams. I love analyzing them, and turning them inside out trying to understand them. I am also grateful for a complex mind, full of riddles and puzzles. It occupies my mind, in times of need, so I care less about things that, well, quite frankly, just don't matter so much. And for the lack of caring, sometimes, I am just as grateful.
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