I had a dream last night that has to be worth finding a therapist for. As you are not my therapist (although feel free to send your professional contact information if you feel you should), I’ll give you a concise precis:
I dreamt that I was sitting at a very large, round, thick glass table with wooden supports. At the table with me were several people from my last job, two or three more from an extremely challenging personal situation I was part of several years ago, a particularly nasty bully with whom I had to deal a few years ago, as well as one or two people I simply don’t like and who simply don’t like me.
We all sat in around this table and talked and talked and talked. There was no shouting, no threats (which in itself was highly unusual for the bully), no pounding on the table. I did notice that there was lots of fidgeting of feet underneath the table; because of the glass top, I could see several people frantically tapping their feet or swinging them wildly as the conversation rose and ebbed. But, on the whole, it was a calm situation. And somehow, all the concerns and worries and guilt and recriminations I had ever felt about these situations, and all the questions I had ever wanted to ask and had been unable to, were taken care of. Or at least, they were assuaged enough that as we started to gather up our binders and pens, I felt very calm and at ease.
And then I heard my mother’s booming voice say “Thank god that’s done. Now someone get me a vodka martini. And make sure to put in eight olives.” I was completely shocked to hear my mother’s voice, for two reasons. I hadn’t even see her at the table, and she’s been dead since 1996. And because she died in 1996, all these situations were not part of her life. Yet somehow, it felt like she’d engineered this summit, or whatever it was.
To be honest, I don’t think of my mother as a negotiator or peace maker. She was more like a benevolent autocrat in my childhood. The rules were made by my parents, followed by us, and conversation was rarely brooked about them. At least not when I was little; I think things were quite different by the time Max hit his teenage years, mostly from exhaustion on my parents’ part. So for her to take on this role, even in a dream, seems to be so…. dream-like.
I have no idea what this means, and I also know that nothing which I wish was resolved is actually resolved, but this morning, I so don’t care. I might tomorrow, I might not. But tomorrow might bring me such wonderful news I won’t care ever again. Although it might also bring me two flat tires and a sprained ankle and I’ll get grumpy again. On the other hand, tomorrow and forever there will always be vodka in my liquor cabinet and lemons in my crisper (I can’t abide olives…blech!) and whatever else, if you can end the day with a crisp martini, or a mellow single malt, you can always face the next challenge.
Here’s to your dreams….