Dreams are postcards from our subconscious,
inner self to outer self,
right brain trying to cross that moat to the left.
-from Northern Exposure, 1991
So I've had this dream several nights in a row. Do you ever do that? Dream the same thing over and over again? This one is strange... it's almost as if I'm supposed to understand something from this dream, but since I'm not, it has to repeat itself until I comprehend whatever it's trying to convey. Strange, right? I think I've been working too hard.
Anyway, in this dream I'm sitting at my dinner table. I'm dressed to go somewhere, and I'm drinking a glass of orange juice - always a glass of orange juice. And I'm struggling - I'm struggling with a letter I'm trying to write. It's obviously a very important letter. At times I'm almost overcome with emotion, but finally I scribble something onto the page, seal it up, and walk to the mailbox.
But last night... well, last night the dream was different. Last night I dreamed I scribbled something onto the page, sealed it up, and walked to the mailbox. Only suddenly I turn around, walk back inside, and tear the letter open, preparing to add something to the bottom of the page. And this... this is what my soul-searching, heart-wrenching letter says:
Eat snails and puke. Eat snails and puke?? That's what this letter I've been writing for 4 nights says: eat snails and puke? Are you kidding me?! (In my dream, I reread the letter, nod, and solemnly sign my name at the bottom. Then I put it back in the envelope and walk back to the mailbox.)
Omgosh. I woke up in the middle of the night last night laughing so hard I was this short of snorting. It still cracks me up. If you ever wondered what newly-single women subsisting on 3 straight days of homemade quiche dream about, now you know.
Hoo-boy. Nothing like a postcard from my subconscious. (Grinning.)
In reality, or, well... as close as I get to it, anyway, I finished and turned in a 98-page report for work today. (A 98-page, mind-numbing, time-eating, fun-killing report that I'm thrilled to be rid of. Yea!) And I had to get a flat fixed on my brand new tire. (But, thank the Lord, it flattened itself to a pancake not even a block from a tire shop. And the tire guy was cute and didn't even charge me.) Then I got pulled over by a trooper. ("Ma'am, did you know your front license plate is missing? Oh? Well, okay. Here, let me call Dicky and get you in tomorrow to get that taken care of.")
It's strange, this messy, thrilling life of mine: conscious or subconscious. It's strange because whether I'm awake or dreaming, home or working, taking care of or taken care of, I see God's love... God's protection... God's graciousness and God's humor... yes, even His humor!... all around me.
I love it.
So this evening, as I sit at my table and watch the sun set like a stone, I sit and consciously think. And I laugh. And I thank God for His provision and His protection and His peace.
Okay. I guess my conscious self will go make dinner now. I have some of the most gorgeous tomatoes ever, and I'm thinking maybe fresh, homemade tomato sauce would go great in a lightly-browned and bubbly lasagna. Or baked ziti. Or eggplant parmigiana.
But no snails. Hold the snails. I believe the postcard from my subconscious made that very clear.
(Don't forget to comment on the Happy 100th post - if you've not already - by Friday. Delicious prizes are at stake!)