Another Night, Another Dream

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 Ken Wilson and Me, 2008

Since the onset of the pandemic, I may have been quarantined but my dreams certainly haven't. In fact, last night I dreamed I was camping at Yosemite, which I've never actually done. Who knows where I'll dream myself tonight?

 A couple of weeks ago I dreamed Ken and I were sitting in Andechs Abbey...which we actually did in 2001 on our belated honeymoon. Here's the story about that dream: 

Relish the Present

“The future is an opaque mirror. Anyone who tries to look into it sees nothing but the dim outlines of an old and worried face.”  --Jim Bishop

It had been over a year since I’d dreamed of my late husband, Ken. Then early this morning there he was.

I’d awakened, not startled, but pleasantly suffused with peace. I breathed quietly for a few minutes before reluctantly crawling out of bed to face yet another day alone in my tiny shoebox of an apartment.

For weeks I’ve been quarantined and isolated from family and friends because of the COVID-19 pandemic, which has swept Southern California. I’ve been gripped with icy fear. In my eighties and living with an immune disorder, only once or twice have I dared to leave to visit a grocery store.

Why had Ken appeared now?  I remembered how he’d stroked my hand as we sat side by side, in my dream.  Somehow, I knew where we were. Once again, we were in the Chapel of Sorrow at Andechs Abbey, Bavaria. I longed this morning to tell Ken how comforting he was, but we didn’t exchange a word. We never do when we meet in my dreams.

I’ve wrestled with a lifelong anxiety disorder. During the nine years of our late-in-life marriage, Ken always tried to reassure me that worry was worthless. He’d spent his entire career in the gaming industry, so had a sound understanding of statistics and odds.

“Eighty-five percent of people’s worries are wasted,” he’d say. “Save your energy for what’s more important. You’re wasting precious moments of your life.”

We’d postponed our honeymoon when we married in 2000, since I’d begun working at Peace Corps Headquarters in the Capital a month after our wedding.

“We can go next year,” I’d promised. “I’ll have vacation accrued by then and you can choose where we’ll go.”

He didn’t hesitate. Ken never wasted time when it came to potential adventures.

“I want to see one more Oktoberfest,” he’d said. “It will be my fourth, but it’ll be the best since you’ll be along. You’ll learn to love German beer.”

By nature, I preferred a glass of chilled white wine to a mug of tepid beer, but I’d agreed. I knew Germany was famous for its Liebfraumilch and Riesling, as well as all that celebrated beer.

We’d made reservations early to leave October 1, 2001. Then on September 11, hijacked planes had toppled the World Trade Center. Another had crashed into The Pentagon, just miles from our home,

This morning I recalled how I’d fretted about whether we should take the trip. I’d bombarded Ken with my uncertainty: Would we be safe? Would it be foolhardy to travel at such an uncertain time? Could we deal with the new airport security hassles?

“What do you think?” I’d concluded. “The news commentators are speculating about more possible hijackings. Should we cancel the trip?”

Ken had met my rhetoric with reason.

“We’ve already arranged for a rental car at Franz Joseph airport in Munich and I remember enough German to ask for directions as we head for the Black Forest. Let’s do it. We’ll might be safer in Germany now than here in the outskirts of the capital. You’ve worked hard. You deserve a vacation.”

.

So we went. Just as we’d envisioned over a year earlier, we settled in at Oktoberfest’s Hofbrau Haus, surrounded by crowds of young people, nearly all from New Zealand and Australia.

“We were able to find lodgings here after so many Americans cancelled their travel plans,” one young couple told us. “Let’s toast America!”

We’d all raised our litre mugs, singing along with a brass band that pounded out tune after tune. We gnawed on salted radishes and pretzels, both as big as our heads. We toasted every English-speaking nation on Earth that we could remember, including Belize, Guyana and Seychelles, countries that may have gone unmentioned if I hadn’t a personal Peace Corps knowledge of them.

Ken and I listened appreciatively as our new friends poured out sympathy for the States, and accepted their gracious good wishes for a safe return home. We left Oktoberfest carefree, flushed with lager and love.

Then the United States initiated a bombing mission over Afghanistan. We heard that American citizens abroad should register at American embassies. Rumors swirled that tourists may be threatened by terrorists.

“Should we try to return home early?” I’d asked.

“I don’t want to leave Germany until we’ve seen Andechs,” Ken replied. “We’ll be all right.”

Ken described Andechs Abbey, an hour south of Munich, as a Benedictine monastery housed in a castle dating from the twelfth century. Its brewery produces lagers with an alcohol percentage nearly as strong as fortified sherries.

“We’ll sit in the beer garden, share a basket of rye bread and monastery cheese, sip a beer and contemplate the frescoes and stuccoes. We’ll really relax at Andechs,” he insisted.

Ken drove along the eastern shore of Lake Ammersee, eventually pointing out a castle looming on a hill, “There’s Andechs!”  

It had been a destination for pilgrims for over five hundred years. Now, as we headed up the hill that frosty morning, I felt as if we, too, were on a pilgrimage.

The beer proved as delicious and heady as Ken had promised. After lunch, we’d toured the ground floor of the church. We sat in the Chapel of Sorrow, praying for the United States, for Washington DC, and for peace. I especially prayed for a sense of serenity. The fear seeped away, leaving me calmer than I’d been since the morning of September 11.

As we left, I’d picked up a brochure that quoted the Andechs’ Abbot, Dr. Johannes Eckert, on the purpose of the monastery.

One phrase hit a chord, and I’d read it aloud to Ken back then. This morning I looked up on the Internet. Eckert hoped pilgrims would “relish the present and the moments which go by so quickly, yet indeed not forget that which went on before.”

“Never forget that,” Ken had said nearly two decades earlier. “I’ve been telling you that since I met you.”

Of course, he had. And last night, without a word, he’d reminded me again not to squander my energy on worry. Savoring the last sip of my coffee, I resolved to go about the next few weeks, or even months, if need be, without panic over COVID-19.

If my husband could ride across the universe to reassure me in my dreams that just as I’d weathered other disasters, I’d survive this one as well, the least I can do is avoid wearing an old and worried face.

I have a bottle of German beer in the back of my fridge. I plan to toast Ken’s memory with it tonight. I’ll even nibble a pretzel. 

Party on Your Feet

 I just got word that my story about last Christmas, "Sock It To Me," was a finalist in the Ageless Authors' short/short contest. Here's my story about that day just five months ago that now feels like five years.

 Sock It To Me!

I’d felt uneasy about spending last Christmas day alone. I’d had company the past three holidays, seeing movies with a gentleman friend who didn’t celebrate Christmas. But the relationship recently had unraveled. My friends all had made other plans with their own families.

For years after my husband had died, I’d spent Christmas watching videos, but I hadn’t felt alone. My three cats and two dogs made sure I’d had something nearby, warm and breathing, for comfort. But this year I’d be home alone. My son and daughter-in-law, both who had to work the holiday, would not be coming by for me until evening. Then we’d enjoy a late supper at a nearby Italian restaurant, one of the few places that stayed open on Christmas.

This past Christmas morning had such a relaxed feel to it, though, that the uneasiness slipped away. I’d already taken care of all the holiday preparations. No more need to address greeting cards or wrap gifts. Even my shoe box-sized apartment, for once, didn’t need any tidying. I’d already dusted, vacuumed, mopped the minuscule kitchen and bathroom. I had closets that could use cleaning, but I sure didn’t feel like taking that on as a Christmas chore.

Switching on my electric tea kettle, I’d realized I’d not left my customary “to do” list adjacent to it on the kitchen counter. I grinned, as I steeped my cinnamon teabag. It sure looked as if I were really taking a day off.

So now the day spread out before me like a true tabula rasa, a complete blank slate. How could I use the time? I considered my options as I inhaled the sweet scent of my tea. Reading? My eyes fell on the stand next to my rocking chair, where I’d stacked three books, each with a bookmark dangling from somewhere in the middle. Binge watching a TV series I’d longed to see? I glanced at my TV and at a stack of DVDs neatly piled in the side cabinet. Still undecided, I set the teacup in my sink and wandered into my bedroom.

After I made my bed I started back towards my rocker. I stopped in the doorway, staring at the three-drawer plastic storage bin where I stowed my undies and socks. Of course! It’s the absolute perfect day to organize my sock drawer.
 “When I was growing up, all I ever got for my birthday was underwear or socks. Same for Chanukah. Just socks.” 

My former gentleman friend had gazed at me, expecting sympathy. Instead, I shook my head. “Just socks? And you’re complaining?”

He’d looked bewildered.

“You’re whining to the wrong woman,” I’d said. “I’d have been delighted, enchanted, entranced with socks for Christmas.”

He looked doubtful. What’s more, he didn’t show any interest in continuing the conversation. Gradually, we had drifted apart. But I remembered that exchange this past Christmas, when I had a day to myself, home alone.

As a girl, I had exactly three pair of bobby socks to pair with my saddle oxfords. To my parent’s dismay I always seemed to have a couple of socks soaking in soapy water in the bathroom sink. Even though I’d sneak some of Mama’s bleach, I couldn’t any longer pretend my socks were truly white. They’d become dingy with age. In those penny-pinching days, I still needed to wear them even though they’d become threadbare.

When I was about twelve, as I’d sat listening to the minister’s Christmas sermon, I remember concluding that the only thing holier than this holiday probably were the socks on my feet. I’d set off for church that morning wearing the least seedy of the ratty socks. I’d tried not to show disappointment when we’d unwrapped our gifts at daybreak. Though I was grateful that I got a badly needed jacket, I’d hoped that the smaller box contained socks. It didn’t. Mama had crocheted me a new cap.

Now, all these years later, in my retirement years I can treat myself to new socks whenever I feel the whim. I can afford to indulge my fancy. A longtime collector of crystal unicorns, now I collect unicorn socks. I’ve accumulated striped socks, checkered socks, and socks that commemorate nearly every holiday except Labor Day.

“Make sure you’ve got a party on your feet,” my yoga teacher once had said, encouraging the class to shed our shoes when we exercised, but not to go barefoot. “So long as you’ve got something cheerful covering your toes,” she insisted, “karma will take care of ensuring that the cheer spreads upwards toward your brain. You’ll be party animals.” We’d giggled but we obeyed. I took her literally, so I party hearty. I’ve got owl, frog, pig and kitten socks.

So, I dumped the contents of my sock drawer on my bed. I winnowed out several singletons, tossing them in a pile of other clothing items I’d been readying for a trip to a charity shop.

“We can use single socks for craft projects,” one of the volunteers there had assured me.

I sorted the socks into categories. I had two pair for St. Patrick’s Day and two for Valentine’s, but for December I had an even dozen, including ice-skating cats, Santa, snowflakes, twinkling stars, angels. And one pair for Chanukah, blue with menorahs. Finally, I repacked the drawer and slid it back into its frame.

It hasn’t been so bad spending this Christmas home alone, I concluded. I’d taken care of a task that I’d been putting off and still had time to read for a couple of hours. Plus, I’d realized that I now had enough socks to last me the rest of my life.

Coincidentally, last year Chanukah had overlapped with Christmas. Accordingly, when I dressed for my holiday supper that evening, I chose the blue menorah pair to put on. I’ve got a party on my feet, I thought, in memory of my former gentleman friend who had wailed, “Just socks.”

 XXX

Ageless Authors continues to solicit submissions for an upcoming anthology on coping with crisis. Its website can be found here: https://www.agelessauthors.com/

 

 

Dream a Little Dream

During this pandemic, I'm not alone in experiencing vivid dreams. I've been reading several research studies on how dreams have altered because of the quarantines. I've included a link at the bottom of this post if you'd like to follow up on dreams. In the meantime, here's one I had just in the nick of time...right before the quarantine.

 

Mount Baldy

By Terri Elders

“Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others.” --Jonathan Swift

In hindsight I should have guessed right away why Grandpa Louie popped up in my dream. Decades had passed since I’d thought much about him. Then, this past Thanksgiving, my younger brother began to reminisce about our years as tots and teens, back in the ‘40s and ‘50s.

“Dad never had any time for me, but Grandpa Louie always did,” he said. “He let me follow him around from the time I could toddle. He taught me a lot of things in those days. He always seemed protective.”

I’d never thought of Grandpa as protective…generous, maybe. He always handed a shiny quarter to each of us kids when we’d visit him. But protective? Not to my knowledge. What I remembered most about him was how I envied his claim to be eagle-eyed.

“I can see a fly light on Mount Baldy,” he’d brag, every time I helped him pick walnuts in his grove outside Ontario, CA. He’d shade his eyes with his calloused palm and peer twenty miles northward at the San Gabriel Mountain’s snow-covered caps. At 11, I’d hover by his side, aquiver with envy. Because of severe astigmatism and myopia, I could barely even make out Mount Baldy. I’d doubted that I even could spot a fly if one landed on my foot. 

 “You get the lower branches,” he’d say, handing me a basket, “and I’ll climb the ladder to knock down nuts from the higher ones.” Then we’d spend the rest of the morning harvesting the walnuts that Grandma Gertie would later candy or stir into her dreamily ambrosial banana bread. 

Now here he suddenly was, again in his walnut grove, me by his side. I’d awakened, puzzled. I had no need to be picking walnuts these days. I doubted they even grew near Ontario anymore. I live in a senior-living complex close to the ocean and far from the San Gabriel Mountains. In fact, despite the more smog free air of the 21^st century, I realized, it had been ages since I’d seen Mount Baldy. 

I recalled that just recently I’d heard the San Gabriel mountains sported snow down to the 2000-foot level. As I’d recently driven eastward on the freeway on a clear late winter afternoon, I should have been able to spy them in the distance. Maybe even single out Mount Baldy. But I hadn’t. I wondered why. Just a year ago I’d seen them clearly.

Could Grandpa be sending me a message related to this? I made an appointment with my optometrist. I hadn’t visited him for over three years.

“When did you have your cataract surgery?” he asked.

“Thirteen years ago,” I answered.

“Well, cataract lenses don’t wear out, but they can become clouded. I’m scheduling you to see an ophthalmologist to determine if you need your lenses cleared. I’ll also write you a new glasses prescription. You’re also are showing some signs of age-related macular degeneration.”

He peered down at his notes from my previous visit.

“Are you still taking the lutein supplement I recommended to slow down the progression of age-related damage to your eyes?”

I nodded. 

“Well, keep on taking those. And eat plenty of dark green veggies, carrots and walnuts. They’re all rich in the antioxidants you need to help your vision. So is green tea.”

 I remembered how Grandpa Louie carefully tended his vegetable garden and how Grandma Gertie was always cooking up what she called “a mess of greens” and grating carrots for salad after he’d bring in a basket of fresh produce. And all the walnuts. No wonder he had such great eyesight. 

I visited the ophthalmologist who confirmed that my left eye lens cover had become cloudy. She cleared it up in fewer than five minutes with painless laser treatment. I soon got new prescription glasses as well. Once again, I can distinguish aqua from turquoise. I now can spot those tiny cracks in the pavement that I’d tripped over this past year. 

A few weeks later, Grandpa Louie showed up in my dreams once again. This time we were yanking carrots from his vegetable patch. Grandpa didn’t brag one bit, but he turned toward me , handed me a gnarled carrot and winked. I’d winked back. Across the decades and dimensions, we ratified a mission accomplished.

How had Grandpa Louie had the foresight seventy years ago to be growing and ingesting all the essential ingredients that lead to great vision health? Now I finally had an insight. Unlike me, who’d been born with astigmatism and myopia, he’d likely been blessed with great vision from the start. But additionally, he’d also been a visionary. 

What’s more, just as my little brother had claimed at Thanksgiving, protective. Now, as I sip a cup green tea, I realize that unlike Grandpa Louie, I likely never will glimpse that elusive fly circling Mount Baldy. But at least now I can enjoy the panorama of the San Gabriel Mountains, still draped in snow.

https://theconversation.com/what-dreams-may-come-why-youre-having-more-vivid-dreams-during-the-pandemic-137387