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.”

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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.