Tag Archives: dream

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Scree dream

In September, I hike with the three friends in the Ragtag Daily Prompt photograph. I have not really backpacked into back country in years. The last time I carried the pack was in Italy with my daughter, a few years ago. She wanted to plan the trip as we went and stay in hostels. We did.

We hike in the first day, up switchbacks from the parking lot at about 3200 feet, to a pass at 5400 feet, over and down to a campsite. The sites for cooking are separate from the sleeping sites and there are serious big metal bear boxes. We are to put everything in them, including the deet and toothpaste and anything that could possibly interest a bear.

We pack day packs the second day and climb back up to the pass. We peel off there to the trail to Sahalie Glacier. After being on oxygen at sea level for a year and a half, I am beyond delighted that I can actually do this. We go up and up and the trail gets worse and worse, until it is rather nasty scree. Two other people coming down say it is even worse, slippery, unstable, if we go on.

So, like sensible people, we stop for lunch. The slope is very steep and we each find a place to perch. Lunch tastes good. Then the other three want to go on. I don’t. I want a nap. They go on, I find a slab and the view from it is the photograph: down, down, down to the lake far below.

They will get me on the way back down.

And I do go to sleep. It’s all that night time call I’ve taken over years and years. I can sleep practically anywhere, including in a noisy casino in the past. I tuck up against the rock and the sun is almost warm.

I wake up. Two other people have come by. My inner clock thinks my people should have come by. Do I wait? Do I stay? There are more ominous clouds building up and this will be much more slick and dangerous if it starts raining. And we are exposed, for lightening.

Then I see a hat, on a curve of trail below me, moving. I swear it’s one of my party. But how did they go by without seeing me or waking me. THEY ARE DITCHING ME ON THE MOUNTAIN. No, that is ridiculous. Hmm. She is not with either of the guys. I debate for a minute, shout and then grab my things and head down.

I catch her. Once they left me, there really was not a clear trail. There were multiple sort of trails. And it was tricky. They separated a bit. She lost track of the other two and then picked the least difficult way down, which seemed to be a trail. It was NOT the trail that went by me, but she didn’t know that.

We found one of the guys below us, waiting. The last came down a bit later. None of them had come on the “right” trail by me. We headed down and stopped to put on rain gear. It rained lots! We were also above the tree line, but also I would say that we were above the marmot line. We saw eight hoary marmots marmoting around on our way down. They did not seem deterred by rain at all.

So that is how I was left in the scree to dream. I would have returned by the time it started raining anyhow, and the trail was good once we got past the scree. Not all the way to the lake in the photograph, the trail ran along a ridge that is not in the picture and wound down near the lake.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: scree.

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Pick one, delete two

I went through my blog this morning, picked a month two years ago, and deleted a bunch of photographs and the accompanying posts. More room! It is not a very fast process.

I am thinking about the Ragtag Daily Prompt today, hamfatter. It makes me think of Miss Piggy first. Don’t we all have a little bit of ham in us if we are in the right situation? Even if it’s just a dream or a daydream. Hamfatter also brings up ham and my inlaws. My son and daughter-in-law and daughter were all home for my birthday earlier this year. We also stopped at my daughter-in-law’s house, to pick my son up. Her parents heard it was my birthday and gave me a ham. How surprising and kind!

Yesterday I ordered prints of photographs to send to them, almost all with their daughter. She told me not to print any of the climbing gym or of the pets that her mother dislikes. Got it! I tried to pick ones that they will enjoy. It is a start of holiday gifts.

I am still having disaster nightmares, last night about my house. My house is far away right now and apparently my brain is worrying. I dreamed that there were clean baby clothes folded and piled all over the place in the upstairs bathroom, even on the commode. I took them off it and discovered that it was backed up. Then the walls dissolved and I realized with horror that there was water flooding through them! Then I woke up. Not a fun dream and no, there are not clean baby clothes in the upstairs bathroom. I think it is a combination of being far away and the coming administrative change. In some states it is illegal for a physician to discuss abortion. Will vaccines be next? And the most abortions are the spontaneous ones, where the pregnancy ends and passes. We call that a miscarriage but it is also called a spontaneous abortion. I wonder if those are illegal too.

I dress a bit more formally for work then at home. Maybe there is a bit of hamfatter there, too, entering the role of doctor.

I took the photograph in 2007.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: hamfatter.

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Love gently

Honey is older, nearly thirty years since that first feeling of being bitten by ants. She is back in corporate medicine, as a temp. Temporary, short term, maybe that will work better.

It is a joy to go in a room and be alone with a person and their monsters. Theirs and hers. Sometimes the younger ones haven’t experienced it, they are terrified if one of their monsters becomes a little bit visible, they hate seeing them. Honey tries to be gentle. If they only want to talk about the sore shoulder and not the stress and violence, well, she leaves the door open a crack. Sometimes the monsters cry.

Older people may be stiff to start with, but when they realize their monsters are seen, acknowledged, this isn’t another robot doctor in to say increase your diabetes medicine, lower your diabetes medicine, tell them a plan without ever connecting, the older ones lean back, sigh, and relax. The monsters play on the floor, Honey’s monsters playing with theirs, happy, engaged.

The hard part is the clinic staff. Honey is with them daily. The medical assistants are young. They kick their monsters aside as they walk down the hall. It is terribly hard and heartbreaking to work at her desk, with the medical assistants’ monsters cowering under their desks, kicked, abused, silent tears and holding bruises. Honey’s monsters mind. They climb into her lap and hide their faces in her shirt, under her jacket, peer over her shoulder. They don’t understand! Why can’t she be nice to THESE monsters?

Honey whispers to her monsters when the medical assistants are rooming patients. “I am so sorry, loves. If I acknowledge these, the monsters of the women working, I become a demon. It is very hard to share an office, no wonder I worked in a clinic alone for eleven years.” Honey has been through that. It is still inconceivable that some people don’t see the monsters at all. Is it learned blindness? Or just not developed unless someone had to learn it? Unless someone grows up in terror and seeing the monsters is the only way to survive.

Honey thinks some people learn to see them as adults, at least their own monsters. Hard enough to do that, without seeing the monsters clinging to other people.

Honey is tired of her monsters crying in sympathy with the staff’s monsters. She thinks maybe there are small crumbs that she can leave for these demons. Little gifts. Her monsters can creep under the desk when she is the only one in the room and leave something. A flower. A dust bunny. A crumb of a crisp. A small rock. A little gift to let them know they are seen and loved. A poem. A prayer. Just a tiny bit of love.

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For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: crisp.

The photograph is me all dressed up for the 1940s ball.

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Bolster meaning

It did not even occur to me that yesterday’s dream could be taken as complaints about patients! That was not my meaning!

I wrote the dream out because I wanted to know what it was trying to tell me. And I look at it from the perspective of all the people in the dream being aspects of myself.

So who is the whiny guy (me) who won’t cooperate with authority (me) and who wants attention and is difficult? That’s not a very nice aspect of myself!

First of all, he reminds me of my father. My father really did not like authority and did not like most men. When I was quite small, I announced that he would have to die first, because he couldn’t live without my mother, but she could live without him. I was wrong as well as being an awkward child. My father’s dislike of authority interfered with his employment and he was mostly underemployed. He finished a Master’s in Mathematics, but never wrote the thesis for his PhD. I asked him why once and he said, “I was bored.” I don’t know how much alcohol interfered with his working.

I am not brilliant with authority either, though I am trying. I notice systems and often annoy authority by asking why something is run a certain (foolish and unproductive) way. I used to study whatever system I was in and then say, “Here, I’ve thought up a solution for this problem.” Then I would get in trouble for suggesting that there was a problem and I would be the problem. I learned to go to authority first and ask, “So is this (huge problem) a problem? I find it difficult. What is your advice?” Priming the pump, so to speak.

As a temp, the authority problem is weirder. I am an outsider, short term, no one really has to be nice to me. That fast trip home and back made me realize that I am lonelier in a group clinic than I was in a solo clinic. In my solo clinic there was me, my receptionist and the patients. In this group clinic I have less people to talk to and it is lonely. My problem, not theirs. They are about to move me to another clinic and I will see what approach I can take to this. The system might have a Balint Group or I may be able to start one.

What about the frozen looking spouse? Ha, I think that’s the part of me that is trying to keep my mouth shut with authority. The kids? Some days I want to pull the system apart and fix it, but I am not in authority to do that here. The grumpy nurse? I am running behind and I can’t fix everyone. Some people don’t want to be fixed, including me.

I could go home and try another place. However, I think that the cracks in the US medical system are in the whole system. As a country, we built this. I hope that I see single payer healthcare in my lifetime, but I may not. And Martha is right too: I thought that this place was doing better handling a chronic illness than where I worked in 2021, but they aren’t, really. They apply a formula, but the patients don’t get much out of it. They just get shuffled in once every three months. I did upset that apple cart by spending more time with those people and talking to them, but I do not know what the next physician will do. Sigh. The patients are already my patients and are saying goodbye.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: meaning.

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Visit

It is time to visit. It has been long enough and it is time.

He is in a dungeon. I have to go down flight after flight of stairs. It gets colder and damper and there is mold growing on the walls and puddles. Light comes with me.

I can hear him one flight above finding him. He’s having a tantrum and hitting something.

I find the door in the dungeon. It is thick and moldy damp wood with bars in the window and a huge lock. It is also open. My friend is screaming at the ceiling and hitting the ceiling and walls with a yard long heavy pipe. It clangs and I feel a tremor when he hits metal. There is no window, we are too far underground.

I lean on the doorway. “If you go deeper in to the earth, it will be warm and dry.”

He turns with the pipe held like a bat. He is huge and muscular and dressed in rags and very threatening. The room is mostly dark. He sheds a faint light. He glares at me and then lowers the pipe. He shrinks to his child self, like me. About age three.

“You are awfully cute at three.” I say.

He drops the pipe and lets me come hug him. The cell smells truly awful. There is a drain in the floor that appears to be working, sort of. There is a visible liquid level below the drain.

He is still while I hug him and then relaxes. “Ok,” he says. Silence for a minute. “I didn’t really think you’d come back.”

“Friends forever, right? That’s what you said.”

“Yeah, but,” he hesitates. “You were mad.”

My turn to shrug. “Yes. I got over it.”

“Took you long enough.”

My eyebrows go up. “You could have made the first move.” Now he shrugs.

“How about a picnic?” I say. “This is icky. Let’s get out of here.”

He looks at the ceiling. The stone is scratched and chipped. “Yeah. No progress here. Might as well.”

We leave the cell and go up. “Damn stairs.” I say.

“Your lungs are good.” he says.

“Most people’s lungs are pretty good at three.” I say.

“You are pretty cute at three too.”

“Thanks.” I get tired of the stairs and transport us to a meadow in my garden. It is summer and full of wildflowers. It is on a sloped hill with an enormous willow tree. “This is from when I was 7, really.” I say.

“Nice.” he says.

I have a picnic basket and get food out. We don’t really need to eat but it’s fun anyhow. We can taste food, a bit. His keeps turning black on his plate.

“Cut that out.”

A shrug again. “I like bugs now.”

“Did you at three?”

“Naw, but I ate them if I was hungry. Ants are not good. Grasshoppers are better.”

“Are you making any progress at all?”

He leans back on the hill, about as relaxed as he gets. Still hyper alert to everything around us. “No, and I don’t think I will. He’s 69 now. Getting older.”

“Well, he’s expecting to die of a stroke at 80.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty much too late. There is too much to process. And wine and pot do not help.”

“Using more?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s talk about something more fun. Politics or taxes or something.”

He laughs.

We talk about cabbages and kings. Why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings. The sun moves like the real sun.

He is starting to fidget.

“Time?” I say.

“Yeah. You know, it’s not fair that they need us even if they won’t listen.”

“Seems like it.”

He glances at me and away. “Yours listens.”

“You’ve seen the results of that.”

He looks down. “Is she happy?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes sad, sometimes lonely, sometimes impatient. You know, all of it.”

He nods. We start packing up and we trek back to the dungeon and the endless stairs. We have gone down two flights when the landscape shifts. A forest, dark and huge trees and overcast. Damp and cool. He is morphing. “Oh!” he says, “Asleep again! And it’s 4 pm. Must be tv. And wine.” There is a small clearing in sight with a shack. It looks run down, no vehicles. My friend has morphed and split. He is a huge bear with red eyes. And an older man who smells of alcohol and reaches into his shirt for a handgun.

“Really?” I say to the man with the gun.

“They are his memories,” growls the bear. “I have to go.”

“Well, the bear isn’t. Goodbye and good luck.” I say, patting a furry leg. “I will come back.” But he is not paying attention any more, he is focused on the shack.

I go home and he goes to try again. Wake up, my friend, wake up.

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For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: confusion.

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Tea bear

My friend C. is a bear.

People don’t know she is a bear. She carries a bear, a teddy bear. It is named S Bear, after her husband. He died of cancer a while ago. So she carries a bear named after him. The first time I met the bear, I asked if it needed a teacup too. Because people make clothes for it and I don’t know how far it all goes. No, the teddy bear did not need a teacup.

My friend C. is a bear. She writes horror stories under the name lostcauser. The writer is from Tennessee and so is C. The stories are horrid. Lostcauser is an anagram. Rearrange the letters and you get closet ursa. Closet bear. Hidden bear.

She is not my only friend who is a bear. She is aware of her bearness, her ferocity, the beast inside. Bears like honey and blueberries, too, they aren’t just monsters. My other friend dreams of a one room shack in the woods. His dead brother is at the door shouting for help. His brother is being attacked by a bear. A huge terrifying bear.

“Did you invite it in?” I ask.

“It’s a BEAR.” says my friend.

“It’s a Dream Bear.” I say, “I would ask what it wants.”

“You don’t understand bears,” says my friend.

“I understand a lot about dreams. Some think that everyone you see in a dream is a part of yourself. It can be a part that you don’t accept.”

“Bears attack. You can’t invite them in.”

“I would ask the bear in. I would ask the bear if it would like some tea.”

I tell another friend about one of my dreams. There are monsters screaming. I go towards them.

“TOWARDS them?” says my friend. “Why would you go TOWARDS them?”

I have to think about it. “Well, they are screaming. They might be hurt. They might need medical care. I have to go help them.”

My friend shakes his head. “Only you,” he says, “would go towards the screaming.”

One time in my neighborhood, I hear horrible screaming. I get up. It is 1 am. I go out and try to find the screamer. I don’t find anyone. A few days later, I read that someone nearly severed their arm somehow, in my neighborhood. A policeman saves his life with a tourniquet. It was three blocks from my house, at the grade school. The grade school is where I went. I think the person was knifed, but I don’t know. My neighborhood does not get a lot of that sort of thing, at least, not a lot of screaming that wakes me up.

I wonder about my friend that is attacked by a dream bear. A bear that is much bigger than his dream self and his dream brother self. There must be a lot of darkness in that bear. It is angry about being ignored.

My friend C. is a bear. She knows she is a bear. Reading her stories, I do not think she likes being a bear.

I don’t mind if she is a bear. I wonder if we will have tea again some day.

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For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: fan. Why? Maybe I am a fan of bears. Or maybe fans make me think of hats and gloves and tea parties. And bears.

This is based on speculation and some true events.

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Tree dreams

Tell me, tall one, what do you dream of in the night? What do you long for in the early rising sun? What messages come to you on the wind, through the rain, through the soil? Your tall branches catching dreams and catching the rays of the sun, some slipping through to me. I send you love and dreams of joy, however that looks to a tree.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: dreamcatcher.

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Tornado

I am having nightmares most nights. I don’t think they are about work any more: I think they are about the wars and the people being killed and terror on both sides. That is what terrifies me.

I am in a very big hotel, down near the ground floor at a conference center. There is an announcement: “There is a very violent tornado on the ground, take shelter.” People at the windows are exclaiming. I go to the picture window and see a huge tornado. But I also see my ex-husband and another man, talking, facing me. How can they not hear the tornado? I want to shout, but they won’t hear me through the thick glass. The tornado swallows them and I find a place near the windows. I am on the floor, arms and legs wrapped around an old style radiator attached to the wall. I hope this will keep me from being sucked out as the windows break, and if the building comes down, I am near an outer wall.

I wake up.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: terror.

I took the photograph on a train going from Edmonds, Washington to Chicago, IL in July 2014. This is a beautiful and terrifying storm.