She was an old Thai lady, thin, tall, frail and ugly. She was wearing rags that were once Thai finery. She had long, gray, tangled hair put up in a bun, but dangled down messily. We were in a valley forest with a raging wide river running through it. I was standing on the bank, watching a local man drag her and a rickety shopping cart filled with her meager belongings down to the river. It was obvious to me that the old lady had stollen something in a bid for survival. It was obvious to me that the old lady had once been very pretty. It was obvious to me that everything the old lady owned was now in that shopping cart. It was obvious to me that the old lady was alone in the world.
The old lady was begging, wai'ing on her knees as she was dragged.
The lady's shopping cart of belongings was thrown in the river, and although she wailed about the loss, she almost seemed to accept that as punishment for having stolen something, and she forlornly followed her sinking life away from me down the river. However, close to the bank, close to me, a single bright object floated in an eddy, caught close to the edge: A small gilded book wrapped in a baggie.
I took the book from the water, took it out of its baggie, and opened it up. It was a diary of the woman's life. There were things like "7-4-1926, Pizza in Vancouver, Peter didn't arrive, I'm so sad," and "1-1-1916, Happy New Year from Hong Kong, the lights are so pretty." Just hundreds of little thoughts and little feelings from around the world of a life long dissappeared, and the last remnants of which were just destroyed in a river.
I've slept with so much anger and hatred in my heart lately. I've had violent dreams and dreams of loss and dreams of conflict. Dreams I took some comfort in.
This dream was different though: This dream woke me up filled with compassion, and I cried for so many minutes, but with a warm feeling in my heart... a warm feeling that I hadn't felt in a while. All in all, experiencing the sadness in order to once again experience a sense of humanity and charity was well worth it.
Ah... the power of a dream. Even the most stoic like myself can be slapped awake and humbled by our own thoughts creeping through our minds as we sleep, healing us, making us remember ourselves.
2 comments:
I wish I could remember my dreams, I have not been able to do that for about a month...must be uninspired..
I almost always remember my dreams. I just woke up from a nap where I dreamt I was racing my father... he was driving his old Plymouth, and I was on my Honda Wave.
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