Alas, it is not. I am at work during a slow period where my only duty is to man the phone. I have been a busy girl, though. Yes, I have.
I've been writing and re-writing my personal statements. I think I am almost there. I've found two references and am pondering the third. I have copied, researched, emailed, typed, faxed, labled, mailed and fed-exed nearly non-stop. I've dredged up the ancient memories of my unschooling homeschooling experience. It really wasn't that long ago, but I feel as though I've had so many lives between now and then--it is like stretching back into the dark reaches of time. It's been an exciting and exhausting experience, but I have to say I am feeling proud of myself. None of this sort of thing comes easily to me. I can write a thousand exposés of my life: pulp fiction, inspirational fiction, narrative non-fiction, whatever. But to truthfully share the light and dark of those times in a way that is quiet, calm, measured, and mature takes a great deal of thought and strength. It's been a good exercise, and I'm not done yet.
A week after I first learned about the main program I am applying to, I had my first dream of flying. Most accounts of flying dreams seem to feature soaring, swooping, and watching vivid scenery flash by far below. When my dream began I was standing still in a dark place, looking at my feet. I had gone to bed with aching shoulders from several days of shovelling and ice-chopping. In the dream I was very aware of my arms, but when I looked at them, they had been replaced by the huge, soft, strong white wings of a snowy owl. The atmosphere was cold, thicker than water. I raised my wings above my head with great effort and slowly brought them down through the congealed air. The physics of dreams are uncertain at best, but I rose a few inches from the ground and hung suspended, resting. Each time I repeated the action I rose a little higher. It was extremely difficult, and sometimes I would stop and rest in mid-air for whole minutes at a time. As I gained altitude the air grew more clear and bright, and my wingbeats more free and easy. Before I woke up, I had reached no final destination: the only direction was a slow staccato ascending.
Waking from the dream, I lay very still and heard the phrase "trample down" resting in my mind.
Go through the work, and be valiant for the truth upon earth; tread and trample down all that is contrary.
--George Fox
I seemed that in the dream I was pushing down this dark air, but it was beyond a mere trampling: the dark air was also the means by which I rose above the worst of it: the resistance was necessary.
It was a fruitful dream, and I find it interesting that past transformative dreams have also featured large white birds.
And I know other people's dreams can be boring, but I had another meaningful one: I was dying of a blood infection. A doctor came up to me and told me I was septic, and that doctor was also me. Doctor-me gave patient-me a transfusion and I was cured. The end. Huh.
And I know other people's dreams can be boring, but I had another meaningful one: I was dying of a blood infection. A doctor came up to me and told me I was septic, and that doctor was also me. Doctor-me gave patient-me a transfusion and I was cured. The end. Huh.
4 comments:
Flying ... rather hectic day, and the email of earlier seemed to me to be like a half baked message. Last night I was awake and thinking of another kind of flying. When I was very young Don Amici, whose name I thought was Donna Mici ... hosted a weekly circus program, so I grew up loving the circus. The reality of the circus was different from the TV version, at least for my brother. We saw the original Emmett Kelly - the great tramp clown. He put a peanut in my brother's hand, who was about 7, and suddenly produced from behind his back a HUGE sledge hammer to break the shell. Tom screamed and began to cry. I was not very put off by this... I was already use to being hit with hammers by my dad, so now it was the blond kid's turn, and being the golden child, he was at least given a peanut. So, I still loved the circus, Tom didn't.
There were all sorts of flyers, and when I was very young, they never fell. There were the trapeze flyers who all tried to do the triple, and sometimes missed and hit the net, but they always hit the net, and would try again. But ... but ... but, the ones who owned the sky where the flying Walendas. They walked the tight rope, a big family, huge family, and they made huge pyramids ... and never used a net. As a child, it seemed to me sensible, they never fell. Well, while I was still a child ... fall they did ... and many of them died. It was like what was to come for me later when John Kennedy was in Dallas, and missed the net. Young presidents didn't fall, and neither did the Walendas. But ... the nation went on ... young John, Jr., on ... and the surviving Walendas continued to fly without a net.
I used to think the circus families were a royalty. As thee knows, the work I did, I began to walk with marginalized families, some of whom were carnie and circus. I don't know when I realized that those who flew with such courage and so well, were those who had been falling for centuries, those whose people where tossed from the cliff of life. Of course they flew ... what else does one do when used to falling ... net or no net, there is always a net ... the net for those who know that they will land in God's hands, even in the final fall.
So, John, Jr., to fly, and yes he missed the net one day on the way to a Kerri's wedding ... but he flew. And if he were not to have flew, he would have never done the great things he did in his short life.
Remember in Ishmael, our favorite ape speaks of societies flying by falling off cliffs? We are always in free fall, the higher we stretch the tight rope, or grasp for the trapeze, the longer we fly, and the more we rely on friends to rig the net, or the clowns down below with the ... oh what do Firefighters hold ... the round trampoline like thing to catch falling people ... well what ever it is, we can fly higher knowing the clowns are below if thee misses the net, and in the end, one day God will catch us... Doctors are there with blood, and friends are on the gurney with a tube in their arm ... out goes the infected blood, in goes the net, all so that thee might have a little more courage to fly again ... and fly thee will, and many of us are cheering when thee catches the trapeze, when thee crosses the rope, climbs to the top of the pyramid, atop the shoulders of those on bikes on the wire, hold our breath as thee falls, and cheers as thee climbs from the net and rises again to the top of the tent to fly again and again.
Correction ... and conclusion... "So, John, Jr., to fly, and yes he missed the net one day on the way to a Kerri's wedding ... but he flew. And if he were not to have flew," should have read, John, Jr. CONTINUED to fly... And if he were not to have FLOWN...
Conclusion ... as long as I am making corrections. The father of the Walendas continued to walk alone without a net, until as an old man, he fell. We fly, even knowing the worst... I used to know Philip Petite, who walked between the Twin Towers, the WTC, ( no net of course... ) he used to come to hear me play the pipes in the park ... he thought he could never fall. One day, on his way up to the high wire, he fell and broke his arm. He was in shock ... he said he had not known it was possible to fall ... and yet, he went back to the high wire soon ... that was really flying, flying knowing that we all fall...
I think dreams are a way of talking about yourself to yourself behind your back............only in a way that you can accidently eavesdrop unbeknownst to either of you.........
or something like that.
Hey, Amanda--
I'm skimming recent posts, playing catch-up once again.
I was dying of a blood infection. A doctor came up to me and told me I was septic, and that doctor was also me. Doctor-me gave patient-me a transfusion and I was cured.
Have you recently read (or re-read) Woolman's journal and the part where he writes about falling gravely ill, then hearing a voice, "John Woolman is dead"? Your dream reminds me of that part of his journal (of which I have read only brief excerpts!). See 21.64 in this section of Britain Yearly Meeting F&P.
Anyway, your dream seems to have a power and life to it...
Blessings,
Liz Opp, The Good Raised Up
P.S. Will I see you at Beacon Hill Friends and the Weed Lecture next month? I'll be in town!
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