I don’t usually dream. If I do dream, I usually don’t remember that dream unless I dream about Thurmon Munson, a Yankee ballplayer who died almost 40 years ago. That dream I remembered and blogged about it. Weird – I know.
Two nights ago I was awakened by a new dream and I woke up early this morning replaying it in my muddled brain and decided to blog about it. It worked for Thurmon Munson -never dreamed about him again.
A dear friend died on January 31st, just weeks ago. I wake up thinking of him every night. I picture him as a kid living in the stories he wrote about his childhood in Dallas, his storied life in the Vietnam War and with us, his writer friends. I don’t want to forget him. I don’t want him to be dead. I don’t want anyone to be dead.
The dream that woke me two nights ago was about Bossman. He died in my dream. I guess I should call it a nightmare, because it scared the crap outta me. He was lying in bed looking pretty rough and as he was ‘leaving’ his face became young and fresh and happy. He looked at me with a beautiful smile of peace. Then I woke up.
I can’t shake it.
There’s a bit of an upside of this. It’s put some of our crazy life into perspective for me. I shared the dream with him and he was touched, and a little freaked out. If you lived here, you’d be freaked out, too. Lately our family puts the fun in dysfunctional.
Later this morning, he and I will go to church and get recalibrated. We recalibrate with God from home, but doing it with church seems to make it stick.
Dreams. They aren’t all filled with rainbow farting unicorns.