Dreams
Last night, I dreamed I was on the South Pole Traverse with an old friend. It was huge. People were jogging alongside the tracked vehicles, and we pulled into a place where there was a permanent structure–a huge log cabin that had tables, facilities, even a little store to buy chips at. I was jogging next to a tracked vehicle, with my big red open, breathing the world hard, pounding my boots on the snow that I know is not the way it appeared in my dream. It felt good. I was out there, with a cold breath and the ice. It was about me, being strong for myself.
At the structure, which I’ve made as a halfway point stop, I realized there were two children on the traverse with us–two small boys, about 8 or 9 years old. The other people on the traverse were trying to help the boys get happy, but couldn’t somehow. I sat down with them, and started talking to them, and they were talking to me, and I was helping them get happy. It felt good. I was being a mom–doing a great job at being a mom. Outside the door, I saw a twin otter land, and pointed, and told the boys that their ride was here to take them home, and they were happy.
In the structure, I was sitting with my old friend, looking for a snack. Nothing looked appealing, though… chips, cookies, cheese puffs… nothing. I looked at coins in a cup on the counter, and listened to my old friend tell stories. It felt good. I was being a friend, a good listener; but it also felt lonely. I was not me there—my self was lost. I was unable to make a decision, or fix something, or offer advice, or feel strong within my own skin.
Interesting, how we have our lives, and we have the fictitious truth of our dreams.