A Vivid and Life-Changing Dream and the Juxtaposition of Atonement and Work

This week as I've been at the hospital recuperating from Afib, one of the medicines I was taking was giving me very vivid dreams. One particular night I had what I can only describe as an "end of life dream". I have never had a dream like this so I will share it as articulately as possible. 

I was seeing scenes from my life play out. These were not full blown memories, more like vignettes.  I was aware of an ocean-like "rolling" around me as I watched these pieces and I (present me) was not "in camera" so to speak. The vignettes were displayed in a tear-drop shaped vessel of some sort and they were very brief and very very fast. 

The pleasant moments came first, at lighting speed. Some of the ones I remember now are: holding each of my children for the first time, being at Astro-World with Paul, laughing uproariously with each of 3 best girl friends, my kids being in a play at church with 2 other dear families, the way my daughter's eyelids made perfect half-circles. I was riding the train to Silverton, my head out the window; I was looking at bear in Yellowstone, I had a giant spiral lollipop from Deadwood, South Dakota; It was Christmas and Santa left a doll named Carol with a trunk of clothes, I am in England walking on a public path, listening to music, grieving and healing, I saw flashes of many of my mentors and teachers, I saw a little student who died in 2020 - he was running toward the class on the playground and his face was lit up from within. My last moments with my dad; days and days of last moments with my sister in law. There were more and more and more; and if any of these are familiar to you, as well, you know some have their losses and sadness attached to the events -- but hear this: There was no tinge of sadness as I witnessed these tiny glimpses, only the purest joy. 

Writing that phrase, "the purest joy," I remember how easy it is to let guilt or anger pull us into dramatic behavior that inhibits or blocks the joy. As I think about my dad's death, I could easily lapse into anger at God or regret for not spending more time with him every day or . . . or . . . or. I'm going to give that temptation to misery a name: it's mindtalk. You know, when you're watching your child sing at school, or do ballet, or take those precious first steps and the mindtalk comes in and you start thinking how they grow up too fast, or someone else's song was longer; on and on and on and suddenly your joy has a tinge of sadness or regret or resentment. 

The "Not That"

This moment was not that. There was nothing but joy and love. So much, so many moments so incredibly fast, but because it was a magical dream, I could extensively experience every single moment to it's complete and maximum fullness. Full is the right word, too - how full I was. I was standing tall, my vision glued on the display, my shoulders soft, my face and eyes wide open; I was simply breathing and experiencing. It was expansive.

I remember feeling the ocean rushing around me, pulling at my ankles and legs, my toes sinking deeper and deeper into the sand beneath. I could feel the wind whipping my hair in and out of my eyes and the tears streaming down my cheeks as I witnessed hundreds (?) thousands (?) of these twinklings.

It ended and seamlessly the other memories began. For lack of a better word at the moment, I'll call these troubling memories. These I remember even more vividly. There was the time as a child I broke some crystal my mom was returning to a neighbor, the first time I lied to a friend I did not want to play with, fighting with a sibling, knocking the "paddleboard" behind the stove so mom couldn't find it. Those childhood infractions were there of course but moreso, it was the adult things - lying to a prospective date, standing someone up, cheating, throwing a rock at the neighbor's dog, not offering a hug to a crying child, frowning at another parent in a grocery store, being impatient with my children -- there were many of those, driving past a person begging, walking past a person begging, refusing to forgive quickly,/holding onto a resentment, not wanting to make an expected phone call, being to much in a hurry to stop and greet someone, mess, waste, loss. Interestingly, there were a few I would not objectively consider "transgressions," necessarily. For instance there was not taking a job offered by a trusted friend, not accepting help from my boss as a young single woman, oh so many times I was grumpy, times I withheld information about my own needs, times I skipped my "quiet times," my knitting untouched for months, my daughter's skirt unmended. There was the time I gave up on communication when a friend in pain wasn't taking my calls, not calling a parent whose student shone that day, not sharing a treasured item and so many times I did not notice myself withholding love and on and on and on. 

Here is what was truly amazing about this part of the display. While I needed to label this section to portray it to you and while it was clear to me -- absolutely -- how these images differed from the first, at no time did I feel guilty or sad or remorseful or angry or even particularly surprised. I am only now experiencing surprise as writing has helped me remember what I saw. In my body, I felt like a young child. I was standing there in the surf as the waves frothed around me, more urgently now, and I was just as calm as before. I was perfectly still and whole, simply taking it in for what it was, not in surrender but in absolute acceptance and yes, wonder. This was the past, my past. I was there not as judge or penitent, but as witness. 

Inside the Teardrop

Quite suddenly, the display was over and I was somehow inside that teardrop. I was on the floor - the place of prostration - and the wishes or prayers or thoughts (but not words) were rushing from me unhindered. It was a mix of things coursing out and I have the notion that I addressed each image. Again in the magical mix of technicolor dreaming, I was somehow addressing several things at once yet separately. There was an apology for one thing at the same time (or nearly) as gratitude for another; a commitment to be different or more at the same time as love was expressed. It is fair to say it rushed from me and yet there was no rush in it; perhaps it was more the quantity of what I expressed that makes "rushed" the right term as well as "flowing." The tap was on and the fitting response flowed straight from me. 

When I woke up, lying there in the fragile expanse between awake and asleep, I first thought I had just atoned for all my sins.  However, later, as I started remembering more and more of what was displayed, and remembered my responses (which were still not words so much as "intentions") what became clear was that these displays were all the "work" I have yet to do. In some ways, it is the the opposite of atonement, which implies both forgiveness and finishing. It was, quite clearly, a call to action.

It was the most cleansing moment I have ever experienced. Whereas, before, during the display, I was both full and fulfilled, now I was empty -- as empty could be -- but without the loss so often associated with emptiness. It was more purifying than a process or retreat or confession. I was hungrier than I have ever been - a very physical hunger - but without the desperation. Here's the best example I have so far: it was similar to having had a amazingly hard and thorough workout and then a shower, and finally that very unique and pleasant experience of being clean, accomplished, empty and hungry at the same time. 

Can you see it? What do you think of this experience? Yes it was a dream, but it did come from my brain! I'd love some feedback on this wild ride. 

It was the most holy experience of my life. What happens now remains to be seen . . .

Stay tuned. 

"Ignorance is Not a Virtue" and Other Thoughts on MLK Day

 Martin Luther King Jr. Day is here again. I was almost 9 years old on the day King was assassinated, so I remember it well. The next day, my teacher talked about "civil rights" all day long. I'm pretty sure that's the first time I ever heard the phrase. We lived in Boulder, Colorado, and it was a progressive town. That year, for Christmas, I picked out an African American baby doll from the pages of the Sears catalog. My parents had a good laugh at that -- I did not get the joke -- and I was told I was too old for dolls. There were no African Americans in our school back then; Boulder, outside the university, was a largely white town.

When I moved to Texas at the age of 19, I wasn't aware that I had any prejudices. I did have, of course, they just hadn't been unearthed at that time. I had friends of every kind and it honestly never occurred to me that a person of a different faith or skin color or economic circumstance was different from me in more than cosmetic ways. This was flawed thinking, of course, borne of the same naivete most of my assumptions give birth to. In looking at the "me" of those days, it's fair to say I was race ignorant. And because, until my early 30s, I did not surround myself with people who would dig at those buried biases (Thank you More to Life) and challenge my lack of consciousness, I stayed that way.  I don't like it, but I will admit it now, I'd adopted "color" blindness. 

I got some insight to this when I accepted a first date from an African American man. He took me to an Indian restaurant for that date which made me extremely nervous. Despite an experienced palate, I'd always been afraid of Indian food. He looked at me quaking across the table and said, point blank, "If you're so nervous, why'd you accept a date with a black man?" The question shocked the nerves away. I quickly explained that I was nervous about the food and had not given a thought to him being black.  Sadly, that was true. He provided me a good education over the next couple of years through telling me his experiences of being black, male and American. I did not absorb it all then, but the words have echoed through the years. Side note - I now love Indian food.

Fast forward a few years until dear hubby and I are married and faced with the unsurprising and incontrovertible proof of my infertility. We eventually decided to adopt. At our first group meeting, as the very first step in our adoption process, letters from prospective adopters were passed around. I finally asked what the codes meant in the corner. They referred to the ethnicity of child the parents would accept. My husband and I locked eyes over the table and practically ran out the door when we adjourned for lunch. We were so shocked people would consider one group of children over another. Long story short, we talked it over at lunch, went back in, told them we'd take ANY child, then hit the fast track. At that time, there were 69 parents in the program and only 2 who would accept a child that was any part African American.

We read all the books, I learned how to do hair, we prepared our families. I took classes in "Culture of the South," "African American Literature" and the "History of Jazz."  Here's what we didn't know: we didn't know ANYTHING. (And before you write me a note saying how great we were to do this, please know, it isn't true. People adopt to become parents, it's a selfish act. They have blessed us, not the other way round.)

We had no idea how the pain of being adopted is compounded by being adopted across racial lines. (The research says the opposite but in anecdotal experience, 5/5 kids say it makes it worse.) We did not have a clue about how hard it would be for them to form their own identities and try to fit into any of their cultures. Little decisions were unknowingly wrong turns - the oldest loved baseball so the second loved baseball so the Littles loved baseball. They were usually the only black kid on their teams. We did a frankly terrible job of helping them. We did not know what to do and with the oldest two, we didn't have the good sense to TELL them we didn't know what to do. Sorry girls. Kids are resilient and they found their own way. But I want to have helped them more. The youngest two have had the most exposure to their Mexican American and African American heritages. However, it is still not enough. All of them have been bullied or picked on for not fitting in. It's hard to know what you don't know. 

In the last dozen or so years, I've been on a journey to turn my "color" blindness to race consciousness. There are a lot of excellent books and essays on the topic. If you'd like to read one, try a concise one by Gus Castro: Race-Conscious: Ignorance is Not A Virtue and the others in this compilation that engage in the debate. Have I overcome my do-gooder color blindness? Not yet, but I will not let myself off the hook, and here is why: I HATE hate hate having to tell my kids over and over to not draw attention to themselves in stores, to keep their hoods off and the hands out of their pockets. If you are pulled over for ANY reason, you say "Yes, sir, yes ma'am"  and you do everything they tell you because we can help you if you are in jail . . . we cannot help you if you are dead." And unfortunately, they've had to use this advice, a LOT.  

When I look back now on that little girl who cried when I was told about those four schoolgirls who died in the Birmingham Church Bombing, or the mother who cried when we took the big girls to Central High School National Historical Monument, I see a slow evolution. When I teach my children and my students about the "I have a Dream" speech, I can hear that as a country, we've made some progress. However, on this particular day, I admit, I am disheartened. Once again, our country is trying to suppress voter rights (read: disenfranchise voter rights, particularly to minorities), and it kills me. I had hope following George Floyd's horrific death, but the hope was short lived. In the end, the dollar wins out. When we will stop putting our personal finances into our political views and deciding right and wrong based on what benefits my bank account? When will we stop FEARING the unknown and decide to know what we don't know. How many of us will read a 400 Souls, A Community History of African America, 1619-2019? It's my new pick for my first non-fiction of the year. I challenge you to read it with me, but be warned: Since it is written in 5 year increments, that is going to be a lot of slavery to understand. Do the math. The blind, enduring criminality of slavery just boggles my mind.

I'm almost off my soapbox. As long as I/we are allowing the work of equity to be someone else's work, we are harming Americans. I am harming Americans. We have to keep fighting for progress, bit by bit. And the good/bad news is: it starts with us, with me. . . with you.