Dream: The Dance Student and the Ocean Horses

I was an art student of some kind; like a dancer. I might have been a young girl, but during the course of the dream I became myself (probably idealized to be in my forties). I was attending one school (possibly Reed College), had been accepted at another school. The schools were along a long curving bay. The school I wanted to go to was away along the coastline, to the left; there were lights of small towns along the bay, and the school’s lights shone like small blue lights over the water.

There was a side-scene where three or four female councillors were discussing my transfer. They were all wearing narrow dresses, in a business-academic style. One councillor was championing me; I forget the details of the discussion, but there were some rules that would have to be relaxed or bent to allow me to go. My champion concluded the argument with “Well, at least my ass has a cleft in it,” (implying that the others were tight-assed), and “Excuse me; I’m being a bitch.”

Back at the beach, I stood on a high dune or loose sandstone cliff about eight feet high overlooking a lower beach and the water. It was twilight; there was enough light to see the sand and the water, but the lights were still on in the distance. I climbed down the nearly vertical embankment and realized that I’d left my backpack in the beach grass at the top. I started to climb back up, which became extra tricky—I moved as if through treacle, the cliff was suddenly extra crumbly, hand and footholds became inextricably difficult. The tide surged in, and I got wet from my feet to my knees.

After some effort, I made it back to the top of the sand embankment and my pack. I looked back down at the beach below. Suddenly, three white horses with rippling manes were on the sand below; I have the impression that they came out of the waves. They wove back and forth in front of me; they whickered at me, pulling back their white lips and showing their not-quite-as-white teeth. They wanted me to come with them, but there wasn’t a way for me to climb down and I told them so.

Old Skydiving Memories

We’re cleaning out the garage, straightening out the old boxes of holiday decorations, tools, tents, furniture, books, and old paperwork. In the course of this, I found a manuscript of my 1995 skydiving memoirs. Oh. My. God. I was so earnest at twenty-nine, half a lifetime ago.

At the time, I wanted the memoir to be exploration of the questions, “is truth a static thing to be discovered or revealed, or is it an evolving thing that one grows into?”, “what are the boundaries of self, and when am I not-I?”, “how does one navigate and integrate different cultural groups?” and “what have I got to show for my thirty years on this planet?” Reading the account now feels like a collection of description-lite, barely-strung-together situations.

It mostly works on a mechanical level, but it doesn’t seem to work on a cathartic level—part of the problem is that I am not giving the reader enough background information. If I were going to write it again, I would introduce some of the folks more thoroughly. I would look for and emphasize repeating images and motifs in the descriptions of the jumps. I would address the elephants in the room: Arcosanti, my burgeoning queerness, and my failures at finding True Love and Romance. And I would add the last skydive I ever did, by myself, a few days before I returned to Oregon.

Vacation Lessons

When I fly, I like to pull tarot cards for myself. Usually this results in cards that are about travel. This time around the tarot suggested that I be more mindful in setting up habits around how I use my time.  The three-card-pull was a capstone of little observations I stumbled upon while away from home, work, and the Internet.

My friends, who are only a year or three older than I am, are not exactly elderly, but they are in the early stages of being old.  This is better than being old like my parents, but still, as the saying goes, “We’re not exactly spring chickens any more.”  I have also fallen out of good fitness habits, and was in better shape this time last year than I am now.  If I want to be spry in thirty years, I need to be actively spry and limber now (glares the the joints of his toes).

The systems of air travel in the US are brutal to the under-privileged, the foreign, and the elderly.  To navigate in the world one needs a good credit card, a modern cell phone, mental acuity, and good English language skills.  And guess what, air travel is simply a simple manifestation of a much larger system of privilege.  I imagine that I’ll need to stay on top of how the world works as I age.

I spend far too much time on social media, and far too little time playing the harp, reading tarot cards, exercising, learning Middle Kingdom hieroglyphs, or writing, and various “adulting” jobs like meal preparation, laundry, and general maintenance.  I suppose this means actively scheduling time.  Given my inclination to relax and recharge after work, I should probably limit my social media to a half-hour or so in the afternoon.

I can survive on just one sixteen ounce cup of tea per morning.  This feeds into the decision to aim for seven-and-half hours of sleep.  This means both going to bed a little bit earlier and getting up a little bit earlier.  It also means I should more aggressively reclaim lost bed geography from the dog.

If I had to select which Tarot card symbolizes reclaiming lost bed geography from the dog, I’m pretty sure it would be the Nine of Wands, with the Seven of Wands reversed for those nights when she sprawls her body athwart the bed and crushes my knees and feet into each other.