There is a dream I have that has been reoccurring since my early youth. The dream itself is neither odd nor haunting but more, this dream occurs whenever change is on the way.
I am a boy in this dream and as small as I was when this dream happened for the first time, which was not so much of a dream as it was a memory of something that occurred when I was small.
I remember . . .
This took place at the birth of winter, just before the cold weather dipped below freezing.
The dream is simple and beautiful and with a sense of solace and griefless regard, I consider this both mournful and without mourning. More to the point, I see this as a symbolic gesture from within, ever reminding me that there is a spirit of something within me, building, and growing bigger.
However, as for the dream:
The location of this dream is my hometown, East Meadow, New York, in the mid to late 1970’s.
I was there . . .
I could always tell that it was cold outside, and the new morning sun was on the rise. The air is cold, and the scene would be as it would look in late November on Long Island when there is frost on the grass and the trees are naked from leaves.
The branches are empty with the exception of remaining things, like the lifeless skeleton of an old bird’s nest, which was built in the spring, lived in throughout the summer, and forgotten when the birds flew south for the winter.
I suppose we all know how this feels.
At least, I suppose so.
Forgotten, I mean, or seasonally and temporarily abandoned, at least for a while — that is until the world rights itself and again, the warmth returns, and so do the birds who came from down south.
I am sure we all understand the rise and fall of life or how the seasons are cyclical, and so is life.
I can tell the air was crisp and cold, yet I felt nothing cold or warm.
At the same time, I could feel the sensation on my face, like when my cheeks used to feel cold as a little boy, only there was discomfort, not even the chill or the numbness of my little fingers when the cold air would blow across me.
I used to always be cold.
But the weather and I have changed our relationship and cold temperatures never seem to bother me.
(Anymore)
I am standing in front of my childhood home, which was on a main road in my little suburban town. There are no cars coming down the street from either direction.
My home was humble, small but not too small.
I grew up here, in a white cape-style home. My bedroom was upstairs and to the left when you’d come up the staircase.
I wish I could show you but I think this is an entry for another time.
I am standing outside.
My home is behind me. The empty street, also known as Merrick Avenue, is in front of me and behind this is a mound of dirt, like a tiny hill, which bordered a vacant lot that has other history with me.
But for now, that has nothing to do with the dream itself, and for clarity, I would rather not break away from the point and stick to the story.
The vacant lot was a large plot of land. This was a playground for me in different ways yet, this place is a keeper of my truths, and a keeper of my youth and purity, and certainly, this place holds a certain list of memories and emotions which are relative to me. However, this place is gone now. The lot has been filled by developers and, of course, nothing about my little suburban town is the same anymore.
I just have memories.
That’s all.
I am standing in front of my home and looking across the street. The round morning sun is yellow and orange and brilliant, shining so brightly, like a promise of healing or a statement, as if somehow, The Father, Himself were to be reaching out to me, as if to say, “Don’t worry, Son. I’m here for you.”
In actuality, the dream is a recollection of a time when I was left behind. There were guest at my house who once played football with my older brother.
I was too much of a little kid to tag along with them.
Hence, this is the struggle with being a little brother sometimes.
I suppose that I understood.
I couldn’t keep up, maybe?
My legs were too short, perhaps?
Maybe I was too little, or too young or too needy or clingy when, in reality, I just wanted to tag along. I wanted to be part and have fun.
I am not sad in this dream, not by any means.
I see this as cathartic and healing, or in some cases, I see this as my true internal voice, which is here to remind me, “Hold off, kid. There’s a bigger picture that we both need to see.”
I am not sad or afraid.
However, I am intrigued by the sun. I am drawn in this, as if the new morning sun were pulling me closer or welcoming me, as if to say, “Don’t worry. There is a place for you. I promise.”
The field in my dreams does not look exactly as the vacant lot did when I was little. However, the lot is as big as it was and expands in such a way that I feel comforted and warm.
Safe. Invited
and included
(or wanted).
I can tell that I am wearing the same little winter coat.
I hated that coat. But I like to look back on it because even the coat has symbolic meaning, like a gesture from my past that comes along and states the obvious in an unspoken way.
My coat was blue and puffy, like a down jacket.
I swear, the coat was probably bigger than me . . .
Last night’s dream was slightly different.
I noticed this because I was able to see myself, small as I was, tiny and young, afraid that maybe I could never find a way to keep up and tag along (or be enough) and I could tell what I was thinking by the expression on my face.
I could tell what I was feeling, and I could see my young state of mind.
God, I swear,
being a little kid ain’t always so easy, now,
is it?
I had the little hat on that was knitted by my Grandmother. I had on my little mittens which, to be honest, I hated them.
I hated wearing the mittens because other kids made fun of them—they wore gloves, and according to what I was told, “only stupid little kids wear mittens.”
I never wanted to be a stupid little kid.
I could see me.
I could tell.
I could notice the inquisitive look on my face.
I could see the fascination I had for the new morning sun.
I wanted to cross the street . . .
and go.
I see this dream as symbolic or an otherwise embodiment of my old feelings of fear and inadequacy. I see this as an old idea that I was somehow unwanted or unwelcomed, and there I was, looking to find the place where I belonged.
“Don’t worry, son,
There is a place for us.”
Perhaps this dream comes when I find myself in the midst of faithless changes or otherwise, perhaps this is nothing more than the temptation of doubt, to which I need to say, “Get behind me!”
As in “Get behind me, Satan,” because there are no demons worse than the demons within.
I know this because I know them all, the demons, the casting out of Lucifer by Saint Michael, the whispers, which are loud like screams, and the furious doubts that demand revenge from wars that never really happened.
See?
I know me all too well.
I know about my fear and my social anxieties.
I know all about my misperceptions.
I know about my misunderstanding of self, or the otherwise ideas of me, somehow disregarded or somehow too awkward, too uncomfortable, too small, undesirable, and too odd to fit with certain people, places, and things, and too worried that someone like me would go on without redemption.
This was me.
It has been decades, in fact, and more than five of them, which leads me to where I am now, which is here.
I am aware that change is on the way and aware that the seasons are about to turn like a page. Yes, I am aware the cold months can come along and bring warmth to the heart—if we allow them to.
I have chosen my platform, which is here.
If I am to be rid of anything unwanted then, of course, I have to be an advocate for both myself, first, and then I can be an advocate for those who understand the similarities of life when unwanted things go too far. This is for me and for you or for anyone who overthinks too much.
This is my truth.
I lost patience. I lost time.
I lost money and friends, loved ones, family, and at the same time, I am still here, despite my loses, and still willing to love or at least to try and love again.
I am seduced by the new morning sun and drawn in, like a promise that comes from The Son of Man who insists, “I am the light of the world.”
I think of the promise which follows these words:
“He who follows Me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life.”
That’s the light I’m looking for.
And here it is, morning, or the day after my 52nd trip around the sun.
That’s 52 years . . .
I think about this dream of mine and the sun in the sky.
I think about the unspoken misunderstandings which came from my younger years and the confusion this caused in my older assumptions or how this triggered the drums which beat from soldiers who should have long been withdrawn.
I think of the small boy, which was me, yet I am still him.
He is still me.
We are still one of the same, as if to pull this together in our own trinity, which is one of the same — no differently from The Father, and of The Son, and of The Holy Spirit, I am the boy I was, the man I am, and the person who I hope to become.
I suppose we all know about the faithless life or the desperateness of downfalls or hard times.
And me?
I am no different from you or anyone else.
I am a man of mistakes and greatness and losses and gains.
I have seen peaks and valleys.
I used to judge myself and hold myself to the same margins of others who have other credentials or diplomas, or money, or job titles and executive positions.
I used to give in to my intimidation of social, financial, and educational snobbery.
Yes, this is me. However, I am working to improve.
I used to think that I had to prove myself.
I used to think that I would have to buy people or impress them, or give them things.
I don’t think this was, as much.
I used to believe that I’d have to gift people so that I would not be left behind or, at minimum, it would be okay if I tagged along.
I used to try and include myself. And because of this, I never had the chance to experience the compliment of being invited.
I used to live my life, preoccupied by doubts and fears, and worried, like a dog unaware of when its next meal would come.
Rather than fear starvation, I would gorge almost greedily, and fill myself in a figurative sense, because in my eyes or in my best estimation, no one stays, no one cares, no one is ever around long enough to mutually feed their soul. And love?
I always knew love was real.
I always believed that love was out there.
But how could anyone achieve love in a mutual regard when the mind is misled or your heart is caught and tangled by misunderstandings of self.
Anyway . . .
The dream is always short but lingering with thought.
My coffee is finished.
The sun is awake and I —
I have a life to live, a confession to make, a sin to account for, a life to forgive, and a trinity to achieve—as in, the boy I was, the man I am, and the person I am looking to be.
As for the boy within:
Don’t worry, kid.
I know who you are.
And I know you’re there.
I’m right here too.
So, don’t worry.
I’m not ignoring you at all.
We are not alone, and no one left us behind.
We are just searching, you and I.
Think of it like this, we are doing like we did when I was you, and small, and digging for treasure across the street in the vacant lot. Remember?
We believed that maybe we could find something, like maybe an arrowhead from an ancient Indian tribe who existed long before the vacant lot was anything other than a field.
We never found much of anything when we were digging though, did we?
But we imagined we did
and we had one hell of a good time while doing it.
Remember?
No one was there but us.
No one lied to us or said anything hurtful.
Remember?
Note:
I have to say something before I close this entry.
I lived on a farm once.
If you’d have asked me then, I’d have told you that I wanted to get out of this place.
I’d have told you that I had no time for any of the things we did or talked about.
I’d have told you to hell with the barn crew or the cleaning details.
I’d have told you that this was the worst place ever.
But, —
If you ask me now, I would tell you that I wish I could go back, at least for a day—to see my old friends or to see Cali the barn dog or look at the surrounding mountains which seemed to be like a protector (or self) or like Father Anthony, who next to only one other person, this was the kindest man I ever met.
Thanks, Trip.
Your words and memories came at a perfect time.
Peace be with you, my old “family” friend
(and also with your spirit).
The Written Addiction 