The Reality of Dreams
The sour dregs of last night's dream are still with me this morning as I run through wet leaves, mud and puddles, my mind irrationally wondering if I could have shown more kindness to the woman who brought me a small white coffee instead of the cappuccino I'd ordered more than 30 minutes earlier, because the rest of her patrons were on her side, glowering at me when I told her it was wrong and too late now, anyway, and placed it on the windowsill by the door and left. I remember the name of the cafe began with M. I remember the clink of cup on saucer when I put it down, that the woman was rushing and anxious. I remember it was raining.
Bear with me now as I unpick it all, if you have the time, or sometimes feel haunted by your own dreams. I am, of course, the anxious woman. And yes, I qualify as a judgemental clientele. But I am myself too, opening the door and stepping into the clean, cool rain. And I am both the absence and presence of kindness which is, perhaps, something we all struggle with at times, when we must choose to bless ourselves over others.