I woke up this morning gasping desperately for air, reaching toward the ceiling with my right arm.
Moments before I’d been walking next to a friend. She’d gone ahead of me toward the white, frothy place where oceans become land. But — just a few yards behind her — I’d sunk silently into the sand. I screamed though I knew she couldn’t hear me.
I once read somewhere that you shouldn’t struggle against quicksand. So, in my dream, I tried to stay still as I yelled for help. Yet still I sank deeper. “Don’t fight it,” I thought. “Stay calm.” But the cold, wet earth was reclaiming my body. I thought of Esteban and of my family. I held up my arm — fingers outstretched, in one last act of hope and defiance — as the sand closed in around my face.
With the benefit of daylight, the symbolism is clear: My home, which flooded with water a few months ago, is now flooded with dust. I’m drowning in details — floors, walls, fixtures, doors — and I’m deluged with calls. Money is slipping through my hands as a steady stream of workmen come to ply their trades.
I have a running conversation with a neuroscientist friend about the meaning and/or purpose of dreams. Are they just brain poop, our synapses’ undigested leftovers? Or are they an insight from deep within our subconscious?
Either way, the message I’m getting is clear: “Don’t fight. Stay calm. And stop turning everything into a metaphor.”
Which is exactly why I’m not going to mention the sinkhole that’s forming in front of the house …