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Dream: 3.22.15

March 23, 2015

I’m at a large gathering/event, held in a lovely outdoor setting, somewhat like Rock Creek Park (Washington DC). The trees have green leaves. The tables have white linens. {It’s probably summer-ish, based on the lightweight clothing people are wearing.}

My family of origin, maternal side, was somehow the focus of part of the event. While everyone (else) in my family was introducing themselves and their stories to the crowd, I slipped away, seeking out coordinators to find out if I could get an ASL interpreter for my own remarks, “even though Gramma never did learn ASL”.

There was some kind of mixup or misunderstanding, because what I found out from the coordinators was information on classes in ASL that I could take. So, that wasn’t what I’d been seeking, but… I suddenly notice the stream nearby, and the large rocks it’s running amongst. There are birds chirping, and it’s a beautiful day, and I feel… hopeful, and curious about what’s next. Maybe a class is somehow just what I’ve been needing.

Somewhat reluctantly, I go back to the other event-thingy. The stage is gone; no one is presenting anything. All the people (mostly women) are paired up, at tiny tables for two, talking animatedly about something or other.

I wake up.


Gramma went progressively deaf, beginning (I think) in middle age. I learned basic signs as a kid, but no more; Gramma didn’t know ASL at all (afaik). For many years, I wanted to take ASL lessons — I wanted us both to take them — so we could converse at greater depth, without having to write notes so much. It never happened though.

In the dream, the ASL interpreter would have been to honor how much Gramma meant to me. It wasn’t about communicating with actual deaf people (since Gramma herself is long dead).

But the class in ASL… it was a way to claim? Reclaim? Something for myself. Something that began a long time ago, in far different circumstances, yet is still relevant, or has (perhaps unexpectedly) returned to relevance. And something that could flower now.

The water running over mossy stones, the birds chirping… surely that’s to do with Connecting to My Watershed. Or just, Waterbodies that I’m in Relationship with.

  • A different way of communicating
  • Honoring or remembering those who mattered to me, long ago
  • Connecting to Place, esp my current habitat
  • Possibility re-opened, re-imagined
  • Hope and Interest


I will probably need to write about Sunday’s “spider incident”. If I hadn’t written that exact poem a year ago, would I have been able to hold fast the way I did? Maybe. But the poem amplified the courage of my convictions.

The hike down to the Kentucky River, Saturday, shifted things. Changed things. I changed. As I hiked, I found myself saying a line from a poem that I didn’t know how to write. When I wrote the line, months and months ago, I thought it came from… duende… but Saturday? I realized it came from… joy.

I’m starting to find my real self again. And she’s not, quite, the person I would have been.

I think she’s… better. Different. Older, wiser, but younger and more playful too.

That whole hike was a poem.

I don’t know if I’ll find words that half do it justice. But the words are just pawprints in the mud.


Some things are starting to make sense, down deep. They’re starting to flow.

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