Crossing Over

Her dream was meant to be finished. She awoke to the sound of the neighbor’s hammer. A slipping board had proved too much for the old man, up in age and easily distracted from the business of dying. His time for subduing the earth was diminishing. Taking no thought of the dreaming woman in the house next door, he herded the board into place with his hammer and drove it in place with several nails.

The formerly dreaming woman stared at the ceiling, remembering. Following the elaborate production of the Wizard of Oz, she stood in the bleachers to get a glimpse of the water outside. This was the beginning of her dream, or at least the beginning of what was remembered. While the neighbor argued with belligerent vines between her house and his, she stared at the fan revolving over her bed and pieced together the rest. Before its interruption, the dream had put appendages, square footage and geography to her confusion. It had been the hands that pull a rabbit from a hat. Only in her case, the hands had placed her in the hat. She was the rabbit, the interior of the hat was not that of a hat, too small and too dark to take note of, but rather a place of light and activity, the tail end of a grand production. Adjusting her pillow, she recalls its particulars. Herself standing applauding, then retreating from a bleachered auditorium to the docks outside. Her contemplation to enter the water was interrupted by a pleasant enough assistant to the manger. With a southern gentility, he called her back, explaining the risks and ordinances against enjoying the water in full view of the dining guests. Sensing her disappointment, he calls her to the opposite side of the building. This, she decides, is because he is about to give her information he is not authorized to give, or if not authorized, certainly not encouraged in the middle of a busy night when he should be serving paying guests. With the building between him and management, he points to a place on the opposite shore.

"Over there is a place where the water will spin you in its embrace." The idea immediately appeals to her. She pictures herself being playfully tumbled by water. She sees the water as her lover and she its surrendering bride. He continues his explanation.

"There is a saying about that spot. Tell them to go slowly as they make their way in. Unless they are old. If they are old, tell them to hurry."

The neighbor yanks at another vine. She hears him groan. For his sake, she is glad he is making headway in the small scale jungle between their stucco houses. Already the dream is dissipating. She remembers her disappointment in the dream. She looked out across the water, realizing she would not be able to find the spinning spot alone. Finding the place required a knowledge she did not have. Speaking to her unspoken sorrow, the kind man makes an offer.

"If you want to go, I will take you."

"Now?"

"Yes. Now."

"I must change my clothes. Wait."

"Hurry," he says.

As she turns to leave, the man asks for a hug.

"Not now," she says. "Later, after the spinning."



P.S. Don't try to figure this out. I think it is about the stone of myself needing to be polished beneath the swelling tide of God's love. I can't be entirely sure. I'm drinking micro-waved coffee..........