The Extraordinary Ordinary

Certain dreams seem universally to plague my friends—dreams of falling, of having to return to high school (the horror!), of having to take a college exam in a class to which one has neglected to show up all semester.

I had another recurring but pleasant dream as a young child: I would go down to the basement and discover secret rooms.  One day there might be a candy store tucked behind a sliding panel above the bookcase, or shelves full of glorious colorful art supplies.  Another day I might find my own book store hidden down there, with pillows where I could recline in peace and read.  (As I have mentioned, I come from a lengthening line of proud nerds.)

I dreamed last night that a very healthy Jim and I had discovered an extra two flights upstairs in our house, with many secret rooms.  Somehow these had escaped our notice during all our years in the house.   We went up together and found a strangely modern, pristine, and curiously painted extra two floors.

Notwithstanding  author Michael Chabon’s recent diatribe against sharing dreams–which he derided as “the Sea Monkeys of consciousness” and seems to think of as the crude flotsam of legitimate, waking thoughts–I don’t think it unreasonable to examine some of them to try to eke out what one might be missing in the noise of a day.

(With all due respect, if one is going to express one’s thoughts in a public forum, then is it necessarily more worthy–or less egocentric–to share only sensible, coherent, edited waking thoughts with those who drop by your little corner of the internet or the world?)

In my dream  Jim was in good health, and teasing me.  My dream Jim thought these additional rooms quickly would be staked out by me to squirrel away more books and fabric, and every piece of paper to which our children had once touched a crayon, paintbrush, or writing implement.

In this dream, Jim was not the only one restored to good health and vigor.  Our house was overflowing.  Many of our friends were walking around downstairs as if inspecting the house; our friend with dreadful back pain had his former gait and pain-free stance, and my parents were more nimble than they’ve been in years.

The children were  joking, as if unseen burdens had been revoked—or perhaps hadn’t yet been visited upon them.

Reality poked in obliquely at first, and my dream self became a bit confused and wary: Jim was telling me I could rent out these newly discovered floors while I sought a new home.  Why would I want to do that?  Why would we need to move now?

As most of my dreams are, in retrospect this one was fairly transparent.  I  had recently written about vintage physics professors moving up one floor closer to God.  Presto: my dream featured white stairways leading up.  I have been engaged for months in the emotionally tumultuous work of sorting out what to keep and what to donate when we move, relegating some things to deep storage.   Moving, and all of its attendant complications,  has been very much on my waking mind.

I do not doubt that some processing goes on when the brain is at rest—perhaps particularly  when the brain is at rest as little as mine is.

One thing I realized from this dream is that although I miss Jim’s presence more than I can bear, from the depth of his loss I also somehow now more deeply appreciate ordinary extraordinary things: a comparatively pain-free day for someone with a chronic  illness or condition, visits from friends and family, laughter from my children.   These things have been there all along, but I didn’t see them as clearly; sometimes they were tucked away from my conscious thoughts.

As preoccupied as I remain with this overwhelming loss, I think I also pay more attention to what remains (the beautiful and the terrible)–from other people and their losses to the blossoming plants and bright pink sunrises and sunsets I might have ignored while tending to the beagles, rushing people to school or re-reading the mac & cheese instructions for the 700th time (for a person with an unusual memory, I am unable to recall concrete instructions).  And I am so very grateful for all the people who take care of me—even when they don’t know they’re doing it.

About Stephanie

In her spare time, Stephanie works full-time, and then some, as an attorney. She has published articles and delivered talks in arcane fields like evidentiary issues, jury instructions, expert witnesses, and forensic evidence. She also is an adjunct professor at a law school on the banks of the Charles and loves that dirty water, as she will always think of Boston as her home. You are welcome to take a look at her Facebook author page, or follow @SMartinGlennon on Twitter. All content on this blog, unless otherwise attributed, is (c) 2012-2016 by Stephanie M. Glennon and should not be reproduced (in any form other than re-blogging in accordance with Wordpress protocol and the numerous other wee buttons at the bottom of each post) without the express permission of the domain holder.
This entry was posted in Back in the Real World, Love and Loss and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to The Extraordinary Ordinary

  1. bornbyariver says:

    I’m sorry that you had to find a new home, metaphorically, but may you always discover the treasures hidden away in all that surrounds us 🙂

    • Stephanie says:

      You’ve managed to put your finger on my missing connection! The secret treasures were there all along, but I had some trouble seeing them. It’s like an embodiment of that wonderful poem about knowing what kindness really is only once you know sorrow as “the other deepest thing.” Thank you.

  2. Chris says:

    Your dream also sounds like Jim helping you move on and making the next big step of finding your next big treasure… a new home.

  3. Pingback: Leader of the Flock | Live-Blogging Love and Loss

  4. Pingback: Weekly Photo Challenge: A Day in the Life | Love in the Spaces

  5. Pingback: Sweet . . . Tart | Love in the Spaces

  6. Pingback: The Size of the Cloth | Love in the Spaces

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s