I woke up early at 6 am and then went back to sleep to dream. That early morning dream was set in limestone mines, the same mines that I had worked in growing mushrooms. It had been over six years since I last stepped foot in those mines. I ordered blue jeans and a couple of t-shirts from an online retailer for a young man working there. After we received the order of this name-brand apparel, we learned that the companies producing them was sending money to the Taliban. We could not keep them and considered burying or burning them. The young man naturally wanted his money back (and we should not have wanted to see his money diverted to the Taliban), so we decided to return the items. We pulled the return slip looking for the correct return code. What would the code be to explain we did not want our money sent to the Taliban? That is when I awoke and remembered that dream and an earlier one.
In the earlier dream my daughter, Cary, and I stole a car. I cannot remember if my grandson was with us, but there was a car seat strapped in the back. It did not seem as if we were stealing the car because my daughter gave the gas station owner her ID before taking the car. Suddenly though, we were being chased by the cops out Route 422. We sped ahead of them and turned left before the cops rounded the bend to see our turn. We drove on that road and reached the above-ground buildings for those limestone mines. There was some event for children going on in the front office. We walked in and slunk into the crowd of people who included a sheriff in uniform. We hung behind the crowd watching for the cops to come up that road. The details at this point became shadowy and could not be pulled back from where they had disappeared. Later we were driving lost on country roads discussing how to turn ourselves in. My daughter was concocting a story to explain and/or take responsibility, and then that was the end.
Later in the shower I remembered an extract from another dream during the night. Cary, my husband, me, and two nameless faceless others were getting a group manicure that cost exactly $21.50 each. To think of my husband sitting for a manicure fills me with laughter. My manicurist recommended a pedicure too, but there was not enough time for that chore. My dead-skin feet would take an intense session, their condition the result perhaps of too many flip-flops.
It seemed as if I was watching movie shorts all night. Why did I remember these dreams from last night when so many other nights’ dreams disappear in the morning light? Did these dreams have meaning? What was on my mind that stimulated these stories? Do people ever believe their dreams are real or literal?
Perhaps in the next centuries we will understand our mind both asleep and awake.