Recent entry in my dream journal: “I’m walking along a winding dirt road through some woods. The trees loom tall, redwoods, perhaps, but stand closer together. I can see nothing in them. All is dark. At first, I’m frightened by what might be in these woods, but gradually, I become curious. I decide to leave the road and enter the darkness.”
I started keeping a dream journal about a year ago, after attending a four-week program on dreams, using the theories of Carl Jung, the great Swiss psychologist and psychoanalyst. Jung felt that dreams were our private myths and served to help heal us by showing us how to live to our fullest potential. I write my dreams down to help me try to figure out what might be spawning them and what they’re trying to tell me, keeping in mind that for Jung, the goal is not to interpret dreams so much as it is to, as he said, “amplify” them, expanding or increasing the meanings we might give them.
The most obvious interpretation of this dream is that the dark woods are the dark woods of my mortality. Another high school classmate has died recently of a heart attack. A year and a half ago, I had heart bypass surgery. I recovered, feeling better than I’d felt in years. Three or four months ago, however, I had a day when I had some tightness in my chest and my legs felt heavy. Even when the tightness went away, walking for the next day or so was like slogging through Maine’s mudflats. Since then, I’ve had periods of light headedness and my heart rate has dropped in the morning to below 50 bpm and jumped during normal walking, sometimes to over 130 bpm. I tire more easily.
So, I contacted my heart doctor, who asked me to wear a monitor for two weeks and have a stress test. As we did a year and a half ago, Mary Lee and I had some serious discussions. Once again, I showed her where all the financial stuff is. I thought again about what I want printed on my funeral bulletin and grew misty-eyed in thinking about not being able to watch my grandchildren become adults.
But earlier this week, after I’d had the stress test, pounding the treadmill and watching on a monitor images of my heart that looked like cartoon sea creatures, the doctor said my heart looks to be in great shape—that if it was possible to ace a stress test, I did.
So perhaps the dark woods of my dream don’t represent my physical mortality, but the death of life as I’ve lived it for nearing eighty years. I mean, even if my light-headedness and heart fluctuations can be corrected, I know that I can no longer walk as far or as fast as I could even a year ago, and that all those lessons I learned in my athletic days—“suck it up!” “Go through the pain!” “Move it, Wile, faster, faster!” —not only don’t work anymore, they could kill me. I will have to learn to live with heart issues just as I’ve had to learn to live with back problems.
Equally, if not more important, I’m going to have to accept that values I’ve held all my life—respecting the dignity of others, working together for the common good, the value of education, hospitality, self-sacrifice—seem to be becoming more endangered species in today’s divisive culture. I’m not sure I will ever feel completely safe in this country again.
That I’m afraid of the dark woods in my dream—whether they represent my body or my values—makes sense, but that I can be curious about them to the point of actually wanting to enter the darkness?
Maybe that’s exactly what I need to do. My 12-step sponsor and I often talk about how important curiosity can be in my life as a way to overcome my tendency to be judgmental of others and of myself. Judgment, she says, is narrow, limiting, and leads to anxiety when I judge I’m being threatened. Curiosity, she says, will be expansive, giving me room to grow.
Still, replacing fear with curiosity seems like a tall order.
And maybe I don’t need to. In one of those moments of synchronicity that often come when I’m writing these blogs, I was looking through my old journals a while back and ran across a postcard I’d picked up at a retreat a couple of years earlier. At first it seemed a sweet picture—a naked child reaching out towards a hummingbird—until I discovered that the artist, Holly Meade, titled her woodcut “Pondering Death.” I’d pulled the picture out of the journal and stuck it in a folder of ideas for future blogs.
I examined the postcard again, treating it like another dream. Death, in the figure of the bird, is small but bright red, the only color here besides black and white. The hummingbird still looks alive to me. Or maybe the red is to make it not alive, but real. The child, who could be male or female, is naked, vulnerable. The way the hair falls keeps the young person totally focused on the bird, yet the way the hair is sharply cut creates a palpable space between child and bird, between life and death.
Most of all, I’m struck by how the artist shows the act of “pondering” in the body rather than in the face. The boy or girl squats, one hand reaching out, as if to hold the bird, but barely touching it, the other hand stretched behind for balance, as if to keep from falling.
In fact, everything in this woodcut seems in balance: male and female, sitting and standing, reaching out and drawing back, curiosity and fear.
Maybe my dream of the dark woods is not so much about replacing fear with curiosity, but of pondering them both without judgment. My doctor told me that I was wise to let him know of the changes in my heart, by which I take it that a little fear is a good thing. The trick is not to let fear close me off and to cultivate that part of me that retains a childlike sense of curiosity, wonder, enthusiasm, and delight about what lies around me.
And maybe, since this is the week of Thanksgiving, I can set my fears aside at least for a few days and be not only curious, but grateful for my family, my writing, my banjo, my daily walks (albeit taken more slowly), and the other graces that abound in my life.
After all, in that dream, I don’t actually enter the dark woods. I’m still walking the road. (With a break now and then.)
One thought on “Just Pondering”
This business of aging is really a surprising venture, isn’t it? We lose so much; we gain so much; we find we aren’t any longer exactly who we’ve always thought we are; and it isn’t always clear who we’re becoming. Maybe there’s a blessing in not having to work, and being slowed down: more time to reflect, to take it all in, to see patterns emerge, to discover.
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