Dreams

I’ve reached the point when I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t tired …

I hear bells. Seriously. I wake up at night hearing them – bells attached to the collars of horses.

Going. Moving.

I’m in a caravan of wagons. Going … out there. Somewhere. It’s so real. I’m not sure we have a direction, that is, we – I – have no defined goal. It’s more like a drawing … yes. I’m being drawn in a direction.

Funny. I’m in no hurry to get there – no hurry at all. I think I’m with a traveling company of gypsies. Don’t laugh. They are kind to me and pleasant – Hungarian or Russian, I think. And that’s fine. I like Hungarians and Russians. As people groups they are fatalistic, melancholy, and maybe as a result they are giving and warmly funny.

Julie tells me I’m dreaming a movie. Could be. The wagon I’m in is certainly something out of a 1930’s movie. But it feels so real. And the time feels like the 1930’s as well – somewhen between the world wars.

Last night was cool and blanket dark. After the horses were tethered and fed, someone built a roaring campfire. From a distance I could hear a mournful violin, and see the shadowy form of someone dancing around the fire. The scene became more and more surreal until I could no longer define what I was looking at.

Today I was cleaning out a cabinet in my den, and in one drawer I found a bell.

I waited.

Anticipating.