One Night, Two Dreams
What is solid? What is real? One night, two dreams. Sleeping in the basement of my mother’s house, the house I lived in during high school. The house I left before I finished my senior year.
In the first, I find a strong smooth walking stick, a branch that’s perfect as a staff. It is the tarot Ace of Wands, I realize. The staff of power, energy, life. Potential. Fate that is not yet written. I reach for it, knowing with certainty, saying, “I need that.”
I awake, and think of the branch I found toward the beginning of the Camino, my walking stick for the entire pilgrimage. Right there on the side of the path, I had christened it Saint Thomas, after the disbelieving apostle, befriending my science-mind’s need for surety on a journey of faith, letting my doubts and incredulity support me on my path. Learning to live in the not-knowing, between being right and wrong, here or there, this way or that way. Saint Thomas, who ended up covered in talismans and treasures, colorful cords and wires, feathers, Basque symbols, shells.
I rolled over and went back to sleep.
In the second dream, I’m at a dark gathering, an ominous party, which quickly becomes demons cavorting in dark fancy costumes. I am at the masquerade ball, in hell, the psychic’s warning I’d been given. These are my mother’s family. During the dream, all I can think is, “I need that staff.”