Arthur Dent, wise man in an insane universe, once said “It must be Thursday. I can never get the hang of Thursdays” (or something close to that). Yeah – what he said.
I woke up this morning, the mosquito of depression buzzing around my head. I think perhaps I’m bored – work is not exciting. World of Warcraft is fun but when I’m playing that I’m not actually doing anything productive towards my house chores (cleaning – never ending cleaning. And repairing, which I’m not good at. There’s lots of repairs to be made to my poor house). And my writing is stalled. Maybe I don’t have that “I must finish this book” thing going on, so I’m being lazy.
Anyway, I surfed this morning to one of my favorite sites, Inspiration Peak (www.inspirationpeak.com) and there was a post called Monkey Mind. I was previously familiar with this, and I just find it interesting that it happened to be posted again today – just when I needed to be reminded.
Monkey Mind is a Buddhist thing, comparing the way one’s thoughts can swing from tree to tree and not go anywhere productive. The cure is to take a deep breath and then let it out, and take another, and let it out, and repeat – concentrating on each breath. How that breath goes in – how it goes out – what it feels like during the in between times when one is neither breathing in nor out. Do that for five minutes and the monkey mind falls out of the tree and is now intent.
Also on the Inspiration Peak website is today’s message from the Universe. Today it says,
“Your dreams are not yours by accident. You have them for a reason, many reasons, not the least of which is to make them come true. Your dreams, ARE WHAT’S MEANT TO BE!”
So…Let’s examine that for a moment. Let’s say Harry’s been having trouble sleeping because he’s worried about work, and the dog, and the unexpectedly quick and somewhat dissatisfying ending to Life (the TV show). Then he finally falls asleep…
and dreams about blood, lots of blood – no one in particular’s blood, but human blood. It’s useful for so many things, someone in his dream tells him. It’s not a scary dream, just an odd one. Later (as dream-time is hard to follow, later might be the next second or it might be several hours) Anthony Bourdain and Gene Simmons are there and Harry asks Gene if he can use Gene’s shovel. Gene says “well of course, go to it” in his Gene voice.
The dream goes on, not making any sense to Harry when he wakes up, as it did not really make any sense during either. But Harry wakes up with a new found respect for blood. What, he wonders as I’m sure you do too, does dreaming about blood mean?
Let’s look at our message from the Universe again: “Your dreams are not yours by accident. You have them for a reason, many reasons, not the least of which is to make them come true. Your dreams, ARE WHAT’S MEANT TO BE!”
Oooo-kay. Blood, Harry thinks. The Universe says that I’m dreaming about the usefulness of blood and now it should come true. Will I get to meet Anthony Bourdain and Gene Simmons? Will Gene Simmons let me borrow his shovel? Am I meant to do something with Gene Simmons’ shovel and a bunch of blood?
The Universe, wise and all knowing, winks at Harry and moves on about its business. Harry goes online and looks up Blood in a Dream Dictionary (http://www.dreammoods.com/dreamdictionary/b2.htm). Nope, he wasn’t bleeding. Nothing written in blood, not pregnant or menstruating (boy wouldn’t that be a change for our boy Harry!). Didn’t drink any blood. Just had it, on his hands, on the table, in little baggies, poured over things. Dispassionate blood. Useful blood.
Harry searched for Shovel in the dream dictionary. http://dreammoods.com/cgibin/dreamdictionarysearch.pl?method=exact&header=dreamsymbol&search=shovel
Harry, the dictionary tells him, is on a quest of self-discovery.
Well, Harry thinks, there you have it. He leaves for work, stopping by Starbucks for a cup of Brazilian nut coffee, the English cafe for a to-go breakfast, Ace Hardware for a shovel, and the PetsMart for a bag of dog biscuits and a new chew toy. He finally gets to work and he’s only ten minutes late. Smiling to himself he settles in at his pod, and starts to eat his blood sausage.
“Harry,” his boss calls, “Can I see you in my office?”
Ah, here it comes, Harry thinks. Late for the third time this week.
Harry goes into the boss’ office and closes the door behind him.
Later, which could have been a second or maybe an hour, Harry’s in his backyard, watching his dog enjoy the new chew toy, standing over a pile of fresh dirt with a bloody shovel in hand, a smile on his face.
What the dream really meant, Harry decided, is that he needed a vacation.