Calm

I give terrific dream analysis though often I find it impossible to decipher my own. This one I did and it still resonates with me days later.

In the dream I was in a room - they're always interesting these rooms, bear no relation to any dwelling I've ever lived in or been in, though sometimes there's a faint familiarity.

At the outset I tell you I don't believe in any form of afterlife and have written extensively about my god-free life so I don't attach any kind of hereafter messages to any dreams I have about dead people.

So this dream: I was housekeeping in this large white room, surrounded by cleaning utensils. I don't housekeep in real life. I keep things sanitary and hygienic but heavy cleaning is Emma's job. So here I am sitting on the floor in this room staring at a vacuum cleaner, wondering about nozzles and power cords when I hear a cough. And I look up and at the doorway is my mother and she has a doll, infant sized, over her shoulder and she's patting it and pointing at it with her other hand. She's silent but insistent I look at it. I get up off the floor, away from the furniture polish and bottles of cleaner and start to walk over to her very slowly, puzzled, saying "Mum, Mum?" over and over. She's smiling but her hands keep moving in the same pattern.

And I wake up suddenly and I'm crying so hard in my loss and grief that it takes me about five minutes to stop and I, the dream expert, breathe in some calm and analyze.

Everyone appearing in a dream is just another aspect of ourselves. And for once, this one's clear as a bell

I can fooster my way round, distracted by the baubles of life and neglect my doll, my creative spirit which needs stroking and care and attention.

And all the promises I made to myself a few months ago about entering more competitions, writing new material, were sucked away by other distractions, some major like the writing workshops I'm giving, others minor like projects in my town and, lawd, editing, editing and editing an anthology (don't ask, unpaid work more's the pity, I was sucked in, my own fault).

So yeah, time to clean house for sure and concentrate on, well, my bliss.

Death

Much talk about death lately in the stuff I read and on the airwaves.

On the radio coming home last night, there was a most interesting chat about Death Cafes. I wouldn't mind hosting one. Seriously. So very many people are squeamish about the grim reaper. But out here on the Edge? It would be a further notation on my "she's nuts, isn't she?" file.

What carries most people through the idea of their own death is the thought of the wonderful afterlife awaiting them surrounded by those beloveds (what about the behateds?) gone before them, clearing a space on the sofa so to speak.

What would you do all day, I ask them.

Praise God, or some such form of an answer comes back at me.

Privately, I think: what an incredibly boring existence that would be.

I mean, I imagine meeting my mother in the afterlife. What on earth would we talk about? She'd know everything wouldn't she, having observed all and sundry, the bad and the good and the pitiful, in the 45 years since she left us.

"Mum, will I tell you about my play?"

"Oh my Pet I saw it all, it was great and your thought processes to get there were very interesting too."

Long Pause.

"You'd have liked your great-granddaughter, Mum."

"Oh, darling, I watch her all the time, look, come sit down by me and we'll watch her together."

Long Pause.

I mean seriously now, wouldn't you rather watch paint dry? Except I'm damn sure there's no paint in heaven.

And the praise God bit?

Wouldn't you think She'd have enough of that nonsense? You know hymns 'n psalms 'n stuff echoing unendingly 24/7 at Her from down here below already.

I mean I can see Her now. clutching Her eardrums, closing Her eyes, shouting at the billions of dead, now risen, at Her feet:

"For feck's sake, would you all get a bloody life?"

The Invisible Cosmic Housekeeper

People ask me about God.

What do you believe?

Do you have a deity?

Are you a lapsed Catholic?

lapsed
 
–adjective
1. expired; voided; terminated: a lapsed insurance policy.
2. no longer committed to or following the tenets of a particular belief, obligation, position, etc.: a lapsed Catholic.

Well, yeah, I guess you could call me that.

Personally, I’d prefer the word “recovered” though, if you don’t mind.

re·cov·er v. tr.

1. To get back; regain.
2. To restore (oneself) to a normal state: He recovered himself after a slip on the ice.
3. To compensate for: She recovered her losses.
4. To procure (usable substances, such as metal) from unusable substances, such as ore or waste.
5. To bring under observation again: "watching the comet since it was first recovered—first spotted since its 1910 visit" (Christian Science Monitor).
v. intr.

1. To regain a normal or usual condition, as of health.
2. To receive a favorable judgment in a lawsuit.

As in: I’m now restored to a normal state.

I’m in fit mental condition.

I believe in logic.

I believe in science.

What’s that you say?
No, I don’t believe in religion.
Yes. Of any kind.
Yeah, it does seem that that’s hard for you to believe.
What’s that about the bible?
It was written for people like me?
By whom?
No, I don’t think God wrote it.
Oh, he dictated it?
How do you know that?
Oh, the bible says so?
Well, that doesn’t compute for me, that logic thing I have. Sorry.

Thanks for asking. But if I did believe in God the whole scene would go like this:

My god has no religion.
My god has no gender.
My god has no agenda.

Basically I don’t believe in an Invisible Cosmic Housekeeper or ICH for short. Especially one who is always whining for more money and the biggest fanciest house in the poorest neighbourhood.

Blasphemy you say?

Well, I’m quite cool with that.

No, really I am.

And another thing I really believe in, you want to hear it?

My rights end exactly where yours begin.

Namaste.