Calm

I have a dream. Colby and I are setting up a booth in a stall in a large, old horse barn at a fairgrounds so I can sell my books. Our stall is located on a corner in the center of the barn. There is an aisle coming toward us slightly off the center of the stall to the left and a second aisle is in front of us. From the left, this second aisle comes in straight and parallels perfectly the front of the stall, but just past the stall, it takes about a 30 degree turn to the right. I know there are a lot more stalls down that aisle, but because of the turn, I can't see them, I have a sense that there are well over 100 stalls in the barn. Each stall is wooden with dutch doors and painted white. Unless people are going through it, the bottom half of each stall door is closed, while the top half is fastened open with a large hook. The floor of the aisle is blacktop and the background throughout this dream continues this black and white theme.

Our dog Katie is with us. Katie passed away in 1991. She was 11 then, and Colby was six. Katie is a small poodle mix. She weighed about 8 pounds here on Earth and I loved her so much I called her my first-born child.

In setting up the booth, everything goes wrong––rude booth neighbors, can't find the lunch counter and when I do find it right next to my booth there is no food, I keep dropping things––yet I have an unending sense of calm. Colby is there and we are talking regularly, conversing, yet he is not actively helping me. This is okay. It is as if he is overseeing a job I am supposed to do. He offers kind, quiet assurance that no matter what happens, all is well.

Colby looks well, too. He is wearing light blue jeans, scuffed white tennis shoes, and a yellow and blue and white striped polo shirt. He sits on a stool to my right most of the time and swings his right leg back and forth. Katie wiggles out underneath the stall door to explore the barn. Even though she is tiny, I do not worry. I know she will be fine.

At some point Colby and I leave the booth so I can go to another area of the fairgrounds to speak to a group of people. One the way we pick up Snoqualmie. Snoqualmie is the wonderful white Appaloosa mare I had for 23 years. During those years she was my best friend. Snoqualmie rides in a trailer behind a truck Colby drives, and I ride in the passenger seat. Even though we are just going to the other side of the fairgrounds, we drive through a busy downtown area with lots of tall white almost transparent buildings. The edges of the buildings are soft, fuzzy, misty. Busy people in black suits carry briefcases. I should be upset about the stop and go traffic, but I am not. I am very calm and relaxed. I should be worried about Snoqualmie riding behind us in the trailer, but I know she is fine. At one stop light I roll down the window and place my arm on the door. The weather is perfect.

We get to a small conference center, Colby, Snoqualmie and me. In the lobby we find a stand of complimentary beverages, coffee, tea, soft drinks, and a woman rushes to us; we are late. My presentation was to begin at 1:15. I had been told 1:30. I check for my paperwork, but can't find it. My watch says 1:23. It will be 1:30 before I walk down the long hall and get set up. The people in my audience, the woman says, are restless. I remain calm, relaxed. It is all fine.

Inside my room the people are eager to hear what I have to say. They are atttentive, interested. The mix up on time means I have to shorten my presentation from 60 minutes to 45, but that's okay, too. It goes well. As I walk out of the presentation room into the hall, I wake up. The details of the dream are as sharp and clear as if it had been real, but what I remember most is the overwhelming sense of peace and calm. All is well. All is as it should be. There is nothing to worry about. I have been so nervous and egdy lately, the dream is the perfect balance. Today I feel as if I can focus, and for that, I am grateful.