We were taught by the grocery manager to avoid using the word "help" with customers. Americans don't want to believe they need help. Instead, those of us who bagged groceries at Super 1 were instructed to ask, "Can I take the cart out with you today?"
One Fall morning, a pleasant, chatty woman answered yes and I dutifully followed. A 31-year-old female bagger was an anomaly among a crew of high school boys and so she asked questions that led to my explaining I was new to Spokane and a graduate student in a local creative writing program. She noted she was a writer, too, for The Spokesman-Review. A columnist, in fact. About dreams. She interpreted the dreams described in letters sent in by readers. I don't recall before or since ever seeing such a column in another daily newspaper.
I could use her services these days. My dreams are long, arduous, and weighted with sadness. One has been recurring over the past year, with the most recent time it occupied my sleep just four days ago. My dad and I circled the interior corridor of a stadium in search of our seats. The ceilings were low and the structure primarily of cement. Other sports fans milled about, yet it felt distinctly lonely. I led the way, supposedly knowing this stadium pretty well, and still, I became more baffled the more we searched. This was not the place I remembered. When finally emerging from a tunnel into a section of seats overlooking the field from mid-level, I was downright mad. This isn't a baseball stadium! Why football!?
Some mornings I wake and know clearly that my mind has spent the night blowing off frustrations. I have yelled or punched things. Other mornings, I realize that the frustration actually built up over the wee hours, my dreams leaving me agitated and far from rested.
In waking life I seek baseball as a refuge. When I step into the bright sun of the bleachers and see the fanning out of the diamond with its perfect balance of emerald green grass and the slightly damp dirt infield, my shoulders relax, my lips curl into a giant grin, and I know again the joy of running free, of playing.
This damnable recurring dream seems to be turning my stadium joy on end. In one instance of the dream, Dad and I take our seats and I spend the last few moments before abruptly opening my eyes attempting to feel comfortable, to look out across the football field and feel at home.
It occurs to me this morning that my dream life is anything but quiet. It's big, but not quiet. And maybe that's the point. In this thing called sleep I am wrestling with the weight piled on during the day so that the next day I can leave the frustration and loneliness and sadness all piled up in that cavernous stadium. And in real life, I can trust that the playful joy of baseball is always near.
One Fall morning, a pleasant, chatty woman answered yes and I dutifully followed. A 31-year-old female bagger was an anomaly among a crew of high school boys and so she asked questions that led to my explaining I was new to Spokane and a graduate student in a local creative writing program. She noted she was a writer, too, for The Spokesman-Review. A columnist, in fact. About dreams. She interpreted the dreams described in letters sent in by readers. I don't recall before or since ever seeing such a column in another daily newspaper.
I could use her services these days. My dreams are long, arduous, and weighted with sadness. One has been recurring over the past year, with the most recent time it occupied my sleep just four days ago. My dad and I circled the interior corridor of a stadium in search of our seats. The ceilings were low and the structure primarily of cement. Other sports fans milled about, yet it felt distinctly lonely. I led the way, supposedly knowing this stadium pretty well, and still, I became more baffled the more we searched. This was not the place I remembered. When finally emerging from a tunnel into a section of seats overlooking the field from mid-level, I was downright mad. This isn't a baseball stadium! Why football!?
Some mornings I wake and know clearly that my mind has spent the night blowing off frustrations. I have yelled or punched things. Other mornings, I realize that the frustration actually built up over the wee hours, my dreams leaving me agitated and far from rested.
In waking life I seek baseball as a refuge. When I step into the bright sun of the bleachers and see the fanning out of the diamond with its perfect balance of emerald green grass and the slightly damp dirt infield, my shoulders relax, my lips curl into a giant grin, and I know again the joy of running free, of playing.
This damnable recurring dream seems to be turning my stadium joy on end. In one instance of the dream, Dad and I take our seats and I spend the last few moments before abruptly opening my eyes attempting to feel comfortable, to look out across the football field and feel at home.
It occurs to me this morning that my dream life is anything but quiet. It's big, but not quiet. And maybe that's the point. In this thing called sleep I am wrestling with the weight piled on during the day so that the next day I can leave the frustration and loneliness and sadness all piled up in that cavernous stadium. And in real life, I can trust that the playful joy of baseball is always near.
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