I dreamt of Suzanne Templeton earlier this week. Some time between 2:41 am when I woke for a drink of water, and 5 am when my alarm sounded. She was handing out awards to a select few among what seemed to be a small gathering of adults. I was struck by the absence of students, which were her usual company as a high school English teacher.
Suzanne filled my dreams two days after what would have been her 60th birthday. She didn't look a day over 35, with her stylish spectacles, shoulder-length light brown hair, and quick smile that made her eyes sparkle. While sitting in the audience as she described the accomplishments of an award winner, I held a T-shirt and bottle of wine, silently practicing the short speech I intended to make when bestowing her with the gifts.
Working the room like the accomplished teacher that she was, Suzanne moved up the center aisle and stopped one row ahead of mine to speak directly to someone. My view filled with only her and I was wowed with happiness and relief. I'm so glad you're back, I thought to myself while sending a note of thanks to the universe for ending the long wait.
Since 1990, I have dreamt about twice a year of her, and always the general theme is the same. She has returned. Suzanne is home after a long trip, extended unexpectedly, but now back to San Diego and the daughter, sister, brother, niece, nephew, longtime friends, and former students who loved her dearly. She is not dead, not like they told us, not killed in a car accident on a country road in England, returning from a day at Wimbledon.
It's true, what "they" say, loss never goes away. With time, you learn to live with it, they add. I'm not convinced that generality is as true as the first. Instead, my dream this week woke in me a new understanding - losses pile up, and with each addition, you feel all the others fresh again.
In my experience, the losses don't have to be big to trigger that deep down weight of many.
Yet, after this week's dream I find myself also wondering something else, wondering if Suzanne appeared as a symbol of something quite different. Perhaps what piles up, instead of loss, is desire. Desire to be the person she saw in me way back in 1985, a person I am still learning to understand.
Suzanne was our class advisor, and as junior class vice president, then senior class president, I looked to her for advice on how to navigate being a student, athlete, and leader. We spent hours upon hours together planning fundraisers and events, and built what became a trusted friendship. Eventually, I recognized in her the kind of person I wanted to be when I grew up.
She took a whole page in my senior yearbook to write me a note, one that three years later when she died suddenly, felt eerily prescient. Today, when I reread the final lines, I know that my intuition about the dream was right on. She is still here to inspire me.
"If you remember anything I've discussed with you, remember this - you are one of the strongest young adults I've ever met. Your life will move ahead - Success is your only alternative - Take time to make yourself happy - Never disregard yourself! I will miss you always - our time was too short - yet I know in my heart you will always be there in every way."
Suzanne filled my dreams two days after what would have been her 60th birthday. She didn't look a day over 35, with her stylish spectacles, shoulder-length light brown hair, and quick smile that made her eyes sparkle. While sitting in the audience as she described the accomplishments of an award winner, I held a T-shirt and bottle of wine, silently practicing the short speech I intended to make when bestowing her with the gifts.
Working the room like the accomplished teacher that she was, Suzanne moved up the center aisle and stopped one row ahead of mine to speak directly to someone. My view filled with only her and I was wowed with happiness and relief. I'm so glad you're back, I thought to myself while sending a note of thanks to the universe for ending the long wait.
Since 1990, I have dreamt about twice a year of her, and always the general theme is the same. She has returned. Suzanne is home after a long trip, extended unexpectedly, but now back to San Diego and the daughter, sister, brother, niece, nephew, longtime friends, and former students who loved her dearly. She is not dead, not like they told us, not killed in a car accident on a country road in England, returning from a day at Wimbledon.
It's true, what "they" say, loss never goes away. With time, you learn to live with it, they add. I'm not convinced that generality is as true as the first. Instead, my dream this week woke in me a new understanding - losses pile up, and with each addition, you feel all the others fresh again.In my experience, the losses don't have to be big to trigger that deep down weight of many.
Yet, after this week's dream I find myself also wondering something else, wondering if Suzanne appeared as a symbol of something quite different. Perhaps what piles up, instead of loss, is desire. Desire to be the person she saw in me way back in 1985, a person I am still learning to understand.
Suzanne was our class advisor, and as junior class vice president, then senior class president, I looked to her for advice on how to navigate being a student, athlete, and leader. We spent hours upon hours together planning fundraisers and events, and built what became a trusted friendship. Eventually, I recognized in her the kind of person I wanted to be when I grew up.
She took a whole page in my senior yearbook to write me a note, one that three years later when she died suddenly, felt eerily prescient. Today, when I reread the final lines, I know that my intuition about the dream was right on. She is still here to inspire me.
"If you remember anything I've discussed with you, remember this - you are one of the strongest young adults I've ever met. Your life will move ahead - Success is your only alternative - Take time to make yourself happy - Never disregard yourself! I will miss you always - our time was too short - yet I know in my heart you will always be there in every way."
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