“There is a relational world where silent languages are spoken, humming along both within and beside our own…To be in the world is to be in conversation with the world—but where nature speaks in subtle exchanges, we have all but forgotten our mother tongue.” - Chloe Hope
Sleep has always been a necessary nuisance - a time out imposed by my body that takes precious hours away from my various projects. Back in college, I thought I’d found a practical alternative when I took a marine biology course and learned that only half of a dolphin’s brain sleeps at one time. The other half remains awake, presumably to keep watch and carry on with the business of swimming, breathing, and eating. “Now that,” I thought, “is the perfect solution. The two sides of my brain can take turns sleeping and compare notes in the morning.” You can imagine my disappointment and annoyance when my professor informed me that homo sapiens do not have the ability to sleep with only half their brains.
Naturally, I took my grievances to D who listened for as long as he could keep a straight face before bursting into laughter. “That’s not how the human brain works, Maddy,” he said. “But I like the way you think.” He encouraged me to take a psychology class on dream interpretation so I could learn to appreciate the symbols employed by the subconscious during sleep. I took the class but was not impressed. “If my subconscious has something to say to me, why doesn’t it just spit it out while I’m awake?” I asked.
“I don’t have an answer,” D replied, “but I can tell you what Richard would say. He claims the subconscious has many levels and layers. But most of us aren’t trained to access or enjoy them.”
“Enjoy them?” I said. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Appreciate might be a better word,” D amended. “Richard claims to have learned all kinds of things while traveling and visiting with friends in sleep. Then again, you have to consider the source. He is Anitsisqua.”
Dreams were the last things on my mind as our little procession made its way to D’s cabin that night. Bentley and Gaitlin led the way, followed by Manuel, Nigel, and myself with Appalachia bringing up the rear. Moonlight from the near full moon was filtering through the forest canopy, glinting off the surface of the lake, and casting mottled shadows across our path. A light breeze carried the scents of honeysuckle, jasmine, and pine - rustling through the tree tops and underbrush. Ahead of me, Nigel and Manuel were walking in single file, either too preoccupied or too tired to make conversation. As for myself, I was grateful for the silence. I’d been replaying the events of the day - trying to digest what Ama told me about the Nvnehi and doing my best not to worry about Evan. Behind me, the steady clop, clop, clop of Appalachia’s hooves striking the dusty path was a soothing reminder that someone had my back.
At the cabin, Gaitlin did a quick check of the interior to make sure there were no unpleasant surprises waiting for us. Then Manuel led the way into the kitchen where he pulled kerosene lamps and matches from the cabinet beneath the sink. When he had two lanterns lit, he handed one to Nigel and used the second to light our way up the steep steps to the loft. “You know how to work these, right?” he asked.
“Yes, Evan showed me how,” I replied.
“Okay, then I’ll let you get some sleep. Just holler if you need anything,” he said. He set the lamp down on the dresser at the foot of the bed.
“Will do,” I said. The loft was tiny, with barely enough space to accommodate the twin bed, a two-drawer dresser, and an unsteady looking, three-legged table. A small round window set halfway up the back wall looked out at the night sky. On the table was a small leather-bound notebook with the silhouette of a cedar tree stamped on its cover. A stub of a pencil was lying on the table beside it. I waited until Manuel had gone back downstairs before picking it up and running my fingers over the etching. No matter how many times I held something D had used or carried with him, I still felt a surge of sadness. In these moments he felt both close and impossibly far away. A part of me was eager to see what the notebook held, but another felt I’d had enough excitement for one day.
In the end, curiosity won. I sat down on the bed, which sank beneath my weight with a loud squeak, and opened the notebook to the first page, on which was written, “Reflections of a Reluctant Dreamer” in D’s loopy nearly illegible handwriting. Recalling my conversations with D about the dream studies conducted by his colleagues in the psychology department as well as his descriptions of how Richard viewed dreaming, I had to smile. I wasn’t sure what had prompted him to embark on these reflections as he called them, but I wasn’t surprised to hear he was a reluctant participant. I turned the page and began reading.
“Well, well, well my friend. I’m delighted you found my little dream journal. After the laughter we enjoyed perusing the dream studies from the university archives, I admit to feeling slightly sheepish. I can only hope that you will read these reflections with compassion and an open mind. Richard, whom I trust implicitly as you know, told me that dreams are just other, less rigid and less time-restricted layers of reality. He claimed “lucid dreaming” (my words not his) strengthens the spirit and that spending too much time awake weakens our ability to hear the light.
When I asked him what he meant by “hear the light,” he said, “Look around you - listen around you. The light is singing to the trees and the water and the birds and the sky. And they are all singing in reply. It is the light-song of creation.” Then he closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. There was nothing theatrical or premeditated about this. In fact, I had the distinct impression that he’d forgotten I was even there.
I knew then that the Richard I knew - the slender, dark-skinned man with the goofy smile, encyclopedic knowledge of medicinal plants, and love of dance - was only a fraction of who he really was. It was a humbling moment and a reminder to listen closely when he spoke.
Dream Reflection #1
Richard approaches sleep with the excitement of a kid going out for recess. He plumps up his pillows, strips off all his clothes (dropping them in a heap on the floor), and falls backwards onto the mattress with a little whoop of pleasure. If I didn’t know better I’d swear he was asleep before his head hits the pillow. At any rate he’s gone within seconds - his face slack, body motionless, and breathing so deep and slow that I often press my ear against his chest just to hear his heartbeat. And there’s no waking him before he’d ready (I’ve tried).
I, on the other hand, am a light and restless sleeper. As you know from spending time in the field with me I also snore. Richard’s solution? Prep the mind for dreaming. The first thing he had me do was write down the name of someone I love on a small piece of paper. Next, I was to fold the paper in half and put it under my pillow. “Now go to sleep,” he said.
If you are feeling brave my friend, please join me in this little experiment. Write the name of someone you love on a piece of paper, fold that paper in half, and tuck it under your pillow. Selfishly I hope you’ll make use of the twin bed and pillow I left for you in the loft. But almost any place will do. When you wake up, write whatever you can recall on the back of this page (I’ve left all of them blank for you). With any luck, and if Richard is right about souls being eternal, I’ll see you in your dreams. With love, as always,
D
P.S. Don’t cheat and read about my dream before you have your own.
“Oh D,” I whispered after I finished reading his journal entry for the second time. “Why do you always make me cry?” I wiped the tears from my face with the hem of my shirt, then tore a small piece of paper from the top right corner of the page. Next, I used the stub of a pencil to write the letter D in its center, folded it in half, and tucked it under the pillow at the head of the bed. “You’d better show up,” I said as I crawled under the quilt and closed my eyes.
I woke the next morning with the sound of D’s voice reading a poem aloud stuck in my head. Before I could forget the words, I grabbed the pencil and wrote as fast as I could.
FOR CASEY
Little boy buddy,
Lover of bugs and all things brown –
Pine bark and deer turds, dead leaves and thick mud
Cracking in the summer’s wet heat.
You’d lie on your shadow-speckled blanket
Burbling and squealing with delight
as the hummingbird,
Drawn by the red of your diaper plump pants,
Buzzed your head.
Chances are you won’t remember me much;
Won’t remember the words of Oliver, Berry, Keats
I read like blessings over your sleep
Hoping to infuse your dreams
with images of Earth.
Chances are you’ll grow up steeped
in family versions of my life -
my strange, inexplicable need
to be myself.
But the truth,
(the dirt poor truth) of this singular life,
Is that my days were infused with wonder
And an abiding grace born of belonging
born of knowing
I was right with the world.
If I could, I’d leave you bread crumbs
Tidbits of my life
To ease your way and make the world’s disdain
Less opaque.
If you remember anything,
remember sipping sweet black tea on the porch at dusk;
the sounds of the crickets waking to work;
the jasmine-scented breath of waves
lapping at the rocks.
Remember that I loved you
And that your arrival made it easier
for me to go. - Your Uncle D
Copyright 2024 by Jena Ball. All Rights Reserved.
Anitsisqua - One of the seven Cherokee clans symbolized by the hawk. Members of the Anitsisqua were considered the spiritual guides and interpreters in Cherokee communities.
Nvnehi - An immortal race that often befriended and helped the Cherokee.
Links to the 20 previous chapters
Jena I just read it now.
It is so lovely in this departure of D and the child coming.
This is probably so often the case and in the same way, as moving. Thank you Jena.
I love the back and forth
Deeply touched.
Most poems are meant to be read aloud--thank you for the aural version.
Pacing: It's good to have a break after all the action.
After reading this chapter, I remembered something I'd always known.
[[I thought that when I moved to where I live now, I would have more calm to listen. Then life threw me multiple curve balls. Thank you for reminding me to live in all the planes.]]