Dr. Jung Would Be Stumped

Carl Jung - pioneer of dream-interpretive psychoanalysis

Last night I had a dream that I was in a bar (didn't know why until the end of the dream - believe it or not, I wasn't imbibing).  I was sitting alone at a table, and in one hand I was holding a Phoenix (the bird, not the city).  In the other hand I had a Bald Eagle.  The two birds weren't friendly (perhaps because one is our nation's symbol and the other is, um, fictional?), so I was doing my best to keep them apart, by holding one on either side of my body.  

Phoenix (pretend bird), and Eagle (actual species)

Along came someone (I think it may have been one of my students from Sock Summit), who kindly offered me the gift of a Roadrunner.
 

American Roadruner (The bird, no the cartoon)

Not wanting to be rude to my student, I graciously accepted the third bird, to whose company neither the Phoenix nor the Eagle was receptive.

My efforts to keep all of the beautiful birds from hurting one another in the resulting skirmish of beaks and claws realized one of my worst fears:  My hands were pulverized into pulp.  I kept pleading with the three birds, "No, no! Please not my hands - I have to knit or I'll never finish my book!".

All three birds totally ignored me, but eventually Phillip came in.  I was sobbing, but he bandaged up my bleeding fingers, and helped me stuff each bird into a separate tortilla-chip basket (as people obviously would do in this situation).  And now, if you ever have wondered how my mind really works, this may explain a few things:

In my dream, Phillip turned to me and said "Hey! This sounds like the beginning of an awful joke:  A Phoenix, an Eagle and a Roadrunner walk into a bar..."

And that's when I woke up this morning, laughing to myself and checking my hands for peck-wounds.

I spent some time thinking about this dream, and what it might really be about.  Here's what I think:

1.    The Phoenix represents my imagination, and all the designs for the book I'm working on.  The designs are my favorite part of the process, and of the finished product.  They are my primary language - the mother tongue with which I communicate to my friends, the Knitters.

2.    The Eagle stands for the government and structure in my life. Without a schedule, it's just me knitting, and wistfully thinking how great things would be if I could share my work with my soulmates in stitches. 

And everything remains pretty safe for me, until the need arises to introduce:

3.    The Roadrunner, who must surely be my deadline.  I have to work fast and furious.  I have no time for mistakes, headaches, or any other symbolic Coyotes.

That third component has clearly unleashed a few fears for me, notably that something might happen to keep me from completing the book. 

Weird, no?  Poor Dr. Jung really dodged a bullet by dying in time to miss this one.  Lucky Bastard.

On Sullivan's Pond

Painting by Mark Vidler

The Owl and the Pussycat
    Went to sea
    In a beautiful Pea Green boat
    They took some honey
    And plenty of money
    Wrapped up in a five-pound note
    -Edward Lear

My father did not read to me when I was a child because dyslexia made it nearly impossible for him to manage printed words.  I never knew this though, because instead of reading, he told stories. 

Most of my early youth was spent on the Columbia River, messing about in boats.  Every weekend and all summer, we were on the boat.  Once anchored, the only way ashore again was to take the dinghy.  And on the odd lazy summer afternoon, my father and I would aimlessly go for a row among the backwaters and sloughs near the islands where we anchored.  He rowed when we were against the current, I rowed when we went with it.  And as we went, he told me stories about the Owl and the Pussycat, who, after going to sea, had many subsequent adventures together. 

Once, Owly and Pussy found themselves on Sullivan's Pond, where they met an entire cast of characters, and had one exciting scrape after another, narrowly averting disaster by means of their cleverness and good humor.  By the end of that episode, the sun was going down over the river, Dad's arms and mine were both useless stumps from rowing, Dad's voice was hoarse, and we had sunburned cheeks and noses.  As we turned the dinghy back toward the boat, my father asked the seven-year-old me if I would one day write down the stories of Sullivan's Pond, which I promised I would. 

I've thought about Sullivan's Pond thousands of times since that day.  How special it was for the youngest of five children to have my father all to myself.  How delighted we both were as the story unfolded.  How real the characters became to us.  How much I wanted to visit the real Sullivan's Pond.  And one day, years later, how I understood that the backwaters of the Columbia River where my father rowed with me in the dinghy were the real Sullivan's Pond.  We had really been there, all along.  And he was the Owl, and I was the Pussycat.  And when he asked for me to write down the stories, it wasn't because he was afraid we'd forget them, but because he could not do it himself.  He thought that if they were written down, they would belong permanently to me in a way that his storytelling could not.  He was wrong about that, but I understood why he thought so.

I hope I'll be able to remember the stories properly, as it seems it's finally time to make good on my promise to write them down.  My father died on Saturday.

Bon Voyage, Owly.  I'll see you on Sullivan's Pond.

We Three Patriots

My family likes to attend a little country fireworks display each Independence day, held on the football field of a wee high school about 45 minutes east of us.  They have Elephant Ears and Shaved Ice, and there's a parade with some very shiny fire trucks.  Real Norman Rockwell stuff.

This year, I elected to stay home with Paisley and Bailey, though, for two very good reasons:

        1.    Having never spent an Independence Day with Bailey, I had no idea what he would think of fireworks.  I was worried he'd freak out, and it seemed cruel to leave him alone without knowing how he'd manage.

        2.    I only partially made my book deadline, and I'm frantically trying to catch up.  However much fun I might miss with the fam, duty calls, so there it is.

But don't cry for me, Argentina.  My neighbors, most of whom have smallies, are no slouches in the fireworks department.  These people must have special savings accounts for the piles of cash they explode every year.  God Love 'Em.  And if that weren't enough, our house is adjacent to a lake, from which a pretty respectable fireworks display is launched every year, and if you hold your head just right, you can see some of it from our north-facing windows.

Around 10PM, I completed a chapter for my 3-days-prior-deadline and e-mailed it to my editor with deep relief.  I took a little break to see what was going on outside.

As it turns out, the fireworks at the lake have grown into quite a little show.  Having left to attend the other display with my family each of the last few years, I had no idea how fancy it was getting.  I had a fairly clear view of the display through the glass window of our front door.  But it occurred to me that if I went upstairs, the window above our bed would afford an even higher vantage point. 

So I collected the dogs (who, it should be noted, did not care a whit about the noise - in fact they were a little annoyed at being woken up to watch with me), and went upstairs to see what it looked like from up there.

While I was right about the height affording a better angle, I failed to take into account the maple tree outside the bedroom window, which in the full leaf of summer obscured my view.

Never one to admit defeat, I moved our little party to the master bathroom window, which, though tiny, offered a totally unobstructed view.  Not that the dogs much enjoyed the change of venue - they liked the bed a lot better than the tile floor.  I told them to suck it up and act patriotic.  The only real drawback of the master bathroom viewing station is that in order to really look through the small window there, one must straddle the commode.

And so it struck me as I sat there, beer in hand, dogs at feet, that if our founding fathers had one real goal on this date 235 years ago, it was that no American should ever sit upon a throne.  Yet here I was, chest puffed with patriotism, eyes tearing with gratitude for the sacrifices made by my forefathers, perched, very uncomfortably, UPON A THRONE.

The dogs looked really disgusted when I laughed until beer came out my nose.