The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.
~ Mahatma Gandhi ~
Hypocrisy is the homage vice pays to virtue.
~ Francois de La Rochefoucauld ~
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One’s senses can be at odds with one another. For example, the experiences of sitting in front of a roaring fire while looking outside a window at freshly fallen snow can cause competitive sensations: the sight of the cold landscape can overwhelm the sensation of warmth. Even as the heat of the fireplace warms the room, the body’s reaction to viewing the wintery scene can overcome the sense of comfort offered by the fire, with shivering gooseflesh and chattering teeth. The aroma of freshly-cut grass, though, might temper the frigidity of a winter scene. Those conflicting experiences, though, are not assured. Inconsistencies may rely more on state of mind than on the power of one sense over another. Imagine, for example, introducing a strong odor of gasoline to the experience of viewing a snowscape from a room warmed with a fire; if gooseflesh and chattering teeth arise in response, real fear—not imaginary cold—is apt to be the culprit
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Only after I had been awake for several minutes—long enough to take my morning pills and sip on my first cup of espresso—did my memories of the dream begin to become clear. Oddly, though, my mind placed most of those details in temporary reserve, while I analyzed a few of its specifics. Like the fact that the remnants of an ice storm looked like small hollow spheres of ice that had been cut into equal-sized pieces—leaving rounded-bottom cups littering the ground. And, then, it occurred to me that the little cups might have taken the shape of leaves, as water formed on them, froze, and then slipped off the leaves to the ground. But the ice that had caused the roof of my employer’s office building, located in a large, empty field, to collapse had the same shapes. The reserved memories began to intrude on that conundrum. I remembered that I had returned the night before from a fake business trip to New York City. I recalled that I lost my suitcase—perhaps left in the cab I took to get home or left in my front yard overnight, where it was stolen, or absent-mindedly left in baggage claim at the airport. And I remembered the part of the dream in which I was frustrated that I could not find my razor—and then realized I had no clean shirts to wear—as I prepared to go to work. I remembered I needed to call my supervisor, the CEO of the organization that employed me, but my cell phone was in my lost suitcase and I had forgotten the telephone number. I borrowed a phone to call that forgotten phone number to ask for that same number I called. And then I went to the building and wandered around it in shock at the extensive damage the ice had caused. From there, I made my way to the airport, where many hundreds of people waited in lines as they searched for their lost luggage. Those who had found their luggage were willing to give me their claim checks; I had a reason to collect them, but I do not recall what it was. My telling of the dream leaves out many of the utterly inexplicable parts…which probably were crucial to the tangle of mental confusion that may have spurred the dream. If only I could weave all the details into a story with a coherent fabric, I might understand. But I do not. I can only harbor suspicions about the genesis of the dream and accept its mysteries as a price I must pay for something hidden deep in the recesses of my brain.
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My vacation from cancer treatments is almost over. The routine begins anew next Monday, a tad more than three weeks since the most recent chemo session. A day after, I return for a post-chemo injection. Later that day, I will undergo another physical therapy session. If the radiologist’s estimate was correct, radiation will begin sometime next week. Assuming the post-chemo responses have not begun in earnest, I will attend the church board meeting on Thursday. The following week, I suspect, will be one for intense rest…that is, sleep in the extreme. Except for Thanksgiving, of course. We’ve been invited to celebrate with friends that day. I keep wondering how long chemo will last; until significant improvements are seen in various scans, the doctor cannot say with any certainty. I hope chemo and radiation, together, will stymie the growth of cancer. I know I’ve said it more than once: this is getting tiring in many, many ways.
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There once was a time. There will be again.
