The Day for Dreaming

It appears to be the day, not only for dreaming, but for writing down dreams. The Cheerful Oncologist did. Red State Moron did.


I moved to New Orleans, but people only spoke Spanish and French there and it morphed into Geneva, Switzerland. I was there with a church plant, I guess, because we were always in church.

There was a horrid storm/hurricane/nightmare and, though I had only been in town a few months, I escaped to a church. You couldn’t get in if you hadn’t gone, so I lied. The woman at the door knew I had lied, said so, announced it to all, and then told me I could have gotten in if I had just told the truth. It was exasperating and embarrassing and I gave myself a lecture on telling the truth.

Inside the Baptist church morphed into some big open room with columns. A good looking Swiss guy came up and asked where I was from. I couldn’t remember the name of the road I lived on, so I told him I lived in some apartments, in a circle of four or five, just straight out the road and to the left and go about a mile or a mile and a half. He looked at me as if I were an idiot and I suddenly remembered I had a card with the address on it. I showed it to him; he read it, handed it back, and disappeared. Even in the dream I thought, “I guess it’s not upscale enough.”

Then I was sitting with a bunch of Americans. We were on the floor listening to music. Three Swiss police came in. Everyone had to be interviewed. Anything expensive you had on was taken, since it might be stolen. Everyone was afraid.

I went in for my interview. They asked me how I got the ring on my finger. (In real life, on Sunday I started wearing a family heirloom again.) I told them it had been my mother’s and that her great-grandmother had brought it to the States. I didn’t tell them she brought it from Germany because French speakers have a thing against Germans. He said I was too young to own such a valuable heirloom. I told him I was 25. Then I looked at him and realized I wasn’t 25. “I’m 43, much too old not to be able to own this. In fact, I have a very nice wedding ring, as well, but I didn’t wear it here.” He seemed to have no trouble believing that I had gone from a seeming teen to a 43 year old matron.

Then I was out, as a teen or less, running around the perimeter. We were having fun, no worries, big green grassy spaces with ditches empty of water. We were running away from someone suddenly. A friend knew a way to get back. But he led us to a dead end. I ran away, leading the rest, and got back to the sanctuary of the church.

I don’t know what it means and it wasn’t a true nightmare, but it was definitely long and involved. These are the highlights that I still remember.