Dreamy Incantations
As a young person, I never gave much thought to dreams.
They simply came and went.
The earliest dream I recall having, at around the age of four, involved my childhood cat smiling waving at me from a multi-coloured hot air balloon as it rose into the clear blue Rocky Mountain sky.
At the time, my cat was still alive and living with me and my tumultuous family in Calgary. As the years slipped by, the cat and I both moved on, but the dream stuck in my memory. The anthropomorphisation of a pet, leaving me behind on earth with a jovial flick of the paw, seemed significant.
Mostly, the dream was just fucking weird and vivid, so I remembered it.
In the years that followed, I gave so little afterthought to my dreams - assuming they were rubbish or mental jibberish, or simply not remembering them due to my high daily intake of cannabis - that I cannot recall another one until early 2013.
In March of that year, Ryan and I decided to attend Patti Smith's Camera Solo (the first exhibition of her visual art in Canada) at the Art Gallery of Ontario, followed by a live performance by her and her children at a lovely theatre in Toronto.
The two of us rarely spent money on anything other than food, rent, or car payments, but being close to our idol and supporting her art was thrilling, so we scrounged the $100, and we went.
That morning, before we left to see Patti, I had a vivid dream about a healthy, smiling baby boy. He was sitting in an infant car seat on the floor of Ryan's parents' house, and Ryan and I were simply admiring him and grinning and laughing with him.
Such a simple dream it was, yet I'd never encountered a baby in my slumberworld before; thus it stood out. I opened my eyes and felt intensely happy - a sensation I'd not experienced in years.
We meandered dreamily through Patti's exhibit and hours later, as we sat watching her perform an acoustic set with her son accompanying her on guitar and her daughter on piano, I had forgotten about my silly little dream.
I cried.
I rejoiced.
At the end of the night, when we caught Patti and her family heading into their minivan outside the theatre, I handed her some of my writing. I thanked her. What do you say to someone like her? She smiled and thanked me before they drove off. Her kids and her band thanked me, too.
I felt like an asshole for taking a moment of her time, but I've been continuously thankful that I swallowed my discomfort said hello to one of my greatest inspirations.
The baby dream, I assumed, had something to do with my renewed vigour with regards to writing, and the impending meeting with Patti and her children.
Yet, it irked me.
The baby in that dream had seemed so familiar.
He looked and felt like my child.
I got pregnant in May. I miscarried.
The next time I’d meet Patti Smith would be when I was 8 months pregnant with my healthy son - two long, memorable dream-filled years later.
I guess what I'm getting at is:
Meet your heroes.
Dream your future.
Wow! This is beautiful. What a special thing - dreams are so incredibly magnificent.