Whenever I am especially worried, lonely or agitated, my father appears in my dreams. This seems strange to me because he died when I was only 22 years old. But he is still a powerful figure, and someone I look to for comfort or help.
Last night I had an odd dream about measurement. I was being assessed by someone unknown, and I could see the computer monitor, and charts and graphs that were being generated as I answered questions. Then Daddy appeared and the computer went away.
Why do our parents matter so much? Is it that they form us when we are tiny lumps of potential? Is it the genes that flow among us? It’s hard to say. Freudians would say the mother and father shape us beyond hope or repair. I like to think we’re “Born That Way,” as Lady Gaga says, and nurture can influence nature but can’t change it. No one really knows at this point.
Whatever the reason, my parents continue to haunt my dreams and shape my responses. The other day I talked to my sister Glenda. It was a lovely day, both here and at her home in Ohio, and Glenda said, “It’s a blue October sky, like Mother used to say.” I remembered her saying that. No doubt Glenda’s children and grandchildren observe the blue October sky, not knowing where the expression came from.
The depth of memory, feeling and compassion in the river of life is beyond measure. Sometimes it upsets me when my parents visit me; other times it’s a comfort. At any rate, I can’t and won’t forget. Memory never dies.
writinghersense 