Another Writer's Dream. What does it mean?

I could lie in bed all morning and feel the baby move around inside of me. She squirms and kicks and the reality that I’m having a baby girl is amazing to me. Seven more weeks feels like an eternity, but it’s just around the corner.

Mayer comes in bed and snuggles with me. I know when he falls back asleep because the matchbox car he’s holding falls out of his hand and lands on the mattress. I stare at his little face.

This is the little boy who said to me earlier “Mom, I like to hug you.”

I’m left alone with my thoughts. The dream I had earlier flashes across my mind and I start interpreting another writer’s dream.

In my dream, the counselor and I are in Sedona. We have the entire day planned; great places to eat and visit, meeting up with friends and enjoying time together. And what do I suggest I do as we drive through the canyon. I look out the window at a huge boulder, isolated and remote and say;

“I want to spend the day on top of that.”

Image found here.

The rock is about 100 feet up in the air and has a sitting platform on top. There’s a hiking company that can help me get to the top of it.

Like usual, the counselor doesn’t question my idea, he’s the perfect gentleman and agrees to help me however he can.

So, I spend the next hour being lured up onto the top of this rock that’s piercing out of the ground like an overgrown weed.

I watch as the counselor drives away and there I sit, all alone.

The space is small and I barely fit sitting Indian style. If I lean to much either way, I’ll fall to my death.

I meditate and look at the view and after about an hour, I wonder how in the world I’ll get down. It’s hot and I have no water. I wonder why I wanted to do this at all. What a strange idea?

I think of the counselor, out having fun and I miss him so much.

After about 3 hours, the hiking company climbs back to the top of the boulder, slips some ropes around me and helps me down.

Once at the bottom, I wait and wait for the counselor to come pick me up. Its night fall when I see the headlights of his car, pulling into the gravel parking lot. The car is filled with balloons and music is blaring from the radio. It’s obvious he’s had a great day.

“How was it?” he asks as I get into the car.

“I wish I would’ve spent the day with you instead,” I say with some regret.

In a strange way, this is how I feel when I’ve spent the day writing. I sit alone, Indian style in a single chair and watch as the world flashes by. Sometimes I get really thirsty because I forget to drink while I work. Night falls and I type in the dark before I realize I need to turn a lamp on. And I sit, day after day, meditating the ideas of my novel. And the 3 hour time-line in the dream? I rarely work more the 3 hours at a time on my novels. I run out of ideas and loose momentum. There are plenty of days I ask myself, “Why am I doing this?”

I miss the kids, I miss the counselor and I wonder what exactly I’m trying to accomplish.

But the truth is, like the beauty of the canyon, writing is a journey I know I’ll never want to leave. I am blessed to have so much support.

Thrift Store Culture

Thrift Stores attract a variety of interesting people, all of which are looking for that great deal or special bargain. You may find the person looking for that one vintage piece, like the man asking the cashier, “Do you have any guitars right now?”

There’s the man (a different man) in railroad overalls who’s looking for tools, or the lady in need of a folding desk, the kind her grandmother owned.

I can always tell a first-timer, usually a young someone with the look of shock and amazement on her face, holding a pair of designer jeans she just found. Then, there’s the person whose cart is full of junk. No matter how I look at it, I can’t imagine what they are going to do with a stained old ottoman, a broken ceiling fan and a water-marked portrait of Weird Al.

There are book junkies, old record collectors and jewelry must-haves.

I’m a stereo-type too: the girl who buys tons of clothing. I always get a comment from someone.

“My, you must have a big family!”
or
“Wow! You found some great stuff.”

And when the cashier rings me up and I owe her $23.00 for 6 stuffed bags of clothing, I usually get more comments about the great bargains I’ve found.

I’ve become so accustomed to the incredible value of thrift store shopping; I find it difficult to shop retail. Here’s why.

At a thrift store, I get to indulge when ever; however. Most days, I can purchase anything I want and anything I find:

a) because it’s priced many times cheaper then retail
b) because it’s a one of a kind; unique or unusual
c) because for $1.99, I can decide what to do with it later

Shopping retail means being more selective, going over my budget and rationalizing the money I’m about to spend is worth it.

I am friendly with most thrift store employees. Many ask how the pregnancy’s going or how the boys are. Thrift store employees aren’t allowed to shop at the store they work at. Talk about torture!

This weekend, I browsed at a few thrift stores in Sedona.

I found several books for the boys and a few collectables for me. There isn’t the selection of a Phoenix store, but it’s quaint and I know there’s something worth searching for on these racks. Small towns don’t celebrate dollar days, but the prices are usually reasonably, meaning I can purchase what I want.

The counselor finds something to read and a nice chair to sit in while I shop. Ah, yes, another part of thrift store culture: the husband waiting patiently for his wife while he reads a 1980’s edition of Arizona Highways. Thanks, honey!