I found myself in my office. A couple of men walked past, removing the metal file cabinets full of patient records.
Names, birthdates, and notes. All the descriptions and observations, what they said, the way they said it. Outsized lives crammed into tiny words, into pages crammed into files, into hardened enclosures requiring a key for the locks.
People of emotion and disappointment and heartbreak. Joy and progress, too. Jobs, romance, decisions errant and expert. Fathers and grandparents and lovers, hellos and goodbyes.
Precious, each one.
The laborers put the compacted, enclosed cases of cases on handcarts. My efficient and conscientious office manager stared.
“What’s happening, Lynette?” No words. The men worked on.
I was close to retirement. I knew I wouldn’t be in the clinic for long, nor seeing patients and taking notes. Not looking into their eyes and hearing their laughter. Not buying more tissues to catch their tears.
I stopped the men. I told them to retrieve the paper mountains and put them in place.
Interpretations anyone? Many possibilities. Here’s one.
These records were not the lives of my clients, but the material evidence of the caravan of humanity passing my way. If lives were lines on a graph, my time with them would be like the point of intersection between their lifeline and mine.
When our contact was productive, the trajectory of their path changed.
They’d touched me and, for some, vice versa. The sheaves were the remnants of my vocation to help, enlighten, and open them to a new life: rewrite the words to their story.
No one else had the same relationship with them when I did. Now, no one else could read their tale without their permission.
Why did I have this dream as the pandemic closed in?
Did the workmen represent a virus-like invasion? Was my defensive stance a symbol for the protection of my family, friends, and all the ones I loved?
Did I fear the virus sweeping them away, as the blue-collar workers intended with pushcarts and trucks?
An old teaching cliche applies to dream divination: there are no right or wrong answers. Someone else, perhaps, will compile a book of COVID-19 sleep-befogged meanings.
Dream interpretation is like listening to a recitation of religious scripture. No two people hear the same message, as if the words, their order, and the language change while floating in the air.
The viral moment persuades me that if we lived a life of infinite length, we would also live every possible life, dream all dreams, meet every person, and write all the books that shall ever be written and read.
The full moon woke me, seemingly summoned to dispel the nightmare and enchant the night. Better to conjure sweet silent dreams than my professional dystopia. No witches and warlocks and werewolves. No cabinets spirited away by strangers.
Let me craft what is possible on our now slumbering globe: dreams of action and improvement, agency and creation.
Daniel Burnham said, “Make no small plans.”
The top image is described as Logistics of Watsons Distilled Water, 12 Bottles in Yau Ma Tei Nathan Road, Kowloon, Hong Kong. It is the work of Leideomangeos.
The second image is the Lorry of a Paper Shredding Company, 2006. It was taken on March 24, 2006 in Central London by Edward.
Both are sourced from Wikimedia Commons.