dreams, a tiny woman, and roses

A Dream

The park across the street is green and lovely, even more so in a light rain or drizzle, like today. I looked at it for a while, it was empty of people, and then I went back inside for a nap. 

A nap is a fine thing, don't you think? Calm and restful, lacking in pressure. Sometimes at night you simply must sleep; you have a big day tomorrow with much to get done, or expectations have been placed upon you. You are pressured to rest. A nap is more like a little gift you give to yourself. At least mine are.

In my nap I had a complex dream which seemed to me to last a very long time, and it covered different eras of a life that seemed to be mine, but really it was nothing like my life at all, and when I woke, only thirty minutes had passed. 

It happened deep in the south, I think, as the accents spoken by everyone, including me, were those rich accents of educated southerners. Not the 'hot dangs' of Mayberry or a trailer park, but slow and full of adjectives and adverbs. "Mother, I shall have quite a cantankerous day, might we have tea at three instead of four?" 

And in this dream I had spent my youth and most of my life taking care of an old building, old but elegant, where people and businesses rent offices. Among these people were two men and two women with whom my life was entwined. All four were decent people, but one man was a little on the petty side, a little jealous of others. The other man was one of those who worked so hard he missed out on a lot of life's better moments. One of the women worked like that, too, and I was in love with her. We quietly had an affair that was hidden and consisted of a moment here and a moment there, quick trysts that were both passionate and kept secret. This woman was only about four feet tall. Such are dreams. The other woman was very wonderful in every way, full of love and humor, always falling in love with people and causes, and she was a dear to be around. Both men were in love with her, and neither would say so.

We had lived our lives in that building, no one more than me. Besides working there, I also lived there, in a room in the basement. I was the manager and caretaker and janitor, all in one. I owned it. Years had gone by, and one by one the others all left. The carefree woman and the petty man both died fairly young, after moving away. The hardworking man and woman both relocated as their business needs directed, and as the dream caught on, I was being visited by the hard working woman. We were now in our sixties.

We caught each other up on the stories of everyone; I knew some, and she knew some. Did I know that both men loved the woman? Yes, I did. Did she know that the petty man had wept and wept when the lovely woman died? No, she didn't. Why was I still there? Well, I own the building. You didn't know that? You thought I was an employee? No. I am a property owner with no ambition. I collect rents, pay taxes, and write poems late at night in the basement. Then we made love down in my basement room, but it was more out of respect for memory than for passion. I told her I had once seen the soul of the petty man, and it was a shriveled and ugly thing. She was ready to leave, and gathered her purse and umbrella. We rode the old fashioned elevator back up to the lobby. 

We said goodbye, and I remember that I had some tea from India. It was a delight; would she like some before she goes? She said yes, and we left her things by the front door, which I locked. It was late afternoon and all of my current tenants had left for the day. 

I woke up then, sad for this other life. I should have given that little woman my heart so long ago. Stepping outside to refresh myself, the park looked even more lovely than ever.

I dreamed an illness was in the roses and it spread out over all creation. 

And though the sickness was very slow moving, 

by the time I woke up from the dream 

the entire world had been made ill by the roses. 

People were coughing up blood and petals and thorns. 

This was just an afternoon nap, and I went out 

into the yard to check on my own little rosebush. 

It was bare of flowers. 

I leaned in close and looked it right in the eye 

and whispered, "Don't think for a minute 

that I'm not watching you." and I meant it.

Some people need compassion, and cannot find any. Others cannot find compassion within themselves to share with others. That all people have compassion in their lives, actively, both to receive and to share, this I pray.

james lee jobe