Dream Archive: Art at the Olympics

I was here, at the house, and an air strip was in our front meadow. A plane kept buzzing the house, dropping short volleys of rocks on it--mostly golf ball size or smaller. I remember getting everyone inside, and being grumpy about the rocks hurting someone, or my house.

Eventually, the plane landed, and there were a couple more people there. One was our neighbor, and someone who was supposed to be his wife. They introduced me to a man with them, who I think had been flying the plane. The grumpiness turned into neighborly friendliness, and relations were repaired.

Then, I was lost. The the Olympics were being held in a huge school on the outskirts of Sandpoint (which looked like the hill going down into Springville), and I was walking into town with the guy I'd just been introduced to. He had spent time in & truly loved the town I had gone to high school in. We walked & chatted, and the beginnings of a friendship sprouted. Talking with him was fun; he liked to joke and laugh. Interacting with him felt like talking with Steve from way back at BYU the summer before I met Vern. Carefree, confident, easygoing.

For some reason, we took a detour through the school--I think to just check out what we could see of the Olympics quickly. We couldn't get to where any of the events were, and I couldn't find a way out of the building. I kept following the guy I'd come into the school with, but he kept drawing further and further ahead of me little by little, and disappeared around a corner in a stairwell. When I got to the corner, it looked like he got out through someplace that I couldn't manage. (I think it had a bigger drop than I could jump, or something like that.) After that, I was left to wander on my own. I would follow exit signs, only to find myself at a dead end, or trying to make my way through up or down stairwells that got smaller and smaller before feeding into a ball field or gymnasium. (The stairwells felt like they went both up and down at the same time. So odd.) At one point I found myself walking with Janell from It Works towards some kind of synchronized dancing event she was going to compete in. (I don't think she dances in real life--not sure why she was in my dream. lol) She's so super nice, and it was a relief to not be alone, but with someone I knew & was certain of their regard for me. Being abandoned by the charmer had shaken me, because that's just not something you do to anyone, let alone someone to which you had offered friendship.

As we stood behind some bleachers, waiting for Janell's event to start, a feisty little Philippina security guard came up to me, seized my elbow hard, and escorted me away. She said she was taking me out of the complex, and while I was really embarrassed at being hauled off like a miscreant (she laughed derisively when I said I was lost) her whole demeanor was that of a superior to a slave or criminal. I was so glad that I could finally get out of that place that I went along with her without fighting, suffering the embarrassment.

The guard took me to a hallway with exit signs and told me to follow them. I did, and wound up in another gym, this time with a basketball court. The lights were on, but it was strange-looking because the maple floor was stained a deep brown, with really high walls of the same dark wood. It felt like a very old room, like something out of Hogwarts.

There were some high school girls in dark royal blue jerseys & shorts coming in through doors on the long wall of the gym to my right to practice basketball, and so I finished walking diagonally across the gymnasium from the door I entered through to the only other door which had a glowing green EXIT sign above it.

Once through those doors, I was in a long, high, proportionately narrow classroom, walls of the same dark-stained wood with a hard, smooth floor of some kind. It was an art room, and there were drawings of all kinds on the walls, including murals directly on the wall itself. I looked at a lot of them, but when I turned and saw a man sitting at a table and drawing by the light of a simple desk lamp, I went to talk with him to try to find out how to get out of the school. Most of the room had low light--more like candlelight in color. The desk lamp was pure white light, and illuminated the desk and white paper he was drawing on perfectly.

I trusted him instinctively; I knew he was a teacher. He had such an air of peace and comfort about him, in noticeable contrast to the sparkling charm of the first guy, which charm had proven empty after he had led me into the school and stranded me there. The teacher's hair was dark, dark brown in the ambient light. The first man's hair had been blonde. (He kind of looked like the lucifer actor in the second new temple movie.) I sat and talked with the teacher for a little bit, asking how to get free of the building, but became distracted by his drawing. He had only a pencil, either graphite or dark brown in color, and was drawing something I couldn't decipher. A moment later, I realized what he had drawn, and the beauty of it sunk deep into my soul.

Then I had a pencil and paper, and began to draw after a little instruction, both our heads bent over the paper and the pool of light on the desk. I was surprised at how well I did, even though it wasn't anything like the teacher had been able to draw. I laid down lines and watched the drawing take shape. I thought I knew what I was drawing, (since I had imagined it in my own mind and not said a word about it), but when I thought I was about done, he began drawing, too, and suddenly my drawing was transformed into something incredibly beautiful and meaningful to me. I don't remember what any of the drawings were . . . just that the transformation from something really pretty amazing for my skill level into something outright amazing happened with surprisingly few lines.

And then I woke up.


Dreamed in the early morning of 17 April 2014.

God's Avalanche

I stood in a canyon place at once both narrow and yet unprotected, faced with stone strongholds barring my way.  I knew I was called to go forward, and yet I also knew my bare hands would prove of little effect against the mortared stones.

And so I waited.

And while waiting, I prayed. I praised. I sang. I worshiped.

And God began to move.

All around me, sand and pebbles began to skip and skitter down from the incredible heights. Rocks more and more massive came down, sliding, bouncing, falling. The air was full of stones, and they bombarded those barrier walls, bringing them down piece by piece, larger and larger chunks of masonry cast down.

The air, thick with rock, reminded me of watching swarming bees . . . so many you couldn't count, could hardly comprehend . . . and yet nothing touched me. I never felt the faintest breeze, though the crashing and thunder of stone set the mountain shaking. And yet, while it should have deafened me, I hardly heard it, like a movie turned down low.

And as I watched, I saw miracle made manifest.  The stronghold's stones fell into place, guided by my Master. They stacked perfectly, beside and behind, ramparts and battlements for His army, dry-stacked stone walls stronger than any mortared wall ever could be.

As those strongholds came down, I could see the chasm beyond--broad and echoingly deep as some stones ricocheted from its walls to disappear below.

Slowly, the air cleared.  The silence felt peaceful--and yet it shimmered with the spiritual energy of seraphic song. I looked beside and behind me, marveling at the monuments to God's care for me, built in moments, and so completely protecting. And, turning to begin pursuing my call, I saw the chasm: now conquered with an impossible arched bridge, the huge stones fitted closely, and held in place by gravity alone.  Even in this--an obstacle I had no way of seeing until after the avalanche had brought down most of the wall in front of me--God had prepared a way for me to succeed in His will.

And so, with more song and a prayer, I moved forward.

The Parable of the Thieves and Treasure

Last night, I dreamed a dream.

After enduring a great deal of strangeness at a professional conference of some kind and difficulty with platform stiletto heels that could change from purple to gold (the gold looked so much better with my outfit--the strength of relief over that strange detail is so funny to me), I found myself walking up a short hill onto a lawn, coming upon a group of people witnessing a house break-in.  Mostly women and a couple of men, one of which I remember clearly as the homeowner, they seemed excited and curious to see the thieves come out of the house and escape; the feeling was of being in a movie theater on opening night.  There was a little fear in the group, kind of like faint background noise.  And then, the thieves appeared. They had gone through the semi-rural home, gathering every weapon they could find (which were many). When the group I was in realized how well-armed the thieves were, and their clear intent to kill every one of us brutally before leaving the house they now were stripping of everything they saw valuable to their work, we all looked at one another, desperately checking our pockets and searching our minds for something we could use as a weapon.  Anything.  Several of the group had concealed carry permits, but not a single one of them was actually armed.  Lambs to the slaughter, indeed.

The thieves went in and out of the house (not sure why we didn't/couldn't run away--we were absolutely trapped, even though we stood in the front yard, nearly as close to the paved street as we were to the house), and I watched one of them fill a magazine in a smiling, leisurely way, knowing full well he planned the ammunition he lovingly pressed into place for each of us on the lawn. The thieves even had some of us helping them, although I don't remember how.  They kept coming and going, sometimes out of the house, sometimes all inside, so confident were they in our captivity.

Suddenly a pickup appeared, driven by a slender blue-eyed teen, a person unknown to me in my waking hours who, in the dream, I recognized as a relative of some friends of my daughters, the sunlight streaming hazily through the dusty rear window around and over her shortish, wispy blonde hair. She had one of my daughters' friends with her, and they got out and headed our way, excited to catch up with me and my girls (whom I hadn't yet seen in the dream, but they had been right there with me). The thieves were all inside; I didn't know for how long.  I rushed up to her and grabbed her upper arms, speaking low and urgent through gritted teeth: "Annie, you've got to get them out of here! RIGHT. NOW. Take the girls, and get the hell out of here!" Shocked and terrified by the knowledge of the thieves' promise in my eyes, she instantly rushed her cousin, my girls, and the few other children who were there into the pickup as relief washed over me at her unquestioning, instant action. The door slammed heavily with that particular, metallic sound of mid-70's steel construction, sheltering the children's fragility. Then bluewhite smoke rose from beneath her tires as the baby blue Chevy squealed away.

The innocent were safe.

The smoke rose and wisped away on the Chevy's backdraft. And I turned back to the house, the cedar siding and green shingles sheltering such menace.

I stood there, wondering what on earth we were going to do to save our lives. Those thieves wanted their treasure. They were going to take it. And they were absolutely going to kill all of us to do it. And smile.

Then it hit me. We could give it to them.

Turn their thievery inside out, releasing them from the horrific path to get what they wanted. What they were loading up to take away were things all of us in that group treasured in our hearts as necessary for safety and provision. Things. Stuff. Mostly firearms and ammunition, but other things, too. The idea of giving them up, even for our lives, would be a hard sell to the fiercely independent group of northern folk.  But I knew, knew, that giving--letting go completely--was the answer.

I called out to everyone where we milled slowly about on the lawn, and gathered them around me. I knew we all had to agree--for, despite the horror of it, the thieves were going to kill all of us. We all witnessed their crime. And to set us free it would take agreement from all of us that what they took was freely given by the homeowner.  Their theft had to be turned into a gift. A gift without reservation, without grudge, without holding anything back.  A carte blanche to take whatever they wanted from the house, and depart in peace.

I stood there, the others gathered and watching, and I opened my mouth to speak . . .