There Is a River

Dreams are funny things

Last night, I had this dream. I lived in a house, right next to a river. Everything that made the house livable — and quite nicely so — was thanks to that river. The electricity for the house came from a water wheel that was powered by the flow of the river. The plants around the house grew in soil that was watered by the river. Everything great I had at my house had floated downstream. Or I'd made it with things that came from upstream.

Every family member I've known lived just upstream, as did my closest friends. Mom and Dad lived just upstream. My wife did too. Very close, in fact. Each of my kids lived just upstream — so close, we could wave to each other from our windows.

Upstream further, there were many folks I've known, but not so well. Some folks I've only barely met lived upstream too. Many people I've never met lived further upstream.

Everyone alive, and everyone who has ever lived, lived somewhere upstream.

What confused me most though were the neighbors I saw, when I turned to look downstream. There was Mom, Dad, Wife and kids. And everyone else I know — or ever will know. And everyone who will ever live.

All the good at my house came from upstream. The bad too though. It all flowed downstream.

When I was grown but just barely, I found a bottle in the river that was stuck on some tree roots, next to my house. Inside it, excellent instructions for balancing a checkbook. The bottle was dropped in the river at Mom's house, just upstream. No clue how it had gotten to her house, but I wish I'd asked her. Certainly had come from further upstream, just a question of whose house and when. If I think it will be useful for someone later, I'll be glad to send it downstream. Not likely at this point, but maybe.

The river flowed. It had been flowing for some time.

When Grandma died, I wrote a little note about all the things that had come downstream to my house from Grandma's house. A lot of them had made a stop at Mom's house, on their journey to me. Some at my uncle's house. I suspect a few even stopped at Dad's house, though I can't be sure of which.

Honestly, I think some probably stopped at my uncle's, on their way to my cousin's house, before making it to me — and then further on downstream from my house. In the dream, it was hard to keep track of the journey of each thing. It was so easy to forget what had come from where, if I ever knew at all. And where it was before that rarely crossed my mind — the stop prior, and every stop before that.

And I would guess that sometimes things got changed on their stops along the river.

But that little note, a way of remembering my Grandma and everything she'd sent downstream to me — to all of us — and then on past each of us to other folks downstream. That little note went into a jar, lid closed, and sent downstream. Mom pulled it out of the river to read it, when it reached her house. She told me she appreciated it. Felt like the least I could send down to her, after all she's sent down to me.

When something comes to my house, from somewhere upstream, I typically grab it and take it to my house. Somehow, I tend to keep it — but also send it further downstream. Not sure how it could be possible to do both, but dreams are funny things. "And you were there! But it wasn't you. We were at our graduation, but it wasn't our school." Things would come downstream, and I'd keep them. But I'd send them further downstream too.

Sometimes though, I took the things I'd gotten from upstream, and I'd bury them. When I realized they were bad, then I could bury them — but I sometimes couldn't tell. Dreams are so odd, like brain garbage. Funny, to not know a thing is bad, and want to keep it, and also send it downstream. But it happened a lot, which didn't feel very odd in the dream. I think because burying something bad was a lot of work, what with all the digging. Way easier to pretend it's pretty good, or at least that it's fine enough. Or maybe act like it just isn't there. Especially for big things that were bad. Burying something very big can be quite a project. It takes a long time to bury something really big, and it feels so hard. Blisters on hands and nothing to distract from the bad thing. Mostly hard though, and it feels so slow.

So, if I realized they were bad, then I might bury them. Certainly, I'd try not to send them downstream — but sometimes I did. In the dream, it was pretty hard to not send bad things downstream. I don't understand how it could be hard to not do something, but it made such sense in the dream. It never occurred to me how hard it was to not send the bad things downstream.

Felt pretty easy to not send the good things downstream though, so I'd send those downstream only sometimes. When I realized I was sending good things along, I hoped they'd make it far — lots of stops along the way.

The river flowed, like it had for as long as anyone could remember. Showed no signs of slowing.

Everything at my house came from upstream. The good and the bad. I had it all at my house, and I'd sent most of it downstream too. I'd buried some of the bad, so I didn't have to look at it — and so it wouldn't end up floating further down the river.

The weather along the river varied, from house to house and day to day. Some days the weather seemed just right at a lot of houses I could see. But the weather could also be troubling, even downright dangerous, at times. There wasn't much any of us could do about that.

Somehow, what flowed downstream to my house seemed mostly good, and I learned eventually how special that was. Why would so many good things make it to my house? I guess that's just dumb luck. I don't remember ever picking this house, and I certainly never got to pick what comes downstream to me. Even the things that weren't so great, I often found what was good about them. I sometimes managed to greatly enjoy the things that were just ok. I learned to sometimes get a good laugh out of something annoying showing up, or when unexpected rain ruined my plans. And even that inclination came from somewhere upstream, I suppose.

I could have buried more bad things, to make sure they don't make it further down the river. I could have sent more good things downstream, even new things that only I could make.

I'll do more of both.

This dream is an odd one. But an odd dream isn't odd at all. It makes no sense, which makes all the sense in the world. A dream that made sense would be the odd dream.

One part at the end did make sense though: I eventually wondered something. A question crossed my mind. Where does the river start, and who lives in that house?

And as soon as I asked the question, I was awake. And I started writing this, with a sense of deep gratitude to the place from which the river flows. To the house there, and to whoever lives in that house.

The funniest thing about this dream is what I've remembered as I've written it down. I've had this dream before. Every night, in fact. Every night of my life, I've had this dream.

And every day too.