Last night I dreamed I had organized a large gathering. It was a reunion of sorts at a retreat space that resembled the land and buildings at the Leaven Center. It was a beautiful spring day. Not a cloud in the sky. As people started arriving, I was delighted by the diversity of people who were streaming onto the land from different towns and cities across the country.
I spotted a woman whom I hadn’t seen in decades. We ran toward each other on the long gravel driveway and I threw my arms around her, holding her close, saying her name over and over again. Then, in a flash I remembered. I stepped back aghast at what I’d done.
“Forgive me, please forgive me,” I pleaded, stepping away from her. I glanced around. Some people were sitting at picnic tables, leaning in to hear each other. Others gathered in small groups, hugging and laughing. I took off running across the lawn toward each table and group, shouting as I got nearer but standing several yards away from each.
“You aren’t keeping a safe distance,” I yelled. “Please, move away from each other. We’re acting like we’re exempt from danger. We aren’t. Please move away from each other.”
Some people looked up or turned toward me, stared quizzically for a few seconds, and then returned to the intimacy of their reconnection with precious friends they hadn’t seen in years.
The dream jolted me awake. As I was coming to, I felt a mixture of panic and guilt for having organized this large-scale reunion. I woke April and told her I’d had a nightmare just moments ago. I wanted to tell her what I could remember while fragments of the dream were still vivid and accessible. But when I began describing how I ran toward my friend on the long gravel driveway, I started sobbing. I could only sputter a few more words, “I couldn’t help it, I reached out to hug her…”
April held me while I cried.
“I know, I know,” she said. “In other sad and dangerous times -- like 9/11 and the 2016 election -- we’ve always gathered people together to grieve and hold up hope to one another. This is so hard.”
“Yes,” I said, “so hard.”