My temperament is prone to vacillate between two extremes, nonchalance and anxiety. Rarely do I nail myself full of the holes that plague the spirit when thoughts become anxious because I tend to ask the question "why?" more than enough and that prevents worry more than generates it. Even though, for the last week, my dreams (which I give more credit to than is due to them), have been rife with struggle. Struggles that lead to inevitable deaths...little ones (puppies I'm trying to save) or big ones (mass wartime atrocities).
So, why? Why am I dreaming and seeing such awful things? I feel these deaths keenly because I fight with all my strength to prevent them. I gently caressed the ears of the frightened pups, cradled the dying men in my arms and carried them away to quiet places, spinning them yarns of more poetic times, when light revealed the hope of another day, fresh air, and the quiet of a dawning suns.
It ends badly, no matter how much my heart yearns to change the course of the dream, even when I recognize that it is a dream. I am powerless to do anything, but strive, to fly the poor things away from evil, grasping hands of death. Even in the light, my sorrow is deep.
And my payment for this sorrow is...a stomach ache. Yes, I have had a stomach ache for about a week now. Stress induced...from dreams. That, or the dreams are manifestations of worry seated in some other, conscious place. But, by the break of morning, other than the lingering tear on my cheek, I feel no stress, sadness...just as easy as my happiness was interrupted, a smile spreads across my face and a song rises up from within me just as it does when my dreams are of a more pink and sparkly variety.
But there are moments, when cries of "help" tumble around in this home of my head and I just want to reach out and offer that hand of hope, that help, that anything
that is needed. Anything, to lift the curse of fear and bless their ears with lilting Hallelujahs.