Clothespin Bucket
I had a dream last night, the kind of dream that jumbles your past and present in ways that make sense only in the dream.
The jumble in this dream was riding my recently purchased gravel bike from my former home (where I lived when I was about 10 until my early 20s) to the nearby club house of the rural golf course where that house sat, Three Pines Country Club.
In this dream, my mother, now deceased, met me at the club house after I pedaled up the long hill from that house to the club house, weaving between cars much more carelessly than I would in real life. I also rode the bicycle over steps and furniture into the club house, weaving there through people as if my behavior was perfectly normal.
The kicker of that dream was not the mixing of past and present as well as the living and the deceased but that I eventually realized although I had ridden to the club house to hit range balls, I didn’t have my golf clubs or shoes—as I had ridden a bicycle of course.
In real life, both my mother and I worked at that golf course for many years, and I spent a great deal of my life at the club house and hitting range balls, spanning essentially my entire adolescence.
None the less, the dream was so vivid that I was unnerved when I woke, and continued to think about it all morning.
Eventually, I texted my oldest nephew, over twenty years my junior, who lived CONTINUE READING: Clothespin Bucket – radical eyes for equity
