Last night I dreamed.
I was fishing in a small but deep place, the water was dark, green and beautiful.
I fished alone with an old pole that I knew well.
I put on a small lure, plain and simple.
I ran the lure deep and in the first pass took a heavy fish.
The fish ran hard under the water, pulling my pole down, then it broke the surface with a splash.
I waited for another run, the thrill of the fight, but the fish had surrendered, and I pulled it in to the bank.
It lay in front of me, beautiful and quiet. Very gently I removed the hook from its soft, red mouth.
I looked down and admired it. It was dark green with a pattern of vertical black stripes, long, healthy, fresh and lovely.
Then the fish looked up at me and said, “We are here.”
And I threw my line back into the pool.
I’ve always been a dreamer.
When I was little I had nightmares of huge bowling ball rolling in narrow halls toward me.
When I was in college I dreamed of clocks whose hands spun quickly and of the resurrection.
Once, during a time of difficulty, I dreamed of a large Magnolia tree. A huge slab of rock had fallen into the top of it, crushing it’s branches, but around the rock grew a limb, full of dark green leaves and huge white flowers.
I receive my dreams as they are, and wait. I am a rationalist; I test everything, and yet in me there is also the mystic. I know that I don’t understand everything. We will see, and yes, we will see and then see and see again, and time will tell us what we will see.
I sit quietly this morning, and I take hope from my good dreams, and I keep fishing.
I fish for men, women and children, trolling deep, throwing back in, hopeful of catching more beautiful ones.
Thoughts occur.
Come fishing with me.
Thrive! 