So, I admit it -- I was in a bad mood. I didn't want to be there, and I didn't want anyone to talk to me. And more than that, I wanted to judge them all for NOT talking to me. All I wanted to do was find the door and get out, but I was stuck in a far corner and would have to pass by far too many people in order to sneak out.
I was on the third story of a church. A HUGE church. A church with escalators. Outside the room was a coffee bar area, where I'd just heard a woman ask for a second glass of white wine. At 9 a.m.
And did I mention this was a dream? No... well, it was.
I chuckled slightly at the woman with her white wine, but quickly resumed my bad mood as I walked into the room and painstakingly found a seat alone, in a corner. The set-up was rather restauranty. I was on the edge of a booth-like seat that went across the entire back of the room. In front of me was a small, two-person table with a chair on the other side.
"Get ready, the street smokers are coming," someone said. Even in dreamland, such a statement seemed odd. Street smokers? What does that mean?
Apparently it meant a group of folks in their early 20s with various shades of blue and pink hair who stumbled into the church either drunk or high, or both. Perhaps they were invited by white wine woman.
Anticipating the stench of old cigarette smoke, I wasn't thrilled about these folks invading my space. Especially since all I wanted to do was leave. But my corner is where they landed.
As soon as I looked at the girl next to me, my entire attitude changed. I've often heard it said that people look as if they were carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. If that is said about the averaged stressed-out person, this girl was carrying the entire Milky Way (the galaxy, not the candy bar). I could feel tears welling up.
"I don't even know this girl, why should looking at her make me cry?"
She looked at me, lip twitched it what seemed to be a greeting. Her gaze went back to the floor. Or through the floor. Or whatever it is that one is looking at when s/he is obviously not seeing what is right there.
"Are you okay?" I finally voiced.
I placed my hand on her back, an awkward attempt at humanity and interaction. She lost it. Though we had never met, she crumbled into my embrace and cried. After a few moments she asked my name. "Jennifer. What's yours?"
"I don't have one."
Don't have a NAME? Is that possible?
She began telling me a story about a past relationship, although "relationship" is a loose term here. A member of the clergy had apparently won her trust and then abused her. It was hard to make out many of the details, her cries muted and muffled the words she was trying to say. But somehow this person, this hurt was connected to her not having a name.
Instantly, I saw myself walking under trees, with beautiful pink blooms. It was peaceful and beautiful "I have called you by name" echoed in my mind.
And I woke up. I don't think I have ever felt as much in a dream as I did last night.
Charlottesville: Naming our Demons
1 day ago