Conjuring the Ghost Plane

We have knitted in.

We have found ways to keep going forward without the big fat social obligations.

Practical things have happened to me.  I do my dishes more frequently, so that's good.

My physical self seems to be hanging on.  I am not as great a victim to my shopping behavior in the grocery market.  I do fall off my chips and cookies wagon every week or so, but that frequency has diminished.

Dreams though.  Well there is something else.  My diurnal clock has shifted.  Mornings are more welcoming than they used to be.  I resisted and resisted.  Time to get up.  Really?  It's 5:30.  I have succumbed to predawn alertness.  But, since I feel generally well, physically, what is the harm.  No harm.

Except for the dreams.  I think it is the dreams that are awakening me.

Every morning is different.  I am learning to take messages from them, and posting them in to my daily thoughts and reflections.  They bring curiosity there.

This morning was a case in point.

I ran into Bobby Dove. I asked her if she lived in  Oakburn and indeed she did.  Miraculously, so had I, in a previous iteration of my little life, and I asked her the address.  "Ten Matheson", she reluctantly reported. We were standing in a very run down version of pre-nineties Brandon and I had a marble-sized lump under the insole of my shoe, and my bunion was killing me.  But I was eager to share useless touristy information in an over-enthusiastic travelogue toward a place where she could share her art.  A gig.  We got to the place, an outdoor stage setting, albeit, messy and there we found Ainsley Friesen who was waiting. Bobby pulled out her lap steel and Ainsley was standing at a mic up high on a secondary platform.  Electronics were all in place and they started to sing.  My bunion was still sore, but I was pleased to see art begin.  They reached a crescendo and I added a loud wailing harmony to their voices.  I was filled with joy.  Instantly they both exuded guttural anger at me.  They yanked out their audio cables and stomped away, leaving me standing with my aching bunion, and wondering why they despised collaboration. 

I woke.  My bunion was killing me.  Wait.  I don't have a bunion!  Wait, does this really hurt?  I moved my big right toe in circles to check.  I could swear it still hurt.  I actually sat up and put my foot on the ground to check for pain.  I was still doubting.  No indeed.  I had no pain, but my mind had really made me believe in it.  I wondered if this was the nature of Ghost Pain that my uncle, a diabetic amputee had described.  

More important, though, was the reflection.  I had a the Phantom Pain of resentment resting just under my rib cage.  That was much more interesting than the physical pain.  Then I laughed.  No!  It is exactly the same.  The only difference is that physical pain can be real, but resentment is never real.  It is always only conjured.  I have, in this realm, only love for Bobby and Ainsley.  Of course, this says something about my reaction to disappointment.  Who among us has not had to face disappointment?  Who among us dwells on the resentment and who just lets it float, like a dream, beyond the now of a waking moment?

I give thanks to my Yoga Guru, Shell Andréa for gently bringing awareness to my thinking.  I am pleased that the lessons are arriving in my dreams. I am also grateful that I do not suffer from bunion pain and have great empathy for those who do.