Last night I dreamed I was back in high school with my best friends—Becky and Anita and Norma and Judy—and we sat crammed together on a bus traveling somewhere to march with the band in a Christmas parade. The bus was cold. We wore matching red and gray uniforms, our school colors, and tall white plumes extended from the tops of our headpieces. The bus noise level made talking difficult so mostly we just laughed. Laughing was easy and normal and what we did best. But the whole time I thought you don’t play an instrument. Why are you pretending to be in the band?
Thankfully I awoke before faking my way down a parade route playing the air trumpet.
Tired from that dream.
But now I’m analyzing each piece of the dream because it’s a game I play and something I find interesting.
The first part is easy.
At the Razorback basketball game last night, I kept one eye on the band. They jazzed up Bud Walton Arena and looked to be having a blast.
Inserting myself into the high school “dream” band is more complicated since my only musical training has faded to Chopsticks on the piano. I believe this dream was a pathetic reflection on how I feel right now about myself. As a writer. Attempting to be part of a group that I’m not confident I belong in.
I know this sounds woe-is-me. And I realize this feeling is only temporary and probably attributed to a particular chapter in my manuscript that I’ve been struggling to edit combined with too much Thanksgiving food.
Doesn’t everyone feels this way from time to time?
Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.
Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock playing Chopsticks