The Improbable Dream

Twenty-odd years ago, as a sort of experiment, I kept a dream log for a month. Dream journals can be fascinating...at least to the dreamer. (Sort of like this blog.)

I haven't recorded my dreams in years, but last night's dream is worth recounting.

I won't bore you with the early details: the barbeque, the banter, the funnel cloud, the geeky reactions to watching leaves falling from an odd looking tree. Let's skip right to the end when I was sitting under a large pine tree and was startled by the sight and sound of a large red bird landing in its highest branches.

"Watch out for that one," the man closest to me commented.

I barely had a chance to reply when the cardinal flew down, landed on the back of my right hand and bit me. Hard. Then it grabbed a piece of lettuce I was holding (this is a dream, remember?) and flew off.

My subconsciousness must have disapproved of that scene and began editing it and replaying it, the cardinal returning again and again while I grabbed at it, swatted, swung, fought back. When the dream became more violent I awoke with a start. A few moments later while replaying the dream sequence, I was startled by its unlikelihood.

The neuroses of a native New Englander run pretty deep, I guess.

When I told the boys about the dream at breakfast, Andrew was easily able to interpret it for me. "What do you think it was about?" I asked.

"Defeating the Cardinals," he answered.

Go Red Sox!