It’s probably imprudent in a too-much-information kind of way to speak of one’s nightmares, but, really, I just never have nightmares. But I did have one on the last night of the retreat, and it continued last night, clear as a bell, places, faces, words. I say “nightmare” not because it was scary in any way whatsoever, but because of my circumstances in that now ongoing dream.
Just to say, the retreat was good, really good, lots of time with prayer, peaceful prayer with Jesus, lots of great, great talks by Father Cameron, O.P., lots of great priestly fraternity, lots of new friends among the priests new to the diocese, lots of diocesan logistics taken care of, really just a great time all around. So, like, why the nightmare? There’s nothing about any of it that is “unresolved” or whatever, for, as it is, there is nothing quite exactly like this in my life.
Update: The actual first installment of the dream I ignored when I first wrote this post because it was so short and, as the others, not scary. What first happened was that, as with the other installments, I found myself to have been drugged up. But here, I was on the ground, unable to stand, but still aware of my circumstances, much like an zoo animal being shot with a tranquilizer dart. I was aware that there was a van on the street off to the side with its side-sliding-cargo-door opened for yours truly. That was it. Just some seconds.
The first [second] installment of the dream starts outside of Paris walking along the Charles de Gaulle airport (CDG) terminal tunnels which are long and colorful but certainly not scary. I came up to the desk of the airline I needed but then realized I had no passport, no ticket, and didn’t quite know where I was going, except that surely it was somewhere at or near Tripoli, Libya. I took a step back as a lady with the air of some authority with which one could not argue took charge of the situation right next to me, all in hush-hush tones over the counter, even while those at the desk just submissively followed her wishes in my regard, realizing something way out of their control was going down. In my dream I was questioning to myself who this lady was and why it was that I had been drugged into a zombie-like state. Where was I being brought, exactly?
In the second [third] installment of the dream, repeating the first part, the continuation was that, I guess in Libya (everyone looked Libyan, but what do I know? I didn’t see any flags), I was placed before a panel of multiple judges / interrogators of what looked to be an actual court of law of some kind, however Kangaroo it might be. I again am aware that I am drugged and unable to answer, indeed, unable to hear the questions as I faded out. And then I awoke once again.
It’s not like I was watching this in a dissociated sort of way. I was the one from a very personal POV walking though Charles de Gaulle, I was the one with my own POV being asked questions at the desk, I was intensely the one in North Africa before a tribunal of some sort, with the one fellow, his face burned into my mind, asking me questions eye to eye, I being held up before him. His face was like that of the ex-Prime Minister of Gaddafi, only rounder, more pocked up, terribly bored with the show-trial, knowing full well I couldn’t answer, just going through the motions, annoyed at the whole procedure.
I wasn’t frustrated, upset, disappointed, scared, feeling caught-out for some reason, abandoned, worried, none of that. Nor was I snarky, confrontational. Nothing. Except maybe that I thought it was somehow to be expected. Not that I know why.
And that’s that. I wonder if there will be a part three [four].