Catherine Fischer (copper9lives) wrote,
Catherine Fischer

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Yesterday was Thanksgiving. I was thankful that I had finished my last terminal surgery (on my donkey, Vincent) on Tuesday, and completed the necropsy late that night (and gotten all the crying over with). I was also thankful I had the chance to spend an absolutely wonderful evening in the company of good friends, last night: Audrey (my neighbor, and an incredibly cool woman of whom I am somewhat in awe), Amy (my assistant editor, fellow poet, brilliant, sharp-witted, and a wild woman), and Brent (my leg-pulling beloved boyfriend, now SGA President at Ross). Conversation flowed endlessly between gay marriage and euthanizing large animals, cow palpation and science fiction novels, professors we love and classmates we love to hate, uppity women and gentlemen, maturity and confidence, electrical engineering and adoption of children. We hardly drew breath, between the laughter and conversation and stuffing ourselves on the most excellent Thanksgiving feast ever -- we went to Ottley's Plantation Inn, which offers some of the finest food I've eaten anywhere. Tired and stuffed to bursting, we separated back at Cloud 9 (Brent's and my apartment) and trundled our "food-babies" off to bed (Amy's term for our giant, protruding bellies).

And last night I revisited one of my all-time favorite dream-locations: a valley that is always associated with regaining spiritual powers, and with intense joy.

The Valley was called the Lamar Valley in this dream (the Lamar valley is an area in the northeast of Yellowstone -- a beautiful remote place which doesn't even vaguely resemble my dream valley). The Valley is very deep and many miles wide, with open ends stretching away to tumbled broken stone foothills on one side and endless savannah, blue horizon on the other. The walls are sheer and of a reddish-white and grey granite; the floor of the valley is mixed deep forest and savannah, and is bisected by the shining ribbon of a river (which I rafted down in another dream). The forests are antediluvian and very large, with perfect, graceful trunks lofting a profound ceiling of rich green canopy, and something about the forests is intensely magical.

I am leading Dean DeYoung down the walls on a narrow, switch-backed game trail, on donkey-back; we pass, but do not enter, the ancient hanging ruins of a lost civilization, the wind whistling through the gaping empty windows (I have dreamed of these before). He is dubious about the trip, but I point out the view, the site of the paleontological digs on the other side of the valley (another dream), the river, the forest... then, as we reach the level of the first forest, I point out the tall and shining trunks of alder, beech, ash, aspen and oak. The sense of remembrance and joy are mounting uncontainably within me; I am starting to regain my true self, my full abilities, and I know that very soon, I'll remember how to fly. Within the dream, I remember other dreams of flying through the vast sunlit bowl of air filling the valley, and can feel myself feeling lighter and lighter as we finish the descent.

I hope I go back to the Valley tonight.
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