Dreams & Memoirs

I was hanging at RealLivePreacher this morning (a regular tactic for work-avoidance), where I read the Preach's post and a fairly deep discussion following, about dreams.

I wasn't sure my own recent, vivid dream was serious enough to be thrown into the hat there, but I decided I should record it somewhere. (Oh, my lucky blog! Home to the flotsam and jetsom of my mind....)

So I dreamed that I owned an ice rink. A REAL ice rink. With frozen water and hockey nets and the free use of scarves with skate rental. Kids and adults came and went, all chilled fingers and happy faces, while I puttered happily away at my rink, working while on skates. I took money and did paperwork behind a counter, then slipped onto the ice to illustrate some move to a class of kids. I heard a song I liked and made someone turn it up. And we frolicked and played in my winter wonderland.

I'm pretty sure this mythical ice rink was in East Texas, because of the huge well of pride and contentment I felt in the dream. It was like I knew my venture was already a success, and that I'd planted something out of place here and had made it at home.

My ice rink also had a coffee shop. With bakery snacks! This seemed a perfect innovation, because who can resist hot liquids and hearty muffins? And what worldly perks do I like more than winter accessories and lattes? Oh, not much!
(Now WHY did the ice rinks I used in Colorado not have coffee shops attached? Silly people -- completely missing the boat!)

I woke up certain that we should build an ice rink. "Build it and they will come," you know... But I am not Kevin Costner. Nor am I Sahsa Cohen. And I don't even like being cold. My nose runs.

So, what does it mean? I do not know. It was, after all, just a dream...




In other news, I have started a memoir class. Yep, me and 8 old people! (No disrespect. I LIKE old people.) We'll meet once a week at my church, with the most marvelous teacher, for six weeks. Each week we'll learn a little more about what defines a memoir, how to craft one, how to hold it together. So far, we read from books and made lists. And then we get a writing assignment (all in one hour, too!). This week's assignment was "tell me something about your name." And this is what I wrote.


Two Kathleens bequeathed my middle name, each a monument to strength, both bold and steely sorts. I might never have escaped the long shadows cast, except that my normally meek mother pulled off a 4th-quarter conversion. She's the one who, just before delivery, introduced something new to the name mix.

Before she spoke, back when I was the unknown, unshaped first-born on-the-way, the name chosen for a girl was Savannah. Pleasant. Southern. Savannah Kathleen. Then my sweet Mom, Kay -- as clear of heart as short of name -- decided I would be called Ginger.

She couldn't know then how many poodles and miniature Dachshunds would later share the name. That Ginger is shorthand for "red-haired" in Britain. She had no foreglimpse of the fifth-grade me standing in class, crossing my arms, and loudly pouting, "The only people who share my name are dogs and hookers!"

But I like to think Kay knew her girl might not fit the Savannah profile. That she suspected, early on, the wee little me needed something that could become all my own. Certainly, she started something with that name. A certain breaking free....