I was sent to a rehab facility. When I arrived
it was time for dinner. I was surprised that the cafeteria was serving
"luxury" meats such as prime rib, ham off the bone, etc. I have
difficulty finding utensils for my food and a glass for the sweet tea. Someone
pointed out a glass to me and I end up overfilling it. I proceed to look for
a place to sit, still wondering how I was going to eat the food without
utensils. As I walk across the white carpet my glass tips over spilling sweet
tea everywhere. I am embarrassed, because I don't know how to clean up the mess.
As I just sit down to eat it is time for us
find our rooms. I had left my passport and my binder at the cafeteria entrance.
They are now gone and presumed stolen. I am fortunately able to find my room number off of a posted list in the hall: I was assigned to room 310.
I enter room 310. Much to my disgust, there was a creepy white
man having sex with (raping?) a large black woman named Kona. It appeared brutal. He is so smug of his sexual prowess and his ability to come often. He beats a hasty retreat when he sees that someone has entered the
room. I quickly approach the woman, concerned, to see if she's all right. I ask if she was hurt. Her answer was no. I ask if it was consensual. She says yes, but with tears flowing from her eyes I know differently.
I'm now late for the first meeting. We are
given an art project but I miss the opening instructions. The facilitator
quickly went over them but I have a hard time understanding: something about
painting in a series of strokes that represent our life's journey to the point
where we are now. I misunderstood. I thought he said to use black paint for our
brush strokes but in actuality we were to begin with a black under
painting. After which, any color could be used. So after fighting over worn out
brushes with the crazy man (who was bragging about his sexual expertise) I
finally have what I needed.
Although it was dusk, I decide to paint plein
air. I gather my belongings and go outside to set up my work station. The only
canvas available to me was one previously painted upon. Oh well, I wasn't going
to let that deter me. I attempt to paint straight little strokes, with the
black paint, but somehow ended up painting broad, sweeping, circular
strokes...the type in which splattering occurs. As I continued on my art I was
surprised to find other colors appearing on the canvas. I peered into my cup of
paint. I discovered that as I used up the black paint near the top, other
colors, bold and bright, were uncovered, bubbling to the surface. I stepped
back from my painting to look at the whole picture: I had painted an abstract
of a nude woman in repose. It was beautiful! Just then the counselor came to
critique my work. He would pull up several canvases scattered about. It was
difficult, yet I had to admit that they weren't my work. Then he picked up my
painting...I was dismayed to see he was studying the front side, where the
previous work had been painted, not the underside that I used for my work.
The next morning came quickly. I got up to out
to walk, as that was what was required of newcomers. As I was walking my trail, I was asked to help out at
the booth. This was a place, under a canopy, where people could come with their
questions or concerns. I did as was asked. While seated at the table I received
a phone call from an unidentified source. This person ordered me to get back
out and walk...that I hadn't done the necessary work to belong at that table. I
was embarrassed because I was only doing what was asked of me. I became very
frustrated because I really didn't know the rules. 6 weeks was going to be a
very long time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today I took a big risk sharing this with you. This is an actual dream of mine. Nothing
added, nothing taken away. Purely unadulterated. Not sugar-coated in the least. If I can get pen down to paper, first thing in the
morning, I have the basis for some serious self analysis, or pretty crazy stories. It is obvious that my
dreams are ripe with metaphorical symbolism. The question always is…am I honest, open, and willing enough to take that good hard look at myself.
