In which Matthew's dreams change

My mother arrived in the Bay Area last Saturday: the first time, since I've had my own home, that she has ever stayed at my home. It was a nervous experience for both of us, I think, but most things are nervous experiences for us.

When Mom got off the plane, her friend (also in town visiting her son) couldn't get over how Mom wouldn't leave her purse unwatched for a second, even on a plane. The woman in the next seat over didn't look shifty per se, she said, but Mom didn't really like her attitude.

But I probably wouldn't have left my purse behind either. This was one of many stories over which my Mom and I bonded during her visit, as one item or another had to be re-cleaned, fixed, or double-checked on. We smiled as we bought disinfectant together (which Mom would surreptitiously use in case her friend tried to share headphones again on the flight home).

The way Mom puts it: Everybody gets on my case, and yours, apparently, for not being trusting, for not trusting the universe to take care of me. They're right -- why should I trust to random people who I do not care about and who don't care about me? It doesn't mean I'm any less happy, or any less at peace in my life. I take care of myself, and I'm a realist.

Last night I dreamed one of my classic violent chase dreams -- used to be more frequent than they are now. At one point I was running from a killer who had already chopped off my head. But just at the end, when the killer had laid hands upon Ara, something drastic changed from the usual model: we actually caught and stopped the killer. And it was because we had chased him, who carried and was about to snuff Ara, out onto the street. It was dawn, and a small truck was parked in the street nearby to make its deliveries. Just as I ran out (too late) to find Ara with the garrote around her neck and the killer on top of her, the driver looked up, saw what was going on, and turned on his truck. As he ran over them, according to dream-physics, Ara was unharmed because she was beneath the bad guy. But the killer was crushed -- terribly -- between her and the tires. Ara had a stunned "Well, that happened" look on her face, but she was safe.

When we took Mom to Cafe Gratitude, the hippie server asked us to meditate on and discuss a question while she prepared our orders: Who provides for you?. My mom said "God"; I said "strangers." I have learned to always depended on their kindness: it is the tendency for people to try to do right by their fellow humans, or at least to err somewhat outside of full-on apathy, which has gotten me through countless tight and embarrassing spots.