Another Weird Quote From My Brain

This morning, as I was on the edge of waking up, I heard two dream people (at least I hope they were dream people!) having the following conversation: "Remember what our metaphysical parents said, "Fire Aces Art every time." (And, yes, those caps were clearly in that sentence.) Now I do not know what a metaphysical parent is, but I can think of a lot of directions that remark about Fire and Art could go.

 

Fire could be considered as a source of light and heat, the first source of control over those factors that humans had. Without fire, heat and light had to come from the sun, moon, and stars. Although humans have always had that inborn creative urge to make things of beauty, or just to make art as a way to record the facts of their lives and history, light and heat are essential for basic survival. To be able to control or create a source of heat and light whenever and wherever it is wanted or needed, does ace art.

 

The other, vastly different, interpretation of that statement could be that of fire as the great destroyer. Fire burns where there is fuel. It does not matter whether that fuel is a carefully constructed campfire, a forest, dry prairie grass, a house, or a piece of priceless art. It is all just fuel for the flames, and Fire Aces Art.

 

From there one could philosophize about the impermanent nature of the works of man. Many sermons have been preached about this. Jesus said in

Matthew 6:19-20New American Standard Bible (NASB):

¹⁹ “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. ²⁰ But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys, and where thieves do not break in or steal...."

In the treacherous world of today's Middle East, Muslim groups bent on world domination have blown up (another form of fire) ancient archaeological  artistic treasures, because they picture the "gods" once worshipped in the far distant past. These are no longer objects of worship, but elements of history. This wanton destruction makes me sad and angry. But, once again, Fire Aces Art.

The practical uses of fire actually help promote art. I think about those caves where people long ago left drawings of animals and prints of their own hands. These caves are so deep underground that they have no natural light at all. In my imagination, I see some people as torch bearers who make it possible for the artists to decorate these lightless rooms. These artistic remains are absolutely priceless links to our ancient ancestors. Without fire, they could not have been created in the pitch black of the caves. Without the deep caves, these art works would not have survived the millennia.

In today's world, good lighting of many types is priceless to artists. And painting light and shadow is one of the great artistic talents.

Fire may ace art. Fire, in all its many forms, can aid art. I would hate to live in a world or society that lacked either of these.

Fire a necessity for quality of life. Art a necessity for quality of life. I want both.

I snapped photos of some of the art on my cave walls:

This is a painting by my sister Grace Baker.

 

These pictures are from my granddaughter, Megan, starting about age six. She still draws constantly, and I need to talk her into giving me a new, frame-worthy work.

These paintings were all done by my mother-in-law, Emma Russell Wales. Sorry that it is not a very good photo.

 

This watercolor is by my brother-in-law, Lyle Stewart. I did not notice until I had the photo on the computer that I created an inset reflection of myself taking the picture. I am to lazy to redo the photo!
 

 

 

 

 

A C+ Day

I woke up at 4:30 this morning, for the usual reason people in my age group are up in the night. I came back to bed hoping that I could go back to sleep, but knowing that at that time of morning it was not likely.

However, I did fall asleep again. And, as I was in that early stage where dreams begin but the brain still works a bit on the conscious level, I saw a peculiar thing. Drifting past my mind's eye was a book. The dust cover was bright yellow. The title was printed in large letters, in an uneven line with the letters tilting this way and that. And the title was:

I'm Having a C+ Day

The dream picture drifted off, but I was so struck by it that I ordered my brain to remember it. Surprisingly enough, I did still remember it when I awoke more than two hours later.

I think that most days in our lives are C+ days. After all, we learned in school that a C stood for average. And most of life is fairly average and routine. It has to be--how would we get anything done otherwise? There is comfort in these average days, a dependability that we count on.

If we were to draw a line graph of life, the line would run along rather evenly with just an occasional bump or dip. But then there would be those spots where the line soared up or plunged down. We love those soaring moments, the high spots in life that thrill and gratify us. We eagerly look forward to those times. The plunging spots, however, are life's struggles, hardships, and griefs. They are our moments of despair that we never want to experience, and, having experienced them, never want to go back to. Even after those dreadful plunges, the graph line gradually moves back the the center--the C+ days.

I never wanted to see a C on any school paper or report card. I considered anything below an A a personal failure. 

But in life I am happy to have a C+ day!

What Does It Mean?

A few days ago my sister Grace and I traveled to visit our nearly-94-year-old aunt. Our aunt is the sibling nearest in age to our mother. Mother passed away a year and a half ago, just two months shy of 95 years old. She and her sister always kept in contact; by telephone when in-person visits were no longer possible. Our aunts were always dear to us, and this aunt reminds us in so many ways of our mother.

While we were visiting, our aunt told us again of a recurring dream that she has. In the dream she is in bed in her apartment. Down the short hall is her guest bedroom. In the dream she knows that her sister is in the guest bedroom. She feels her presence, although she doesn't see her and they do not speak to each other. It seems like this sense of her sister's presence is comforting to her.

Our aunt is in fragile health. She is not afraid of dying. In fact, although she is not unhappy and is loved and cared for by her family, she seems a bit impatient waiting for death!

Having had many dreams about my parents and my husband, I know that such dreams can be the brain's way of "visiting" with lost loved ones, or of processing the loss of their presence in my life.

However, our aunt's dream is rather unusual to me. Is her brain getting her ready for her transition out of this life--or is Mother giving her a sense of her presence to let her know she is there for her when the time comes?

What do you think?

The Snake Pit

Today I read several blogs that were participating in a blog hop. One of the questions they answered was: What were you afraid of as a child?

I was a shy and timid child, with many fears--Farris wheels, people I didn't know well, strange dogs, and T-Rex dinosaurs. But my biggest fear of all came through dreams.

Michelle at about three years old

The Snake Pit!

When I was between two and four years old I had a terrifying recurring dream. The beginning of the dream varied. I might be walking along and the ground suddenly had a texture of rotting burlap. Or I might be asleep in bed and the bed would begin to whirl and fall. But whatever the beginning of the dream was, the ending was always the same. I was falling into a snake pit. The pit was always the same. It was a huge, very deep, cylinder. There was water in the bottom and the water was filled with huge snakes, all tangled and intertwined with one another. They were of variegated colors. As I fell, I was filled with terror and would wake up just before reaching the snakes.

The weird part of this is that at that age I had no knowledge of snakes such as giant anacondas or boas. I was a loved and cared for child, secure in my faith in my parents. I doubt that I had ever seen a real snake, and we did not have picture books with snakes in them.

So where did these dreams come from?

Dreaming

I've been dreaming about older family members a lot lately. It doesn't take a psychiatrist to figure out why; I'm spending many, many hours making a Family History scrapbook/album. Now I have begun re-doing my Mother's old 1936-1952 photo album, which is falling apart. My dreams are being peopled with family members no longer with us.

When I wake from one of these dreams I lie in bed and go over the dream in my mind, fixing it in my memory. Although dreams are never really logical and frequently change characters and locations, mixing elements from many times and places, still there is a sweetness to spending the time with loved ones. I feel good after one of these dreams.

One recent night I dreamed about visiting my parents. In the dream they were both alive and well and in their 90s. They showed their ages, but were still getting around fine and our visit was a very loving time. In real life my father died at 73, while my mother lived almost 95 years. They did not really share old age. But this dream was so sweet I treasure it.

My Grandma 

Another dream amused me greatly. To understand why it did, I need to give a little background about my Grandmother. She was born in 1886 and lived to see, via her TV, men walking on the moon. In her youth she traveled by horse and buggy, but lived to fly across the country in jet planes. She was a remarkable woman and I will probably write more about her later, but one thing she never quite mastered was the automobile clutch. She taught herself to drive in an old pickup out on the homestead prairie. One of her younger sons, riding with her while she practiced, cried out, "Maybe you should read the instructions!" To ride with Grandma was to experience what we called her jackrabbit starts and stops. Sometimes the stops killed the engine. That pesky clutch!

Now, back to the dream. Grandma was riding in the backseat of the car. Driving was my husband, and I was in the front passenger seat. The street we were on was rather rough and ridged. It was not paved, but covered with shale or gravel. Grandma kept muttering about how Jerry should drive more carefully--it was too bumpy! For some reason Jerry had to stop the car and check something, so Grandma hopped out and got in the driver's seat and began driving. About then I woke up with a chuckle on my lips, remembering her jackrabbit starts and stops and her thinking in the dream that she could drive better than Jerry.

Perhaps these dreams are a little foretaste of heaven, when we can be together enjoying each others' company again.