I’m going to get a little more personal in today’s column than I usually do, which is really saying something, because I always view these editorials as a little coffee chat. You over there on that side of the table, by the window, and me over here on this side, holding my steaming mug of dirty chai — a blend of coffee and spiced tea, for the uninitiated. It’s my favorite thing.
Would you like some creamer? Sugar?
I hope you’ll bear with me. My head is swimming with thoughts of current affairs and literal dreams.
I am thinking this morning, as I sip my coffee, of the dream I had last night.
Rather, friend, I’m thinking of the specific point in the dream in which I found myself using a public toilet (read: open air at the bottom of some stairs — my brain is WILD, y'all). As I finished my business, I realized a previous person had used a wet wipe to clean their rear end. I realized this because it had somehow gotten stuck to the toilet lid and transferred onto my shirt, stool and all.
I’m so sorry, friend. I hope this hasn’t ruined our coffee together. Please hang in there. It’s going somewhere, I promise.
Anyway, in this dream, I was thoroughly disgusted, but fortunately, dream-me apparently makes it a practice to carry hydrogen peroxide in my purse, so I went to work cleaning the mess off of my shirt. And then who should come walking down the stairs? Why, it was the previous user of the facilities!
I quickly realized I had an opportunity: I could speculate and assume worst intentions, or I could be direct and ask.
"Excuse me. Are you aware that you used a wipe covered in fecal matter and it got stuck to the toilet seat?" I asked this calmly, without accusation or malice. She was unaware, and I was unsurprised.
"As the only other person who has used this toilet recently, I have to tell you, it happened." I was still calm.
"And it is on my shirt." That’s when I started freaking out. Tears, screaming about biohazards, showing her the stain so she could see for herself, scrubbing madly — having a Very Real, No-Holds-Barred Reaction, but still not blaming or accusing her.
As I’m sitting here across this table from you, and I sip my coffee and you sip yours, I think, first, how impressed I am you’re still here. You’re such a good listener, did anyone ever tell you that? Thank you for being here with me and letting me reflect with you.
Then I think about that scene, and do you know, while dream-me was melting down, do you know what that person did?
She came to my aid. She first tried to clean up the stain, and then gave me the shirt off of her own back.
What a powerful dream that is, don’t you think? Do you see why I wanted to share this with you?
I mean, imagine. The brain is such a funny organ. It conjured up this scene of vulnerability — I was vulnerable, exposed, taking care of my private business, and then, “stuff” happened. And it was messy. And I kept my cool and I looked for answers, and I didn’t blame anyone even when it would have been the obvious and easy thing to do. I took care of my mess, I felt my feelings, and then the other person in the equation went to work to help me.
Wow, friend. Wow.
What do you make of that? Can you imagine, the absurdities aside, what could happen if we applied such a strategy to our everyday waking lives? What it could do for our community?
How’s your coffee? Do you need a warmer? I’ve got plenty to share.
So, what’s new with you? I want to hear all of it. Share your thoughts about current events and even your wildest dreams with me. I care, I want to know. Send me a letter by email at abbyh@westplainsdailyquill.net; by mail at the West Plains Daily Quill, P.O. Box 110, West Plains, MO 65775; or drop it by the office between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. weekdays at 205 Washington Ave.
