What Constitutes a Geriatric Daydream?

A random question? Right now for me, it isn't. It's everything. The question that seems ready to blow like a geyser of the mind: am I too old to think dreams come true (even short-term ones) for me? Too old to anticipate good things, too old to activate that remnant of childlike wonder and excitement that was once so vital to my heart? Will the disappointment be too profound when real life fails to measure up? Here is my meaning: As a child, I joyfully anticipated holidays. I'd lay under the newly trimmed tree, looking up through her branches, expectant of the glories coming on Christmas morning. I'd thrill at what was soon to come: the smell of the cookies baking, the gifts appearing, the music playing. And Christmas would come through in all its glory.

But now, if I look forward to the traditional cooking of the Thanksgiving dinner, stomach flu hits my faithful diners. If I look forward to family time spent making cookies or sharing things like gift-wrapping, carolling, hot chocolate and candles, well there is either no money to buy even the most meager supplies or if there is money, then time is lacking. Strangely, if I don't allow myself to anticipate anything festive, festive things might very well happen; but only by random luck, and not as the climax of days spent in wonder and expectation. So, have I locked too many wonderful things from days past all up into one bloated dream? Is that my problem?

Quite recently my family had one of these "flops" in a category not reminiscent of childhood for me, and thus not glutted with happy nostalgia. Camping is a cultural phenomenon that I've only recently joined, so it would make a good litmus test of my tendency to overblow as I don't have enough background with camping to have false-memory expectations. And we as a family all enjoy the activity. So this summer, we planned a camping trip. My kids looked forward to it, I looked forward to it--for weeks we couldn't wait for the day to come when we would load up the van and take off for the woods. We daydreamed from our sparsely scattered former trips: nights making s'mores around a camp fire; days spent lazily on a beach, me reading a book in the warm sunshine, listening to the waves lap at a lake shore where the kids built sand castles and paddled in the water. Lovely walks along the wooded shores in the evening. Photo ops as the children pick wildflowers.

But because we expected these...
We found that even though this whole summer has been plagued with drought in our territory-- touted to be the worst drought in 40 years; nevertheless, the only three days of nearly continuous rain fell during our camping trip. Our campsite was swampy at best, a mud pit more typically.
The fire: a choking pit of damp-smelling smoke.
Wildflower-picking while traipsing the woods: this year is the worst yet for poison ivy, so keep the kids out of the brush, say authorities.
Time at the beach: on a good outing we'd glean 45 minutes of lightening-free swim time. The water chilly, the sand heavy and dark. As for the "grassy" parts near the shower house, these were scrub grass littered heavily with goose poop. Briefly I waded into the waters with the children, but lake water just doesn't feel the same when you approach it from a physical state of uncomfortable dampness; no, not as lovely as say a cooling drench applied to hot, sun-baked skin. Still, I made that effort to cavort with the children, but ended up hollering at them because they were whining and fighting. Gone were the last of my idyllic pictures of nurturing good humor in the family despite the hardships of this trip. I gave up and--while walking back toward my towel--heard some stray child mutter, "I'm glad she's not my mom." (I almost turned and snapped at him, "I'll just bet you are!" But I restrained myself.)

I spread my damp towel on the hard ground and sat down. I tried escapism--reading my book I figured was a safe past time. But then looking up, I saw flocks of water fowl swooping over me. Another nearby child pointed just above my head, "Look that one has a fish in its mouth!" Naturally, I had visions of fish guts spilling out all over me. I'd learned to expect such things, to fit the flavor of the trip. Thankfully no fish guts fell. Still, even as I was breathing a sigh of relief over that respite from bad luck, the same child said, "Here seagull, seagull, seagull, have some chips..." and he threw a handful of soggy potato chips right at me, causing the squawking birds to flock all around.

I sighed, it just wasn't like this when we camped here before, I reminisced mournfully. It was then that I began to find my question about unrealistic dreams beginning to take shape even as I shuffled the boys back to the tent (just in time to duck under cover as the next deluge hit.) I dozed on a soggy sleeping bag while they fought over which one was cheating the most at a game of checkers.

The worst trouble, however, hit the night that it didn't rain; for that was the night the raccoons and foxes decided to invade our camp. First, I heard what I swore was a cougar growling on my very picnic table, this at about 2:30 in the morning. Shining a flashlight out the tent flap, I caught a glimpse of glowing eyes, then a red hide and tail swooped off the table and disappeared in the dark. Maybe a fox after all. Strangely, a few days prior, I'd had a dream of animal eyes gleaming in the dark. I'd very picturesquely (at that time) attributed the "vision" to being a reassurance sent down from above, a sign that all was well, as I continued to grow into a spiritual being so closely aligned to my Lord of Light that I'd become all but invisible to the creatures of the dark...another thing I'd once dreamed. Foolish romantic, me! What was I thinking--staging my dream so figuratively complimentary. Ha! I should have recognized that premonition as one of those I'm given sometimes for a warning before a time of personal horror. (Granted, this too is a sign of compassion from a higher power, but no one really looks forward to that type of compassion because of where it points.) Yes, it was hard to appreciate that dream for its true benefits, because a second attack hit our camp that night, finally prompting me to give up on sleep. I climbed out of the tent, rebuilt the fire, collected a pile of stones, made some campfire coffee and sat there in my chair defending my small swatch of turf. After all, my children had to eat over the next two days, and those raccoons had learned to open our cooler! How strange and surreal it was, those hours from 3 - 6 am, feeding the fire, smelling--even when I couldn't see them--the raccoons whenever they grew bold in their approach, shining my flashlight into their troops of eyes--often 8-10 creatures came at a time--chucking rocks at them and yelling to drive them away again. Finally, I threw my last rock as the morning light made that last critter visible, a shadowy figure running across the dimness of the edge of my campsite. Later, while buying more wood at the bait shop, (replacing what I burned in the all-night vigil) I stood swaying, bleary-eyed while the shopkeeper talked on about how the raccoon population has exploded this year and how the dept. of natural resources was even setting traps to catch them. I grunted, heading wearily back to the campsite, where it was once was more beginning to rain. At that point I was too tired to do any more of the reflecting I'd done in the adrenalin-rushed wakefulness of the long hours in the dark, when I looked at the firelight flicker on the trees and listened to the animals rustling the perimeter brush.
There in the dark, I'd longed for my husband, but he couldn't take the time off work to spend those camping nights with us, (nor could his back have endured a night of camping followed by a day of work. But he joined us for the weekend.)
There in the dark, I'd considered life. I'd wondered at the strange balance: if it rains all night, and turns the low end of the tent into a small interior pond and the picnic canopy into the "waters of the firmament above" that once were dumped on Noah, if these are our circumstance, then the animals leave us alone. But come a decent clearing coupled with a relatively empty campground, and our holdings were at the mercy of nocturnal scavengers. The next night, however, was the start of the weekend, and so the campground was glutted well before dusk, going from a state of two distantly-placed tents to a small kingdom where every slip was filled with classic fishing-community campers. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a landscape formed where men still put out strong-smelling cigars on the bottoms of their boots, where women "fixed their hair" not for beauty's sake, but simply so they didn't go up in flames as they cooked over the fires, and where old-fashioned sweat pants and huarache sandals made a styling combination everywhere. That night, people left food out all over the place, but not an animal came in sight, well except maybe a few all-too-human ones.

Recently, I read an article about de-stressing life, and it recommended "developing the art of selective perfectionism." Only require 20% perfection of yourself, and realize that 80% of life's tasks can get by with a "just good enough" attitude. But does the 20/80% rule apply to the expectations surrounding current and/or future circumstances? 80% of the time, learn to settle for "just good enough?" And sadly, lately, even that percentage is running high as even the weather seems to mock our joie de vivre--and even in that 20% guaranteed window. Ha!

So what did I do? I held it together. But when we returned home, I cried like a baby while I lay in a hot bath, nursing bites from mosquitoes who had found their way to places only my husband is allowed to visit. Shameless creatures. Why, God? I had to ask. Was it true--that spiritual premonition of the scavenger eyes--was the dream indeed given as a spiritual sign, but one that said that I need to take adversity with a grain of salt, realizing that adversity might be the very source of protection I needed from something even more unpleasant: predators. Was I not recognizing the gift adverse circumstances offer, for these hard times just might hold at bay things and creatures whose own love of personal comfort shielded my life from their thievery. What's more, was this trip a sign that I need to guard against isolating myself too much, even though in some ways I feel myself growing more and more like the people I once called strange? I slept well when the creatures of the night felt outnumbered. Much less work for me. What am I to do with that knowledge?

Aside from these nuggets of wisdom gleaned from this most-unpleasant-camping-trip-of-my-life--I refuse to write it off as a total loss, since everything at its barest minimum is a learning experience, right?--still, I find that deep aching question remains unanswered, and as I consider what comes next in my life, as my physical and mental capacities change, as I consider what to do as my livelihood transitions, as my calling seems to press toward things impossible, as dreams cry out to die peacefully: dare I look forward yet again, to believe change can be potentially positive? Dare I dream of things beautiful and peaceful and restful ever happening (for me) in the future? Times past, I always answered that nagging question with: "Give it time--" But what about when time doesn't bring the promised change of season? What does that mean? Years roll by and nothing improves, in fact it gets worse. What does that mean? Who is the failure? Anyone? And, dare I hope even yet, to find that place, that sweet spot where I long to be, before I die? Even more precariously, dare I cling to the expectation that death itself can even offer its promised relief? Some say it is easier for someone who has nothing to believe in after-life bounty; but my experience has been that times of earthly bounty actually make it easier to believe in well-stocked heavenly barns. Such is the norm of this life, why not believe in the expansion of the same in the next? No, it is the extended lean times that make one think: if ever empty now, then what assurance of fullness anyplace?

And so I find the gleaming eyes of the attacker of my soul--it is this that is the dark-night predator I face, the one who is after my un-touchable stores even now, here safe again at home. Despite these many signs of crisis, so many that even my prayer partners shake their heads and ask what we need to pray about this week, to my embarrassment--nevertheless, I must decide what I will believe. Do I believe I have that heavenly mansion even as I saw it in another dream: something like a white house nestled on a hill in front of a larger, evergreen-swathed hill. A place where a gazebo with a swing waited for me; where a book, a picture hat and a pair of soft moccasins waited for me. Where a beautiful view of a valley gleaming in the deepening sunlight, waited for me. Now--do I believe the dream is my portion when I leave this place I call life and go to that place that really is life?