So, I’d like to write about my weekend. I have been planning to do so, in fact, and have several posts percolating (yet again). But Sunday night has arrived, and with it the pressures of the coming week. My students and I are putting our play, Don Quixote, into production this coming weekend, and, with the exception of Tuesday night, all of my evenings this week will be consumed by this project. And of course there’s all the regular teaching and grading and prepping to do. Not to mention being a mother.
I doubt I’ll post a thing.
And as I have Lots And Lots of things to do even this evening, I won’t write about what’s on my mind– things as varied as taking sheets from a dresser passed on to us from Bill’s parents, or Emma Grace’s first ballet lesson. I won’t post photos of Halloween and my children in their brilliant costumes, or the (many) photos they have taken of our (still new) kittens. No. No time.
But I will mention something that I remembered suddenly and surprisingly this morning in church: last night I dreamt of cream cheese. Yes. A small grey tub of it, the kind packaged by Philadelphia, the kind with a close-fitting lid. I don’t remember what the tub was about, or why I saw it so many (three?) times, but I saw it several times in my dream last night, and every time it registered as a tub of cream cheese, and every time my mind and I went on to Something Else.
I don’t remember anything else I dreamt about. Not now, anyway. And it’s not as though I love cream cheese, or even crave it or, even, have some in my house right now. But for what it’s worth, last night I dreamt of cream cheese.
(Aren’t you glad, O Reader, that you read this?)