Sylvia's Journal

My dreams took me to some sort of Harry Potter land, a place full of enchantments; people and objects that weren’t what you though they were. This included a glass helmet, partially broken but still functional, that allowed you to see the truth by reading people’s minds and their real thoughts. That way we, myself and my unidentifiable travelling companions, were able to find out who was lying and who was truthful.

But before we got to play with magic there was the experience of being in a large plane that suddenly felt out of control and going down. I remember a feeling of dread and of déjà-vu, the knotted stomach and the body preparing for shock. And then suddenly we were flying amidst witches and bats in tight places and ended up at the place of the (broken) glass helmet where we got to play our serious play. Knowing truth is not for the faint-of-heart.

The dream was, among other things, about contrasts: between what you can see and what is hidden, what you present (to the world) and what you feel deep down; the contrast between the inner and outer world we inhabit. No matter how hard the sun shines, when you are depressed it doesn’t matter and the rays don’t get through, inside there is no warmth. I am not often depressed and thus not very experienced in how to handle myself in this state. Noticing the discrepancy between how I ought to feel and how I actually did was startling but not very useful since it had no handles to pull me up and out of the muck. What finally did pull me out was a good cry, actually two good cries, both long overdue and coming to me at an inconvenient time and place: at work. They were triggered by concerned inquiries from two people who are each in their own way, a huge source of comfort, support and perspective. As a direct result of these two tearful conversations I am home again today, to collect myself, a process that had not quite taken its natural course and that I was ordered to complete.

I did perform briefly at work by submitting various reports and do a presentation about our virtual leadership development programs to visitors from CDC who are seeking to work with us. After that I packed up and went for a row on the Charles in the sweltering heat. Rowing always has a calming effect on my mind as it is relegated to the background while the body works out.

I have felt, for some time now, a tremendous urge to create. The little chickadees are calling me to do that at all times of the day. They are the same small birds that cohabitated with us on the Audubon campground in Wellfleet on the Cape. That is where we used to camp when we attended the annual Cape Cod Institute classes on organization development or some related field, for years in a row. It was always a time of heightened intellectual and creative stimulation. I wrote many poems there and the chickadees were my audience. It is as if they flew over from across the bay and are singing to me: write, paint, create! Some of the creative juices have already been seeping out in the form of small water color paintings and the beginning of a plan for another flower garden. I bought fabric on the way home yesterday for a dress that is already completed in my mind and simply needs to be stitched together. I also expect some poems to emerge; the call to create is loud and no longer intermittent; no longer content with filling in the cracks between work. It demands my full attention and wants to be the work now!

We dropped off five videos that were lent to us a year ago by Paul and Debbie with a basket full of chocolates to assuage our guilt feelings of being so late in returning stuff that wasn’t ours. I had contemplated a paddle after that but Axel’s body was still recovering from the previous paddle and needed icing rather than more exercise. So instead, we sat by the water’s edge again and watched the sun go down below the Smith Point trees until the mosquitoes drove us inside. We had our dinner in front of the TV watching a peppy young globe trekker show us places in China we had visited ourselves, bringing back all sorts of wonderful memories.

What followed was a reminder of why I do the work I do: a moving documentary about midwives in Mozambique who are trained to be surgeons and save women’s lives in obstetrical emergencies in underserved rural areas. Given the state of these rural facilities (under-equipped, under-staffed, under-stocked), the job is already difficult beyond belief; it was made even more difficult by the attitudes of the medical doctors who were not happy with the intrusion of these uppity midwives into their select and exalted fraternity. I had not heard of this program and was thrilled to find out that someone has decided to act on what seemed such a logical next step in mobilizing a part of the population that is so very underestimated, underappreciated, and underutilized, women!