Last night I dreamed that I was on retreat—
I, or whatever element of self-awareness
Inhabited the perspectives of that dream.
It was winter in the mountains. Snow drifted
To my stooped shoulders. We were getting
Ready to board a boat and set out to sea,
Never mind we were landlocked in pines.
The retreat was of the spiritual, not military,
Type, although there was talk of surrender.
Daughter was the only child among dozens
Of shadowy faced, mostly nameless adults,
And she was on a screen, telling classmates
About the retreat and the coming trip to sea,
Apparently as her make-up assignment.
In the white-washed great hall of a lodge
We all gathered for a guided meditation
Before our breakfast and departure. I ended
In the very center of the front row somehow
And was startled when the leader, a woman
With abundant dark hair and something
Vaguely Italianate about her, asked me
To guide the group. I panicked. Who was I,
Who barely knew the basics of a sit, to guide
Serious devotees heading out to sea?
I began intoning, inanely, “relax your mind.”
Someone several rows behind me hissed,
“No!” and I realized it was too soon for mind.
So I gamely reviewed our limbs and torsos,
Suggesting that we imagine our spines
Were stacks of china plates neatly placed
In a cupboard, and so on, knowing I was
Doing a miserable job and quitting too soon.
When I finished, others stood and whispered.
All the women were vaguely like the leader
Who had asked me to guide the sit—dark,
Vaguely Italianate, youngish, maybe lovely,
Although none of them had faces. Two
Stooped over me where I still sat and said
That one of the men was angry I was there,
That I wasn’t spiritual, that I drank, that I ate
Poorly, that I did not practice right attitudes.
Then they faded and the shadow of the man,
Who in appearance was entirely shadow,
Stretched down over me and coldly said,
“You don’t belong here.” I looked up
And answered, “Belonging and excluding
Are the origins of all wars, my friend.” I woke
At that point, pleased with my dream self,
And I remained energized all morning, until,
Sitting under the Red Cliffs with a bag lunch,
I thought, He was right. I don’t belong here.
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