Some Where

I wake, occasionally, to the image of a place. Not the same place, but a specific place like the curve of the road just below my childhood home, or a long stretch of highway in South Dakota, or a bridge that I can't exactly name. Sometimes, I fall asleep with a place wedged between being awake and being fully in a dream and often when this happens, my dreams begin in this place.

Many are places from my past, like the intersection of Perry Avenue and Sylvan Way. This is where I'd turn when riding my bike to school -- high school to be exact -- and make my way up the last long hill before coasting down the last long hill. I dream of the sharp curve of Riddell Road or the winding turns of Tracyton Boulevard.

But there are other places that are familiar, but I can't identify them. I'll wake up -- either early in the morning or just as the alarm sounds -- and try to hold the wisps of the geography long enough to remember, but often I can't. I know they exist, but I've lost the anchor of where the somewhere is under layers of fuzzy memory.

It happened this morning. There was a lake and I was paddling a kayak next to a steep cliff at the edge of the lake. In the distance, I could see two women sitting on the porch of a lake house -- one woman was black, the other was white. They were far away, but I could still hear them talking and they were talking about me. They sat in lounge chairs, their long legs stretched out before them, a cup of tea or coffee in their hands, and each woman wore sunglasses. It was a warm day, late in the afternoon, and I could feel my arms pulling the paddle hard through the murky, dark lake. I listened in on their conversation, but when I woke, I could only remember the white woman saying to the black woman, "She has strong arms."

Though I paddled, my kayak did not move with any speed. Soon, there wasn't a kayak at all. Instead, I was swimming and despite the rush of the water past my ears and the submersion of my head under water, I could still hear their voices. I found myself swimming toward them, but just as with the kayak, I was struggling to make any progress. With every breath, I looked around. "I know this place," and in that instance, I realized I was dreaming.

This happens to me a lot. I don't wake up when I realize I am dreaming, instead, I continue dreaming realizing that as the person within my own dream, I can direct the story line. I am no longer pushed along through the narrative by my sleeping brain. Rather, I decide the direction the dream will take next. I make conscious choices. In this particular dream, I knew I was a strong swimmer and there was no reason why I couldn't swim to the porch and talk with the two women and that's just what I did all the while flipping through the images of places I'd been swimming trying to figure out which lake I was swimming in.

It's odd how so many mental leaps can happen in a dream. Once I know it's a dream, my mind operates on many more levels -- more levels that it can when I'm awake. I can be in the dream, feel the water and my muscles and hear the womens' voices at the same time I can make a conscious effort to move forward through the water, take note of the shoreline and the sky, and search my waking life for this place, this somewhere in my memory.

I woke early this morning. Still tired, I had a hard time going back to sleep. I tried to reenter the dream, but instead my waking mind pondered the place of my dream. I still have no idea where I was though I know I've been there before. To fall back asleep, I thought of other places that bring me comfort -- the forest that surrounded the cabin where I once lived, the stretch of shore along the Strait of Juan de Fuca where I gathered polished glass, the hidden path in the park where I walk the dog during the week. None of them made me sleepy. Instead, they lead me back to the lake, the two women, and the feel of the water against my skin as I swam.

I never did fall back asleep. I thought of the lake, listened to the dog at the end of the bed as he flipped and flopped, snuggling in under my legs, and finally heard the click of the alarm right before ti went off. Now I've lost an familiarity of the dream. Now I doubt that I've actually been there before. Now I wonder if it is a conglomeration of various lakes and waterways where I've been swimming or paddling. And who were the women? In the dream, I knew them. Awake, they are as murky as the lake of my imagination.

This is one of those dreams that will stay with me for most of the morning. I have a busy day ahead of me so at some point, the memory of this dream will fade cluttered out by chores I must complete. Perhaps I'll dream it again. This happens. I wake after a dream and think, "I've dreamt this before" or "I've been there, but where is it?" Perhaps in the next version of the lake dream, I'll remember its name and sleep soundly once I do. For now, it's just a whisper that will tug at me in between the breaths of this chilly blue Monday.