Ever Dreamt Something Too Real to Forget? Like This Dream of Mine....
This morning, I woke with a heart full of questions and the scent of flowers still lingering in my mind.
I had dreamt of a serene lake, kissed by the gentle warmth of the morning sun. Mist rose like whispers from its surface, curling softly into the waking sky. People strolled peacefully along the banks—families, couples, all soaking in the quiet beauty. The lake was dotted with tiny boats, each overflowing with vibrant valley flowers, their colors mirrored in the still waters.
From one boat to another, flower-sellers rowed gently to the shore. With a wave or a smile, people beckoned them close, bought blooms, slipped coins into waiting palms, and received a blessing of beauty in return.
Among them was a young lady who stood out...not just because of her grace, but because of something else. She stood tall in her small boat, rowing with poise, smiling at passersby. Her long, flowing dress spilled over the sides like a petal caught on water. She waved cheerfully, calling softly to those on the banks, selling her flowers with joy.
As she passed near me, I noticed something troubling....her boat had a hole. Water was seeping in steadily. Yet she seemed unaware. Her dress was soaked at the hem, her boat sinking with each gentle stroke of the oar.
I waved at her, called out—but she only smiled, misreading my concern as a greeting. I quickened my pace along the bank, trying to catch up, trying to show her the danger. She just rowed... and rowed.
I reached into my pocket and offered her money, hoping to keep her close to the shore. She came near, handed me some flowers, and rowed on. I kept buying more, hoping my coins would anchor her from drifting into deeper water.
But perhaps disturbed by my persistence, she moved away.....towards the far end of the lake, where the water was darker, deeper. My heart ached. I flagged down a stranger nearby, handed him my last large note, and pleaded with him to call her in.
She noticed. Maybe because it wasn’t me. She turned back and slowly made her way toward him. Her boat, now heavy and half-sunk, dragged itself to the shore.
She reached. I snatched back the note and handed it to her directly. She hesitated, having only a few crushed flowers left to give. I took them, and as she reached forward, I grasped her hand...firm, urgent...and pulled.
In one swift moment, she stepped out, just as the boat gave in and vanished into the lake’s depths.
I held her firmly, safe on the shore. But she looked back—not in relief, but in loss. Her gaze was fixed on the water, where her boat, her day’s earnings, and my scattered coins had sunk.
She had survived. But her thoughts lingered on the work she’d lost. I stood there, the question echoing through me.....
Why does she mourn the boat, when her life was what nearly slipped away?
And then I woke up. The lake was gone. The flowers, the girl, the boat—all vanished.
Only the question remained.
I had dreamt of a serene lake, kissed by the gentle warmth of the morning sun. Mist rose like whispers from its surface, curling softly into the waking sky. People strolled peacefully along the banks—families, couples, all soaking in the quiet beauty. The lake was dotted with tiny boats, each overflowing with vibrant valley flowers, their colors mirrored in the still waters.
From one boat to another, flower-sellers rowed gently to the shore. With a wave or a smile, people beckoned them close, bought blooms, slipped coins into waiting palms, and received a blessing of beauty in return.
Among them was a young lady who stood out...not just because of her grace, but because of something else. She stood tall in her small boat, rowing with poise, smiling at passersby. Her long, flowing dress spilled over the sides like a petal caught on water. She waved cheerfully, calling softly to those on the banks, selling her flowers with joy.
As she passed near me, I noticed something troubling....her boat had a hole. Water was seeping in steadily. Yet she seemed unaware. Her dress was soaked at the hem, her boat sinking with each gentle stroke of the oar.
I waved at her, called out—but she only smiled, misreading my concern as a greeting. I quickened my pace along the bank, trying to catch up, trying to show her the danger. She just rowed... and rowed.
I reached into my pocket and offered her money, hoping to keep her close to the shore. She came near, handed me some flowers, and rowed on. I kept buying more, hoping my coins would anchor her from drifting into deeper water.
But perhaps disturbed by my persistence, she moved away.....towards the far end of the lake, where the water was darker, deeper. My heart ached. I flagged down a stranger nearby, handed him my last large note, and pleaded with him to call her in.
She noticed. Maybe because it wasn’t me. She turned back and slowly made her way toward him. Her boat, now heavy and half-sunk, dragged itself to the shore.
She reached. I snatched back the note and handed it to her directly. She hesitated, having only a few crushed flowers left to give. I took them, and as she reached forward, I grasped her hand...firm, urgent...and pulled.
In one swift moment, she stepped out, just as the boat gave in and vanished into the lake’s depths.
I held her firmly, safe on the shore. But she looked back—not in relief, but in loss. Her gaze was fixed on the water, where her boat, her day’s earnings, and my scattered coins had sunk.
She had survived. But her thoughts lingered on the work she’d lost. I stood there, the question echoing through me.....
Why does she mourn the boat, when her life was what nearly slipped away?
And then I woke up. The lake was gone. The flowers, the girl, the boat—all vanished.
Only the question remained.
