|A bride's red shoes.|
|Red platform shoes from the 1940s.|
|This was the indicated link.|
As I've mentioned before, I don't feel that making other people hear about our dreams would qualify as good manners. Therefore I won't tax you with the dream narrative, other than to say a friend took a group of us to a hodgepodge of a book store and before any of us could leave we each had to buy at least one pair of red shoes.
Even if only in theory, no longer so much in practical life, I have an abiding love for red shoes. In a happiness hierarchy for manufactured objects, they might top the list.
I can only guess at the workings of the mind when suddenly overloaded with information impossible to digest, to process. What I can say is that the past week brought (as of this writing) two nights of dream movies that warmed and gladdened me, that restored balance when we'd all been tipped overboard, that gave me what felt like real time spent with a friend I see too seldom. In addition, I was offered the delight of red shoes, tucked under counters all over the dream shop, the Easter egg hunt-style search for the right pair or two, an enormous squash that held pages to a mysterious manuscript and the fact that I was, as I always am in my dreams, younger, stronger and much more able-bodied.
What I assume is this, based on no scientific evidence at all: rather than shut down in a state of no-thought, my mind, and possibly yours, took me by the hand on a Lewis Carroll adventure to places where the nonsensical made sense. It took me to spend time with favorite people and things, safe places, sunny or happy or curious places for which I was absolutely present. If there is some over-arching order to our lives, my sleeping mind drove the getaway car that rescued me from the latest unthinkable events and delivered me to a version of home, home for the heart where I wasn't teetering but steady, from which I could step in the day not fearful but comforted. Wearing new red shoes.