I approached a tall and ancient tree wrapped in silvery fog. I had an impression that I’d been climbing for some time as I felt bone weary with effort. The foggy air had me shivering in the dream, but I think it was also nervousness. Stopping in front of the tree, I stared at the rough blackened gray bark. Slowly a face rose into the gnarly surface. Eyes opening, they moved around several moments before finding me. With unrelenting attention given to me, the face separated from the tree and slowly floated up into the sky. As it did, I found that the fog was gone. I watched the face floating away until it could no longer be seen, and I was alone with the tree, surrounded by a clear blue sky.
The Tree Dream
Vignettes played as dreams last night, with each sharing the need for there to be a tree in it.
The first vignette centered around camping. I was with friends (none recognized). We were searching for a camp site. It might have been at Laguna Seca (Mazda Raceway). One of the guys suggested that I go ahead and find us a site. “Just make sure it has a tree.”
I went looking and saw plenty of trees, but none that seemed to fit the need. Alone, I began complaining to myself about why one of the others hadn’t come with me.
Another vignette began. I was with friends. We were there to play softball. “Find us a field with a tree,” one man told me.
“A tree?” I said. “Why would you want a softball field with a tree? Wouldn’t the tree interfere?”
He and others insisted we needed a tree. Exasperated, I agreed to find a field with a tree, and then a third vignette started.
I was with friends. We needed a hotel room. “Try to get us one with a tree,” a friend told me.
A hotel room with a tree? “Do they have those?” I said.
“Yes, I’m sure they do. Just ask.”
They went off, leaving me alone. After looking around, I spotted the front desk and went over. “I need a room with a tree,” I said.
“Yes, sir,” came the answer.
Without further issue, I entered a room. Huge, it was carpeted, with windows. And against one pale wall, grew a large tree.
Michael Seidel, writer 