Bowled Over, and an old dream that led to a life-changing epiphany

I am at my 20 year class reunion. One of the students who was with us up to junior high, then moved, comes into the reunion with a gun and begins shooting everyone. He doesn't kill anyone, but he does injure people and he does some damage.

One classmate who is a lifelong friend of mine and my brother's is also a former marine and a war veteran. He tackles the shooter and takes him down. I help to restrain him so that he doesn't get injured too badly. I do this out of concern that somehow if he gets injured while being stopped, he might get away with what he was just doing.

The shooter begins talking, saying things he would never say. It is apparent that he is possessed or something. He is speaking about our classmates, telling us personal secrets which, in the context of how we knew them in high school, are shocking to us and embarrassing to them. People are becoming very upset.

My buddy is afraid the shooter/demon is going to tell everyone about his combat experience, and they'll all think differently about him because he'd had to kill while he was there. I point out that I don't think differently of him, and neither would anyone else. Several of our classmates are the kids of Vietnam Veterans. They know better than to forget his personality just because he was in combat... but I (and everyone) would totally understand that he wouldn't want to spend time thinking about those experiences, and that he probably didn't want us thinking about them, either.

The demon inside the shooter turns to me and calls me crazy, then says I am misdiagnosed, that I don't have the mild mood disorder for which I've been treated during the last 20 years. I think he is going to tell everyone I have a more severe mental illness with symptoms that may be scary to other people, and I brace myself for the response I hate so much - people giving me wary looks and moving away from me. It's something I've experienced before after verbally defending myself, and that response is always hurtful. It makes me feel like a monster. Even knowing that I haven't done anything wrong, those looks always make me feel horribly guilty as though I've been unjustly mean.

I didn't want the demon to tell my secret, whatever it was. I put my hand over its mouth, and it bit me.

The pain from that woke me, but it made me think of a dream I had a few years ago. I had it two nights in a row, though it was incomplete the first night. The second night, there were more details, and I woke compelled to write an account of it. I still have the old dream journal entry about it, which I'm going to post here. Sorry that it's kind of long, but this was an oddly detailed, complex, and very symbolic dream.

The horse is black . There is no saddle, no reigns. It is a stallion with an unusually long mane.

The path is a dirt road with ditches on either side. There is grass on both sides, a meadow to my right. To my left, 20 yards into the meadow is a woods - mixed (pine and deciduous), no debris/ruts in the path.

I am headed for a perfect - picture-perfect - stone masonry cottage further along this clear path. I desperately want to be there. The place looks like a Thomas Kinkade painting - flowers, tall grass, gables on the house, and a river - the house is nestled into the side of a hill.

The horse changes pace from a walk to (a trot?) a more bouncy, faster step, and holding on takes a lot of effort. He moves off of the path, to the left - into the woods. I don't want to go in there. It isn't the path of my choice. In fact, there is no path here. As the horse carries me unwillingly into the brush, I am slapped and grabbed at by low-hanging branches. My clothes protect my legs, but the branches sting my face, neck, hands, and arms. There is a white buck ahead, and the horse follows him. In the first dream, I tried to make the horse go back - I pulled his mane and nudged him with my knees - because I didn't want to go this way. I didn't want to see the buck .

This time, I follow him to the clearing. He says the same as last time - that I am running from what I need not fear, adding this time that I cannot escape, either. I tell him again that the horse brought me - ( am not running - and he says, "what horse?" By now, he is a man with leather hunting clothes (or just winter clothes), a rifle (old) and a horn (older). I look, and the horse is gone.

He tells me again that after all this running, that from which I've fled is right behind me. (Last time when I looked, there was nothing but the woods.) This time I can feel it, and when I turn to look, there is a crowd of people, all with my face. They are all different - different ages, hairstyles, clothes, stances (attitudes?), but I recognize all of them in me. I am nervous, but not scared enough to run.

I turn and he is still there. "What is this about?" I ask, "This doesn't scare me. What am I running from? Surely not them."

He says, "look again." and I feel ice growing up my spine - this time I am afraid to turn.

"Do you want me to turn you?" he asks. The thought of his touch is more intimidating than whatever is behind me, and I take a step away. He speaks again. "You refused to see last time. I will not allow that."
I feel really guilty at this point, as if I have taken something for myself - something wanted but not needed - and hurt him in the process.

I can hear movement behind me and my mind floods with ungly images - what is behind me? A zombie? a psycho killer? are the multitude of myselves going to eat me? are they dying? am I?

I am afraid to look, and I am afraid to not look .

I feel a disturbance behind me - something dark and heavy. My mind adds sinister to that, but a breeze blows the thought away.

"Look... now."

My body turns without my consent. My heart is pounding and daggers of electric sensation are shooting through my stomach and chest, and down my arms into my hands. My mouth is dry and I can't close my eyes - can't even blink .

The crowd of myselves is sort of milling around - it is a pretty large crowd - and one of them from the back is coming forward. This one is a little taller - I can see a "crown" of brown hair, almost black, moving among the others toward the front. This one scares me - I want to run, no specific direction - just somewhere that is NOT HERE. If not for the fact that my feet seem firmly rooted ( I can't move my legs) to the ground, I would flee wildly into the forest - anything to get away from the aproaching figure. I don't want to see this - I don't want to know. I am crying, but there are no tears. That makes me feel weak - like a wuss. I make myself stop before the figure emerges.

HE is defiant in his attitude, daring me to deny that he is there. He wears my face, but it does not look feminine. He is wearing a black shirt, black pants, a long, black coat, black shoes - his fair skin (my skin) stands out against all that as if it doesn't belong in it. He just stares at me.

My insides turn to a mass of worms and water - I think I am going to puke... or lose control of my bowels. I am terrified of him - he can't be part of this group. I don't want him to be real - or I just don't want him to BE. I am angry at him for doing this to me. I want to kill him.

I can't run away, but I can move toward him, so I attack - I rush him and begin pounding on him, but he just keeps looking at me without defending himself at all. His eyes are dark and full of something undefined (to me) that I'm afraid to understand. I draw back and punch him in the eye (right handed - left eye) as hard as I can. I am so scared and angry - I just want him to go away.

The punch knocks him down, and a bruise forms instantly around the eye, and my hand hurts. A little girl-me; small, skinny, with round eyes, bangs, and short pigtails, rushes over to him, puts herself between us and yells "STOP!" She looks afraid. "Can't you see you're hurting us?"

My attention is drawn to the damage I've done to him - bloody nose, fat lip, black eye, scratches on his neck... the other ones all have the same injuries... and their hands are all bruised where mine are.
I touch my lip, where the nosebleed is flowing, and I feel wet, sticky warmth. I can see blood on my fingertips.

Behind me the Hunter says, "You see."

I look, but he is gone, and in his place are more "versions" of me.

There are so many...

 - a naked woman with green hair... another with butterfly wings. Two more men, one with dark blond hair, one with red. The blond is dressed like a logger, and the redhead like a hunter, but with some kind of canvas pants.

There is a little boy carrying a slingshot and a book of matches. In his shirt pocket is a small book entitled "1000 really offensive dirty jokes." He is lighting the matches and letting them burn until the flame gets too close to his fingers. He grins at me and I see he has no upper front teeth.

The wounds are healing as I look through the crowd and see a clown, a catlike hybrid, a female me dressed in my dad's sunday best, carrying a briefcase and a dry-erase marker; there is a circle of myselves dancing - some are naked, some in different clothes, ranging from stuff I wore in the 80s to hippie/rennie stuff to pornworthy lingerie.

A hand grasps my shoulder and sends ice up and fire down my spine. I turn - more jerking away than turning - so that I face the dark-clothed male me. He is standing close. He asks why I am afraid of him. He says others in the group are much more worthy of my fear. Behind him, I see a brown-skinned me guarding a pale albino-like me who is wearing a straight jacket and a muzzle. She is struggling and kicking. Her eyes are red and she looks angry and hateful. I don't want her to see me.

The brown me says, "It's ok - I've got her under control." I realize he actually does. He has her on a leash.
Then I realize I'm also holding a leash. The me I'm facing - the guy in all black - has a choker collar on, and the leash is attached.

He looks really sad now, and is not so intimidating.

I feel bad about how mean I am to him, and he sees the change in my face. He begs me "please turn me loose."

I am afraid to take off the collar - I feel a need to keep him under my control. He keeps looking at me. He says the collar is suffocating him, and that he's going to die. He grabs my jacket and I get scared and yank the leash when I step back . That pulls him down. He repeats his statement and looks desperately at me, and I feel as though the collar is on my own neck. I reach up to my neck and my fingers find the collar. I have the leash, but the collar is getting tighter. I look at him and see that his lips are turning blue.

I try to tear the collar off my throat, but I can't. It pulls me down, and I feel my knees hit the ground. He grabs my hands and pulls them from my throat to his. I realize I have to take off his collar to get rid of mine, so I unclasp the buckle and remove it, and give it to the boy with the matches. In my hand are 2 collars - mine and his(mine) - and the boy, who now has a lighter instead of matches, burns them.

I feel really relieved about the collar. I look at the dark-clothed male me and say, "I still don't trust you."
He smiles and tells me, "That's ok... you shouldn't."

I wake.

I can still smell the forest.

My heart is pounding, and my legs hurt.



There is a lot of symbolism in this dream. The horse is that aspect of life that represents things you cannot control; time keeps moving, other people do what they're going to do no matter how it affects your life, and reality is what it is regardless of what you want. In a way, it's beautiful because it takes you to positive experiences you would have been too scared to seek out, but sometimes getting there is a rough trip.


The cottage is my "ideal" life; everything perfect, pretty, and cozy with needs met and nothing scary. It's pretty, peaceful, and quiet. In other words, the impossible. The horse is never going down that path.


The deer and the horned God showing up are my relationship with deity. I more often find myself identifying with pagan traditions, and though I do have Christian principles, I've learned along the way that those same principles exist in pagan practices as well. I've found that for me, self-examination through spiritual practice is more effective when following pagan traditions, and the deity form which "visits" me most during spiritual meditation is the Hunter.

Though it took time, I've figured out some of the "selves" from the dream.
The albino is my temper and my "wild" side. It's that bad, and I make a point to keep a tight restraint on myself because when I don't, I do damage to people's lives.


The brown me with the leash was a connection to my Kanienkehaka (Mohawk) ancestors. I did not learn until I began attending Pow-wows during the last year that some of my techniques for moderating my baser instincts, and in particular my volatile temper, are characteristic of the spiritual traditions of my ancestors. Because of my "civilized" life experience, I saw that moderation as a straight jacket, a muzzle, and a leash, but I've seen those two "selves" since in other dreams, and that's not how it is. The temper "me" is managed more through verbal and nonverbal cues, touch, and eye contact, and is kept very subdued without ever having to be bound like an animal.


The guy I didn't want to see is kind of my animus, but he also represented the aspects of myself trapped by inhibitions I've subconsciously assigned myself in order to make myself fit the profile I though I should fit. I was so intent on being who and what everyone wanted of me that I had forgotten not just to be myself, but how myself was defined. I'm really a very independent person, and I have kind of an attitude. I push back rather than giving in. I don't give a rat's ass about other people's taste in aesthetics and am prone to choosing odd things that I like over what is in style or even considered acceptable. (Because of that, I was kind of a goth in high school.) I guess you could call him my inner rebel, but I wouldn't use that strong of a term; I'm just independent, not rebellious.
Anyway, I had also been deliberately but subconsciously interpreting a same-sex attraction as a serious interest in fashion that I do not really have, and I think that was the one of the biggest reasons why he was there. 

When I had this dream, I had been trying to be a conventional person, when I'm really, really NOT.
The reason I was so scared of and angry about him is that I didn't want to confront what I had been hiding from myself; that the carefully constructed fake self I was presenting to the world was unsustainable, and trying to maintain it was killing me. I was exhausting myself trying to be that person. My beating on him was my last ditch effort to avoid admitting the dishonesty of that construct.


The little girl who protected him is my sense of right and wrong. No matter how much I learn, that part of me still remains childlike and naive. If I were to look at it now, I'd probably see a young adolescent instead of a child, but that's about as far as I've progressed. That makes it hard to deal with situations of injustice; No matter what logic dictates, somewhere inside I always expect fairness, and am always indignant and offended when events don't go the way I think they should.


The naked woman with green hair and the dancers are my inner attitude about how people view me. I try to be sociable, but in reality, I just don't care. I am who I am, and it doesn't really bother me if people don't want to associate with me because of the definition of "me." The only distress I've ever suffered over being socially awkward came from my sense that others view it as inappropriate to not desire acceptance by people in general. In the past, I have sought others' acceptance because I've been led to feel that not doing so is an inappropriate choice. I don't do that any more.

The woman with butterfly wings is an aspect of my artistic side. I don't care if others recognize or even like what I create. I just enjoy the process of creating, and desire the freedom to continue. I'm kind of sporadic and chaotic in my art. In the way that a butterfly's life is fleeting and unpredictable, so are my creative energy, my inspiration, and my level of production.


The lumberjack and the hunter are my work ethic. I'm a git 'er done kind of girl. These are guys with tough, dangerous jobs, who can't just ask someone else to cover their shift if they get sick or injured. They're competent and hard working, common sense oriented, and rough enough around the edges to not be above stepping outside their given roles to address an issue or achieve a task. That is how I approach work. I have a reputation for not calling in sick, even when I should, and for solving problems no one else can. The "me" in my father's clothes with the dry erase marker is my father's influence on my work ethic. I do often feel like I'm trying to "fill his shoes," and I feel under-qualified to do so.

The boy with the matches represents the obnoxious little brat I can sometimes be, and my fascination with fire. 
My sense of humor is definitely more gutter than society. I'm terribly lewd when I'm with my friends. Contrary to my expectations, when I'm ornery like that, the people close to me treat me in a similar manner to the affectionate way that I treat those I view as adorable rather than similar to the impatient way I treat those I view as irritating, so I don't feel too bad about the behavior. I guess it is appropriate for my inner "problem child" to cut loose my sexuality and my stubborn defiance.  That little brat has no clue what it's like to have to navigate the maze of rules and expectations that makes up the rest of the civilization with which I have to interact every day!

The clown represents my dismayed sense of not being taken seriously when I am being serious, an experience I loath and kind of fear, which happens way too frequently. I'm not going to focus on that one, though, because I find clowns creepy. I'll just point out that I'm pretty sure this happens to everyone, not just me.

There were changes in how I experienced the world after I had that dream. I went from being upset by dreams in which I was male. I began to stand up for myself more in situations that had previously intimidated me. I felt differently about people, and become more comfortable admitting that female friends of mine are attractive, and that if my husband were female, I'd be just as much in love as I am. 

Most of all, I realized that with the exception of my temper I keep myself, particularly my emotions, under too tight of a restraint, and that is why I was over thirty years old before I was able to admit to myself that I am bisexual. Under the surface, I was making that a much bigger deal than it actually is. 
Since then, I've made a point to not take my restraint beyond what is required to keep from hurting others. I've started standing up for myself more, and being myself more, and things have been a lot better.

Oddly, though none of my classmates know of my epiphany and I don't plan on telling them, in the Bowled Over dream, I had no fear that the demon was going to "out" me to them. It was revealing things that people would be uncomfortable having others know, and I don't feel uncomfortable with that. I was afraid it was going to say I have an anger disorder that makes me dangerous, or something similarly awkward which would cause my classmates to mistrust or fear me. Whereas it would not bother me that some of them would surely disapprove if they knew my sexuality, it would cause me a great deal of distress, embarrassment, and guilt if they were afraid of me. I guess there is an aspect of others' opinions that I value; while I don't need or desire approval, I do care about how I affect the experiences of others.

There is more to write about this, as after I had the dream about the class reunion (which I didn't attend in real life, though I did hang out with a few classmates the night before at a local bar) I had a dream about that male self in all black. That, however, is going to have to be my next entry, as this one is becoming entirely too long.

The Dorky Knight

Last night a friend was subjected to a baseless but very hurtful personal attack. The worst for her was that it was done anonymously, so even though she has some idea of who it wasn't, there's no way to be sure who it was. The person really hit below the belt, attacking an aspect of my friend's life about which everyone with the same aspect is going to be sensitive, and in which my friend has had enough struggles to shake her confidence in herself, even though she is actually going far above and beyond the average in that area. The attack was totally unjustified and wrong, and the person I think it comes from has no business pointing fingers, as she is not handling that aspect of her own life with much honesty. If it is who I think it is, I'm convinced that the attack was her way of making herself feel better by tearing down someone who she can at least pretend is doing worse.


I didn't realize how mad I was about this until this morning, after I woke from the following dream.

My friend and I are at the Ohio Renaissance Faire. We've both gone in garb, but this year I decided not to go the girly route. While my friend is dressed beautifully in a full skirt, blouse, corset, cloak, and sexy boots, I'm in pants instead. I've put on a chainmail shirt, and I've got a sword on a belt and a shield strapped to my back. I look like I am ready to kick some ruffian butt.

We're walking around looking at stuff in the shops. Our kids are with us, but our husbands aren't. They are at the faire, but they've gone to check something out that doesn't interest us. We have a plan to meet for lunch shortly and all go watch shows together.

As we turn to leave the store we're in, the kids ask to visit a specific shop that has padded toys that mimic weapons, so kids can pretend to be knights of old or play stories like Robin Hood without hurting each other. The stores and stages circle around the border of the property and cross in the middle, almost loosely forming kind of a squished figure 8. We have to cross the grass to get to that store. We talk about walking the rest of the way around to get to it, but none of the stores in that direction interest us, so we start cutting across the grass.

Immediately, a former friend of ours jumps in front of us. She is wearing a long dark cloak over a very skimpy dress. She has her hood up, casting a shadow over her face. On her hands are really long, dark velvety gloves. She physically looks different than normal, like she's lost a bunch of weight, even though she didn't start out with any extra. Now, she's gaunt and creepy looking: Bimbette, the wicked sorceress of ill repute.
She tells us we can't go that way because that's the way the kids want to go, and you can't just give kids what they want.

My friend points out that we are going this way because we don't have any interest in the rest of the stores along the loop, but I don't think that's necessary. It isn't this woman's business if we want to do something the kids want. I tell her to buzz off.

Bimbette looks annoyed, and starts shouting that we should be locked up for breaking "the rules." There are no rules at the Ren Faire about which direction you may walk, and there are lots of other people in the grassy area. (Oddly, none of them are paying any attention to us.) Whatever "rules" she's talking about are all in her head.

We ignore her and try to walk around her, and she slaps my friend across the face with her gloved hand. I reach for that hand, but she draws it back quickly and steps away. On my friend's face is a red mark from the slap. It starts to spread, and I realize that Bimbette had something nasty on the glove. It looks like it is causing an allergic reaction. Somehow, I am sure she has an antidote to it in one of the little pouches hanging on her belt.

I demand to know what Bimbette has put on my friend's face. She says it's her "just desserts" for not fitting the mold. That makes me really mad, and I draw my sword. I demand that Bimbette give the antidote, or I will cut her down.

We're no longer at a modern Renaissance Faire. It's darker, and there are more trees. The buildings are more solid, and the shop keepers look scared. There is no one around us who isn't dressed like us. Off to the side are three people imprisoned in stocks. Every so often, someone throws a rotten vegetable at them. Signs identify them as having offended the queen.

Bimbette vanishes with a poof, and I am left standing in the square with my sword drawn like an idiot. My friend's face has hives on it. I quickly grab her and take her to the nearest apothecary to see if the proprietor has anything to soothe her skin. Inside the shop, I find another friend of ours (whom we haven't seen in years) crushing dried herbs into a powder. We show him the reaction, and tell him how it happened. He immediately identifies the poison as the sting of the worker queen. He tells us the worker queen is an ordinary worker bee that thinks it's the queen bee of the hive. It lays eggs, steals royal jelly when the actual queen is not looking, and refuses to do any work even though it really is just a worker bee. It will protect the hive if attacked, and its poison is a very potent irritant because of its diet. He says he can temporarily fix the damage, but we need to go get a special root in order for him to make the antidote.

My friend's daughter is in tears at this point. She thinks that the slap is her fault, because she was the one who wanted to go to the toy shop. Her brother and my son are trying to make her feel better by clowning around to make her laugh, but they're too close to a bunch of glass jars full of ingredients, and we're afraid they're going to knock stuff over. We both tell them we know they mean well, but there are too many breakables, and to cut it out, and they stop. My friend puts her arms around her daughter, looks her in the eyes, and says "This is not your fault."

Immediately, Bimbette's disembodied voice fills the room. "One strike! Unequal treatment! Unfair!"
My friend's hives turn into boils, until I yell, "Bullshit!" Then, they go back to being hives. It feels like Bimbette just cast a spell, and I just cast the counterspell to it.

The chemist mixes up a cream. In it, he puts some powder from a few different jars. I can't read the writing on most of them, but I notice that one says "honesty" on it. I get the mental image of a plant that looks just like a violet, except the petals are white. He whispers over the cream as he stirs in the powders, then asks if he can have one of the daughter's tears. My friend pulls the child to her protectively, but the girl says ok, if it will help Mommy. She leans forward, and the chemist uses the bowl to wipe a tear from her cheek. He mixes that into the cream and then tells my friend to rub some onto the affected area. My friend doesn't want to put her daughter's tears on her face until the girl says, "No, Mommy, those aren't bad tears. Those are tears of responsibility. I can take responsibility even if it's not my fault." The girl then takes a finger, rubs the cream on her mother's face, and then both kids kiss where the hives are. The hives shrink down, leaving just the original bright red hand print.

The chemist smiles, and says "You are almost right. Those are tears of epiphany. You had an epiphany when you realized that responsibility and fault are not the same thing. Your epiphany helps, and the kisses helped even more." Then he looks at my friend and says "This won't completely get rid of the poison. It will only slow it down. If you don't have an antidote, the hives will come back. You need your own cure."

Then to me, he says, "Find this flower," and shows me a picture of a tall, leafy plant with big, floppy orange flower petals. It looks like a super-sized lily. "The roots of the plant grow down into the ground, put shoots up a few feet away from the central stalk. Those shoots are roots, too. You need to collect one of those and bring it back to me." He nods at my friend. "She has to harvest it, but she needs a protector. The woods are dangerous."

It is time for us to meet the guys. We decide that it won't be safe for the kids to come into the woods with us, so when we get to our meeting spot, we quickly explain the situation and ask if they mind us going. The guys agree that the woods would be an unsafe place for us to take the kids, especially since we would be distracted from them by our mission. They decide to take them to the toy shop where we were originally headed, while we go find that root. From behind us, we hear, "Strike two! Dumping the kids off on your husband!" We turn, and there is Bimbette.

Even though I am leaving my son with my husband, and the decision was basically by committee, she is only looking at my friend. My friend shouts back at her, "What would you have me do, risk their lives in the woods where there are wild animals? That's just stupid!" Bimbette doesn't answer, but instead throws a dart (like you would throw at a dart board in a bar, but bigger) at my friend. I use my sword like a baseball bat to deflect it back at her. It sticks in her arm. Again, I demand the antidote, but she throws a glass ball on the ground and disappears in a puff of smoke.

We kiss our husbands and kids goodbye and head toward the city gate.

* * * * * *

We are on a thin dirt pathway in an area so heavily wooded that it is dark as twilight, even though it's the middle of the day. I have my sword drawn, and am looking around. We've been walking on this path for a bit, and it feels like something is following us. We're looking for the plant the chemist told us to find. We've seen a lot of other plants, but none with the flower he showed us. Mostly we are running into ivy plants and bushes.

We hear movement in the underbrush close to the path behind us, several yards back. I turn toward the sound and speak to whatever is in that direction. "We know you are there. You might as well just come out." When nothing does, we decide it must be an animal, and we cautiously walk on for several feet. I keep hearing the movement, always the same distance behind us. Finally, I decide to go back and check. There are paw prints in the dirt off the side of the path, but they look old. The dirt is dry, but the prints look like they were made when it was muddy.

We turn to leave, when a huge cat jumps out at us. It isn't a regular big cat, like a mountain lion or anything. It looks more like a giant house cat. It is gray with white splotches and short hair, and it's wearing a pink collar. I knock my friend to the ground and roll us out from under the cat's paws, then slash at it with my sword, slicing open its nose. The cat growls at us loudly, then meows. It sounds like a normal house cat, only a lot louder. I shout at it to scat, and it hisses. I grab my shield and hand it to my friend. The cat pats at us with a paw, claws extended. My friend smacks the shield into the paw, as I jab at it from the side. The cat jumps back and hunkers down with its ears back. We move away up the path, facing the cat. Its tail is twitching, so we stop and set ourselves for the next attack.

When the cat pounces, I jab my sword all the way into the bottom of one paw, as my friend smacks its nose with the shield, really hard. At the same time, I notice there is a pendant on the collar. I recognize the pendant as belonging to Bimbette. The cat yowls and runs away. Looking in the direction it is running, we spot a flash of bright orange. We go through the pathway the cat has created through the underbrush, and find the flower we're looking for. Digging around, we find the roots sticking up out of the ground. I get a little knife out of the pack I have around my waist, and hand it to my friend. She cuts one root off at ground level. We empty a small bag of compost over the cut root so that it will have something to feed on as it grows back.

We return to the apothecary, where our families are waiting for us. The chemist takes the root and chops it into tiny pieces. These, he mashes into a paste, which he mixes with the cream from before. The mixture kind of melts into an odd blue liquid. The chemist pours it into a cup, hands it to my friend, and tells her to drink it. My friend's kids admonish her to drink every drop, because "you know how important medicine is, and we want you to be ok."

Bimbette appears in a flash, shouting "Strike three! Not being ok in front of your kids! Making them feel like they need to take care of you!" I see her and draw my sword. She reaches for the glass, but my friend holds it behind the shield. Bimbette yells "You can't have that! It's not yours! I didn't give you permission to feel better!" She tries to reach around the shield, and I cut off her arm. Instead of bleeding, the arm just melts into the floor, and the stump closes over with some kind of dark goo. My friend looks at Bimbette and says, "I don't need your permission." She drinks the blue liquid, and the red hand print on her face disappears.

We start talking about which show we're going to. Bimbette is livid, screaming that she's still there, and we have no right to ignore her. I tell her to can it, and we start to walk away. She throws another dart, but this time my friend just bats it away with the shield. I decide she should keep the shield in case Bimbette hasn't given up.

* * * * * * * *

We're back at the Ren, sitting in the audience in the mud pit waiting for the show to start. We've sat closer to the back to avoid getting too muddy. My friend has my shield strapped to her back. The first guy comes out onto the stage. I feel a sense of relief and happy anticipation.

This is where the dream ended. I went on to dream about something else, but I can't remember much about it, just something about a card game at my friend's house. It's something we do a lot, so that's kind of ordinary.

I'm pretty sure the dream is an indication that I want to find some way to negate the unmerited "slap in the face" that the person gave my friend. I know that the daughter would feel responsible for my friend's hurt if she knew about the attack, but it really isn't her fault. Recently, I've seen her demonstrate some maturity in understanding things about herself and about life, even though she's still just a kid, so that fits the dream, too. I see her trying to be a more responsible person, even though that's hard for her.

I'm mad enough to want to hit Bimbette (or whoever the guilty party is) back for what she did, or I wouldn't have dreamed about cutting off her arm. The attack really was very catty, so I guess that explains the feline attack. The cure in the woods, though, I think represented my feeling that my friend has to look within herself to find the answer. She knows that she is not what Bimbette (or whoever it was) called her. I know that she just needs to take ownership of her sense of self-worth, and not let someone damage it with such a cheap pot-shot.

Also, now I really want to go see the mud show at the Ren!