War dream

Here’s the dream I had:

I was a soldier in the Iraq war; there was no choice about it. So that I wouldn’t have to hurt anyone, I had a position of serving as target practice. I stood in the middle of a circle, with my right arm extended, surrounded by other soldiers who practiced shooting off my arm. It seems that my arm was not really like a flesh-and-blood arm in that when someone shot it, the arm came off like perhaps a cardboard or tin object in a carnival shooting gallery. It was removed entirely and then just as quickly “regenerated” itself so that it could be torn away again, and again. I was happy with the arrangement, experiencing only the mildest twinge of anxiety that someone else might decide that I was getting off too easily and my job would therefore be taken from me. Then, someone shot and this time the bullet did not remove my arm but instead entered my arm about six inches above my wrist, and I felt this (I did not feel or have sensation of the other shots). It was incredibly painful and I began to cry and beg someone to hurry up and shoot again and remove the entire arm.

I suppose that on the most obvious level the dream seems to say that I have a willingness to sacrifice myself in order to avoid hurting others, and I don’t really feel very pleased with that.

Responsible for being understood

While we’re packing up to move out of here, we’re getting visits from family members who we haven’t seen for a while, who figure, I suppose, that it will be even longer before they come out to CA. (The latter is not necessarily a bad thing, really.) These visits have prompted, as they will, self-reflection, and reflection, in general. (Note the previous post.)

So, self-reflection. Losing my personal religion. Those beliefs that I’m not entirely aware of or consciously operating from. Such as?

The latest: I seem to believe that it is on me to make myself understood. To the extent that I will articulate things in a variety of ways, often re-articulate, substituting synonyms, creating metaphors. This is all well and good, fine for a teacher, which I have been, useful for a writer, which I am. I have been praised for being such a good communicator, no surprise. Yet, is it necessary to bring professional skills into (casual) conversation?

It came to me during my mother-in-law’s visit at one point as I realized that, once again, she did not get me, just did not understand, that I had put the onus on me to do my damnedest to have her understand, and that I had always taken that responsibility. And not just with her. I see that I have in the past walked away from communication breakdowns knowing better but feeling as if they were failures on my part.