I often dream of glass houses. Or rather, houses and other buildings made with a conspicuous amount of glass – usually in the walls.
On Saturday night, my dream was profound, involving bringing my Mom home. We collected her from where she had been kept, in safety, and brought her home with us.
That home was a glass-walled house of lovely design and comfortable proportions. I can see it now: a North (sun-facing, in this hemisphere) room which was a living room, and a parallel dining room containing a three-place and a two-place dining table. The dining room lead into a kitchen with low lighting but impeccable appointments. All the rooms had glass walls.
I know, near enough, what this seeming obsession with glass in buildings says about my life. I’m comfortable with it and I’m not hiding anything.
It was near the end of the dream, as we were all seated for a meal, that we started talking about death and our own readiness for it. I explained how easy I was with my own death, but my Dad, seated at the table on my left, expressed clear scepticism about all this woo-woo stuff.
Now my Dad, in life, wasn’t above subscribing to the odd bit of woo himself: he was an early audience for Erich von Daniken’s ideas, for example, and was very interested in Jacques Vallee’s work as well. But his slightly superior attitude is a part of him I’ve carried a long way within myself. Judgemental, coldly critical attitudes which do me no credit as a human being.
Something I’m sure I’ve still got a lot of work to do on. Still, it was lovely being in Mom’s presence once again.