Dreams and Feathers

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Occasionally, I dream in French. Or, I should say, I dream that everyone in my dream is speaking French because, you know, there’s no actual transcript to check later. But many years ago, I had a dream in which these exact words, in indisputable French, appeared to me: souffle d’argent.

Souffle d’argent. Soof-le  dar-zjen, sort of like this:

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Photo Credit: Condolux.net

NOT THIS:

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Photo Credit: taste.com.au

(Souffle is not the puffy food called soof-lay.)

I woke up and wrote these words down, and puzzled over them for days. Literally, souffle d’argent means breath of silver.

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Back in Dreamland, I had been in flight when these words appeared to me (in writing, by the way), and I was soaring on a breath of air (souffle d’air), and it was silvery, like a rain that wasn’t made of water, and it was soft and comforting, and it held me up and made me feel safe. And by the way, this dream came at a time in my life when I was very depressed, not clinically depressed, mind you; just having a very discouraging time in my life. But, oh! The waking effect of this dream was that I felt lifted up, not entirely out of my despair, but up enough so I could peer over its edge and see light. And that lightness of being lasted for days, because I could re-summon the feeling of safety and comfort just by thinking of the words: souffle d’argent.

I should also say that I did not hold myself or my subconscious responsible for this message. It came from the Universe. 

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Which, apparently, speaks French. 

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Which might not be a surprise to French people, to whom I guess the Universe always speaks French.  What I would love to eavesdrop on is the Universe speaking my cat’s language. 

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But I digress.

I almost wrote about this souffle d’argent dream ten years ago when I was working on the June chapter of When Wanderers Cease to Roam, but I chickened out because if you don’t know me well and you read about the souffle d’argent, I come off like a snot-nosed twerp: Oh, she dreams in French, does she???

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But I’m telling you all about it now because it’s been a long time since I wrote WWCTR and we know each other rather well at this point, and you have found ways to overlook my snot-nosed twerpiness, and you can see for yourself, on page 88 of WWCTR, my hint of what I think is the meaning of this silver breath of wind:

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(I have a thing for blue jay feathers. Which I now capitalize: Blue Jay feathers.)

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So here it is: the silver breath of air is the ever-so slight breeze made by the flapping of your guardian angel’s wings, which to me is not a person but the awareness of the Universe’s benevolence, because there are times when you forget that kindness exists in almost every random moment, and it feels slightly cool and somewhat silvery, and very fine.

I got a little souffle d’argent, an easement of mind, the other day and don’t judge me when I tell you that it came to me while I was reading an essay written by the author Kim Barnes in which she mentioned that when her memoir came out in 2011 she got a glowing review from the New York Times, which would normally make me hate her, but then she fessed up that her book ” sold fewer than 11,000 copies in almost five years.” Those sales figures are worse than mine! (Although I’m sure that selling the rights to her story so that she could be played by Tina Fey in the movies more than makes up for being out-sold by V. Swift. )

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By the way, I want Tine Fey to play me in the movies, too. Are you listening, Universe?

Like that — *poof* — a thorn in my side vanished, the one labeled Not Good Enough For The New York Times. Phhhhht: after reading about Kim Barker’s sales figures, I realize that getting in The New York Times isn’t the bonanza validation, guaranteed six-zeros sales figures that I thought it was! For me, this is a huge deal, because writers in general are just slightly more jealous and insecure than your average 14-year old girl, and there are oh, so many ways that I do not feel Good Enough. But this particular stab wound has healed, and it only took seconds, because that’s the way the Universe works. Things can change in an instant.

I also got a spiritual boost a the other day, at the grocery store, when I discovered that there is such a thing as lime-flavored diet tonic water.

After a fraught eight-day disappearance, my sweet Manx tuxedo stray, Steve, finally made his re-appearance . . . 

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. . . and as you can see from the little clip on his left ear, he’d been TNR’d: Trapped, Neutered, and Released by some unknown but loving cat lady. Ooo, I did feel the flutter of a guardian angel’s wing when he showed up, safe and sound.

It was a sunny and breezy day early last week when a strange movement, out of the corner of my eye, caught my attention. I looked out the window in my upstairs work room in time to watch the top half of an enormous locust tree, across the street, snap off and topple 30 feet. It seemed to make just the slightest whooshing sound, and seemed to be in slow motion! Well, because this is just what I do, I grabbed my camera and ran out into the road. . . what I didn’t expect was this:

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I never heard the tree smash onto this SUV, and at first I didn’t hear the deep breaths of the woman standing at the foot of my driveway; but then I turned and saw her and all she could say was: “I thought the car was exploding. I thought the car was exploding.” I looked into the car and I don’t know how the driver managed to escape in one piece. That inside space was smashed down like a stomped-on paper cup.

The driver was shaken up but unharmed. I waited with her until the ambulance arrived, and that’s when the woman went to pieces and began to shriek “I could have been killed! Oh my god, I could have been  killed!” I helped her husband, who had arrived some minutes later, unload the cargo from the SUV (the woman is a decorator and had lots of paint and fabric books) so it could be towed away, and then I walked back across my front yard.

And, looking down, I found this:

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The first Blue Jay feather of 2016. And yeah, it’s a flight feather.

So a lot of stuff has been happening right in front of my house lately. But the very best stuff has been happening in this little corner of the Universe, where you, my beloved Dear Readers, have lifted me up with your words of awe and fine folly — kissing tigers in disguise? That’s genius!

Thank you, my Wonder ones: Monique, Casey, Susan A., Elizabeth, Maryanne in SC, Jeanie, Mo, Vicki A, Megan, Kirra, Gretchen, Janet!, Brenda, Ann, Judy, Deborah Hatt, Laura, Deb, and Bunny: I am in awe of you all.

This is not the blog post I set out to write today. I set out to write about the Super Duper Triscuit Quartet Give Away that I forgot about, in my black hole of listlessness.

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So let’s put that on the agenda for next week, June 17, when we gather here again to see what snot-nosed twerpiness I’ve been up to.

In the meantime, I hope you all have sweet dreams and feel the feather-light presence of your own cosmologically-appropriate angels.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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