I dreamed last night that I was harvesting Stephen’s garden.
A few dreams have had meaning for me — the ones I remember, that is. One had Guy and me visiting some third-world country, and children there offered me a taste of a can of something that looked like cocoa powder. Guy said “Don’t” but I stuck my finger in and tasted it, and it did seem sort of cocoa-ish. The girl holding the can then turned it around so I could see the label, and it was powdered dehydrated human remains. I was horrified, to say the least. A friend did some research and told me that dreaming of cannibalism means that something is consuming your life, and that made sense, as I was in grad school and working full-time when I had the dream.
Another dream that stuck with me — I think I’ve had it several times — is that I’m walking around my home and find a door I’d never noticed before. Behind this door are many rooms I’d never known about, and I was exploring them when the dream ended. That dream, I discovered, is common in midlife, and represents that there is more to come in life.
This morning’s dream took no interpretation research. In it, my brother and a friend of his were running out to harvest a garden they had planted. I remembered then that Stephen and I had planted a little garden in our backyard, and went out with my Mom to harvest whatever crops that had survived neglect. The tiny garden was terribly overgrown, but we picked tomatoes, beans, and a large purple eggplant. My brother and his friend had come over and were making fun of the tiny garden and harvest, but I was pleased that anything had survived.
The interpretation is simple. In his far too brief life, Stephen had indeed planted a lush garden in my memories, and it’s time to stop neglecting them.