3:30 am. Awake. Reassuring myself it was only a dream. I had taken on a role in a play with seasoned actors who had rehearsed for weeks. They knew their lines. I didn’t. I pretended I was prepared but didn’t even know the story. What was I thinking?
My script was a hard-bound book, four inches thick, in narrative story form. My name was Cynthia and I had to pick out my lines by skimming back and forth, trying to figure out where the actors were without giving away that I was lost. I was on the verge of disappointing everyone. That scared me.
After I woke up I struggled to escape the clutches of my dream. Was it something I ate for dinner last night causing the discomfort or was (as I suspect) my brain trying to tell me something? What then? Am I an imposter or is there something headed my way for which I’m unprepared? Whatever, it spooks me. I hate these dicey dreams. Why am I never at the net waiting for the serve?
I could just chalk it up to bad pizza but maybe I should listen. I don’t need to remember lines or perform onstage anymore if I don’t want to. Maybe next time I won’t accept a role for which I’m unprepared. No, I will. I know I will. My drive to say yes is stronger than my desire to stay safe and comfortable.
Lord help me, I ride the edge of this precipice by choice. And besides, I don’t eat bad pizza.
Dispatches From Out West 