I’m not Cinderella. I don’t have evil stepsisters or a stepmonster. I have a shot fairy, not a fairy godmother. And although I do occasionally have one-sided conversations with a ferret, I don’t know any talking mice.
But this week gave me reason to believe that cute little Disney song has a bit of truth to it.
This has been a weird one, as weeks go. On the personal front, our vehicle took another dump on itself and required $400 in exchange for continuing to cart our sorry, broke butts around for a while. We had a night and day of downpours that flooded out my parents’ basement, turned my yard into a swamp, and generally made me wonder if we might have been better off letting the van sit and investing in a rowboat. Our system upgrade a work brought the usual round of last minute crazy, keeping me and many coworkers racing around like chickens with tour head cut off.
And of course, all that was easy street compared to what was happening across the world.
It was, in short, the kind of week that makes you want to sleep with the light on, even if you don’t spend your spare time reading Stephen King and writing your own creeper tales the way I do.
Midway through the week, I woke in the middle of the night, an odd dream fresh in my mind.
It was summertime in the dream, because I was sitting on my neighbor’s deck, wearing shorts, and the boards beneath my legs were comfortably warm. Beside me was a large, round, hot tub. I knew that’s what it was, although what it looked like was a small, crytal clear pond. The water bubbled softly when I trailed my fingers in it, even though it wasn’t all that warm. There were lily pads in it.
Swimming beneath the lily pads, popping their heads up out of the water now and then to have a look around, were three cheerful otters. They swam over, under and around each other, tumbling and play-wrestling. Every now and then, one of them would swim to where my hand was dangling in the water and head-butt it the way Sylvester does when I’m trying to read. I’d stroke the otter’s sleek, wet fur for a few moments before it swam off to rejoin the play. Then another would come.
That was all. I woke up with one hand hanging over the side of the bed and a lovely sense of contentment. I fell back to sleep almost immediately.
At work the next day, I remembered the dream and posted about it on Facebook, thinking it amusing. A friend responded that in Native American belief, otters mean joy, play, kindness and sharing. I thought about that, and decided that for me, it rings true.
A dream IS a wish your heart makes. And it makes sense that my mental representation of joy and play would involve water and otters. After all, they’re very weasel-like.
Don’t worry. I’m not going to become one of those people who goes around thinking their dreams are oracles. Earlier in the week, a few days before the otter dream, Lee told me he’d awoken to me calling someone a douchebag in my sleep.
Who knows what THAT one was about? But I do know it didn’t come true. I went the whole week without calling someone a douche – or at least without doing so out loud.