On Dreamers, Part I

Sunset over central New Mexico, from atop Sandia Crest, August 2011.

In my house there remains a recurring conversation about our dreams. As we arise in the morning, readying ourselves for the day ahead, I hear the now familiar question, "How did you sleep?" now paired with, "Did you have any dreams?"

At times this question is hard for me to answer. Many times we awaken with the last glimpse of our dreams fading into the morning, and nothing is left but that feeling of mystery. It seems all detail of the arc of the dream has been left behind in the night. At other times these dreams are vivid and remain with us and allow us to process our unanswered questions, our longings, anxieties, and even hopes. The popular culture of my generation certainly has an interest in it. Still, I find I can connect more with those dreamers that remind me of my own roots, who therefore give me ground to engage an ever present struggle to carry the rich history of my family with my own journey onward to new places today. Specifically, these friends are the Latin American writers whose works inspired an entire genre of magic and realism, but also join pilgrim souls writing from other cross-cultural contexts (African America and British India, in particular, through the voices of Toni Morrison or Salman Rushdie, or at least according to literature nerds). These writers are able to subtly introduce me to this world of dreamscapes, even inspiring my own poems at times.

Today, it was Rudolfo Anaya. Today I started a story that captivates me with this spirit of dreaming. I'll leave an excerpt as a plug for this author, a writer from my own ancestral homeland, New Mexico.

When she came the beauty of the llano unfolded before my eyes, and the gurgling waters sang to the hum of the turning earth. The magical time of childhood stood still, and the pulse of the living earth pressed its mystery into my living blood. She took my hand, and the silent, magical powers she possessed made beauty from the raw, sun-baked llano, the green river valley, and the blue bowl which was the white sun's home. Time stood still, and it shared with me all that was, and all that was to come...

I feel more connected to these words knowing some of the places the author alludes to. But I know that something in my spirit stirs with joy, and it is in these instances that the dreams become the visions from God, as Antonio's mother tells him in this story. The question then becomes: What inspires you to dream? What makes the night something of a friend, where whispers of God can drown the anxious memories or burdens leftover from the day? I know our dreams are not all good, but they all have a story. What is yours?