As I awoke from my dreamscape this morning, in that moment somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, surprisingly, I found myself thinking about my grade eleven French teacher. I didn’t have a special relationship with him or anything. I remember a handful of things about that class. We read Le Petit Prince. M Charron had been a good hockey player who was bow-legged and had a bit of an under-bite, seemed to part his hair the wrong way, and he was kind. That’s really about it.
I was in grade eleven in 1981. Almost forty years ago. And I hadn’t thought about M. Charron in decades. It’s astounding to me how the mind works. Or how little I know about how the mind works.
I woke up in a hotel this morning and when I opened my eyes, I thought I was at home. I was on my usual side of the bed. It was dark and I didn’t know what time it was but I was sleeping on my right side, with the right amount of pillow and blanket. It was as quiet as home and for a split second, I was there. And then I wasn’t.
I’ve had some experience with family members and dementia and as heart-breaking as that can be, it’s fascinating how we are wired.
We sleep a third of our lives, if we are lucky, so for twenty to thirty years our minds live in a place we might not be as aware of as we think. And it’s likely not any less real than our waking hours, when we are convinced we are aware. I’m not arrogant enough to say that the world I dream in is any less real than the world I think I live in.
In fact, I hope it is as real.
There’s no reason in the world for me to have dreamt of M. Charron, as good a guy as he was.
I wonder where and when I’ll travel tonight and where I’ll think I’ll wake up tomorrow.