The other morning I woke up with the clear imprint of a dream. It began on the piney shore of my favorite lake in Vermont, one of the cleanest bodies of water in the state. The leaves were turning, and the gradient of red to yellow reflected onto the gently rippling water. It was silent and beautiful, but I was panicked. I needed to get to the other side of the lake – it was an emergency – but I didn’t have a car, and the right-of-way footpath was inaccessible. The only way was to cross the lake longwise, which was probably three miles in length. I looked at the rowboat at the water’s edge but was terrified to take it out. Instead, I dove off the dock in my clothes and began swimming.
I am a runner, not a swimmer. I make it midway. I am in the center of this beautiful crystal clear lake, but I am cold, and my clothing weighs me down, and I am so, so tired. I tread and float, tread, and float until exhaustion sets in, and I begin to feel hopeless. I dunk under to relax my muscles, and when I break the surface for air, there is a kayak next to me, and my therapist, whom I’ve been seeing for a year, is sitting inside of it. “Why are you in the middle of the water?” she asks. “I need to get to the other side,” I gasp, “but I am so tired. I can’t swim anymore. I need to float for a while. I need to rest.” “You need to swim to the shore,” she says, the tone of her voice becoming tense and more concerned. “I can’t,” I say, “I am so fucking tired.” “You must swim to the shore right now,” she repeats. “You are in the middle of the Gowanus Canal, and you need to get out RIGHT NOW.”
In my mind, I think, “What are you talking about? I’m in the most beautiful lake in the world, the place where I feel most at peace,” but then I look around, and indeed, she is right. It is the Gowanus Canal of the 1990s, foul and thick with sludge. I am not far from the Carroll Street bridge and only about five feet from the shore, but the oil and sewage have glued me in place.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to sort out that dream. The water is my subconsciousness, and the place I’m seeking solace, the internal space within which I feel most safe, is actually the most caustic, the most dangerous. I assume I can swim the expanse of the illusion that I’ve created, but in reality, I’m stuck in the foul sludge of shit that I haven’t worked through, and despite being so close to understanding and maybe climbing ashore, I won’t get any true movement until that superfund site is dredged.
And then there’s my therapist, the only other person in the dream, as even when I am swimming with the carcinogens and dead dolphins, Brooklyn is empty. Maybe they were all at Whole Foods. But she’s the only one present, reminding me that I can get there and I need to get there, or my skin will dissolve, or I’ll develop seven eyes and grow a tail, and there’s no bullshitting the reality.
It’s not so much a dream about rescue as a reminder of the reckoning, the acceptance that, yes, others are there and care but also are firm in their resolve that I have to do the bulk of the work. After all, my therapist was in a one-person kayak and was there to help facilitate the process, but it was up to me to stop stagnating and swim hard against the sludge.
object of memory 