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"Monk Praying in the Church" by Alfred Jacques Van Muyden.
The answer to why I never became a priest is in this painting.
And it is not the priest's haircut or outfit. |
I began drafting this while sitting in my bedroom recliner. After typing out the first paragraph, my wife arrived. She had decided to watch the Mets' game in the room. So, I grabbed the laptop and the charger, and made my way downstairs to the family room. There I discovered my eldest daughter, in my spot on the couch, watching a movie. Anna Karena with Keira Knightly and Jude Law. Desperate for a space without distractions, I lugged my laptop and charger to the basement. Upon sitting down at plastic folding table on top of a cheap stool that once was a dance prop, I began typing. That is when my other daughter stormed down the stairs, tore open the freezer, and grabbed a frozen ice cream cone. She made some attempt at conversation, but I snapped my fingers several times. That sent her bounding up the stairs, slamming the door behind her.
Finally, with peace, quiet, and solitude, I focused on finishing this post.
Last night I experienced two vivid dreams. As of now, most details of the first one elude my memory. I can only recall that it felt like a pleasant nostalgia rooted in road trips to sandy beaches. Glimpses of family, mostly siblings and cousins, interlaced with passing roadside landscapes. But the images were fleeting, and I now wonder if my current opaque memory has more to do with the nature of the dream than my poor recollection of it. Either way, the first one faded to black, as the second came into sharp focus.
Now I stood with my wife in either a Walmart or Target. Our shopping complete, we headed with our cart to the nearest cash register. It was located away from the main entrance, however, there were no lines. Yet, as we approached, the cashier appeared occupied, and motioned us to the next register, which was across an aisle. Turning towards it, we noticed a crowd of people, intent on checking out, begin to gather around us. So, we raced towards the new register, managing to arrive first. But, no one was there, just a frozen monitor. We looked about us, and flagged down an employee. They mentioned that the systems were down, and refused to say or do anything else.
I was growing impatient, but also anxious. We were done shopping, and ready to pay, but there appeared no way of finishing up. Then I decided to make a run to the registers at the front of the store. There are always a bunch of them located there. My wife and I, now on a mission, darted up the aisle and around a corner. In front of us stood several cash register lanes, each one manned by an employee, but void of customers. Proud of myself, I pushed the cart towards the nearest one, my wife close behind. Chaos ensued. People began appearing, pushing their way to the registers. We arrived first, but became dismayed when the cashier said she could not check us out. Something was wrong with her station. Refusing to wait in line, I immediately turned from her, and moved on to the next one. The crowd of people had grown, and I found myself weaving around other customers, blazing a path for my wife to follow.
In the dream, a part of me knew I was being aggressive, bordering on rude. I asked myself if I should just wait in a line. But I wanted out, so I continued onward. That is when I determined, in my mind, that the self-checkout lines were probably empty, or at least more accessible. It seemed like a brilliant idea. So much so, that I smirked in the dream. Arrogantly, and with cart in hand, I leapt towards the shopping oasis of empty self-checkout registers I knew awaited me beyond the crowds. Sure enough, there they were. With a big smile on my face, proud of my clever insight, I led my wife up to an empty register. We began scanning our items.
The system froze. The lights flickered.
Like a fool, I twisted the item around twenty different ways, running across the scanner twenty different times. Nothing. At some point, an employee walked by and explained that the systems were down. And, again, said and did nothing else. Now I was frustrated and felt an urge to just leave the store without my items. No one was willing to explain anything. No manager approached the customers. No announcements informed us of the next step. They did not deserve my business. Finally, I had decided to go. But first, I had to check my pockets for my phone and wallet, a habit I had learned the hard way.
Nothing. I began to worry. Perhaps the pile of clothes on the conveyor belt? Nothing. In the cart? Nothing. The cart had disappeared. Worse, so had my wife. Then the lights dimmed. Low. Enough that I could barely make out the floor.
Panic. But also dejection. And exhaustion. For some reason, the whole experience had sapped the energy out of me. It was time to exit the building.
In a final attempt to look for my wife, I turned toward the aisle leading up to the self checkout lane. It was brightly lit, while I stood in nightly shadows. And there he walked by, stopped, and turned to look at me. In the real world, he had been dead at least a year, maybe more—how sad that I cannot remember—and in the dream, I knew, for that reason, he should not have been standing there. But alas, there was no mistaking his face, shining in such vivid detail, as if my dream did not want me to doubt it. Indeed, in my mind, within the dream, I had a clear thought, “What is Father O'Brien doing here, he should be dead?”
For some reason, the revelation broke me. Perhaps the fear, anxiety, and desperation of leaving that store had overwhelmed my immunity to sudden shocks. Maybe it was the memory of this priest's role throughout my family's lives, especially my father's. Or, possibly it had something to do with Father Bill's presence during my own flirtation with the priesthood, nearly forty decades ago.
All these things. None of them. I still do not know.
Truth be told, a part of me does not want to find out.
(Yet, a stronger part of me does, hence tonight's blog post.)
In the end, I fell to my knees and curled up into the fetal position beneath a nearby folding table. I closed my eyes. Darkness came.
Also the sensation that someone was gently holding me.
It was him.
I did not have to see. I just knew.
Then I trembled and wept, until I awoke with eyes full of tears.
And a weight off my shoulders.
That was last night's dream.
_-_Artemisia_Gentileschi.jpg "Self Portrait as the Allegory of Painting by Artemisia Gentileschi")
