Like a gift, I had such a wonderful dream last night - woken only by my internal clock, Boaz clattering before going to school and the cat miowing outside the door.
Boaz and I were in a city as usual, with crowds and business all around. I met some colorful people who invited me to join in their happiness, whatever it was. I had to deliver something to them so went to their temple, a large building with porticoes on the main street. The doors were all closed to outsiders but I knocked lightly, opened the door and slid in. The temple was full of people of many races and origins, all rejoicing in sensory delights (no, not that, silly!) of sounds and tastes, scents and colors, especially colors. In spite of our having intruded, they were smiling and let it be known that if you were determined to enter, it was evidence that you were meant to be there, so they made me feel welcome.
I stood or sat with Boaz near the back and witnessed pageants and plays, dances and singing, nothing offending anyone and all of it appealing to the congregation in different ways: they'd found their common denominator and were achieving happiness.
There were hints of many different experiences in my dream. A bit of Beth Jacob, where I sit by a door that is supposed to remain shut during services but allows everyone in; the Athenaeum club in London where Leo will have his party; Lonny's Elijah Institute, the Venice California Boardwalk, with its myriad costumed themes and skaters rolling up and down between the strollers; a bit of Hare Krishna parades and the abundant pink blossoms of yesterday, or, after the massive rains and windstorms last night, of yesteryear.
The Rabelaisian contentment took me through the morning, packing and sorting while the cat jumped in and out of my suitcase, but peace was blown away by the afternoon which brought a Kafkaesque phone chase over medical insurance, two runs to the PO and one to the bank, bills to pay and a sudden realization I wanted fish for supper and the best fishmongers, Gordon's, had closed at 6 - it was 6:01. G called several times, the last wistfully, saying tomorrow night he wouldn't be able call as I'd be flying away. His envelope today was filled with 10 poems, a letter and his diary about one of his mates, Gary aged 50, whose wife announced last week that she was leaving him for fun with other men, this after 10 years of waiting and only one more year to go. Today he told G "Oh well, time heals." Oh well, time heals.