Aqua Swimsuits

The first time I was considering writing for an audience, I had a divulging dream. While I found my subconscious clever, I did not find it very cryptic. Sometimes our subconscious screams at us. This time it was unusually shrill. 

I was at a flea market.

As I walked around the labyrinth of the outdoor market, I found a nook that seemed to be beckoning me with its dazzle and flare. It was an atrium congested with rack after rack of stylish clothes I could never, ever afford-- name brands, famous designers, world renowned labels-- but tag after tag shocked me with foolishly low prices. I looked around at the intricacies of beads, the thick fabric, the fine detail, the rare quality, the striking patterns, the wild colors, and looked at each number on the tag in jaw dropping amazement. Bargain after bargain, I loaded up my lucky arms until I couldn't carry anymore and looked around with jumpy eyes for the nearest dressing room. These deals were so good, it felt like robbery. My heart raced.

Breaking my skittish scan of the place, a helpful, handsome, quiet, ethnic man placed his hand on my shoulder, offered to take my clothes from me, and patiently led me to a very spacious indoor dressing room. His presence calmed me. He seemed pleased with how much I was carrying, pleased that so many beauties had caught my attention. The way he carried my load and kept glancing over his shoulder every now and then to make sure I was still following in step made me feel like these works of art were lavish yet reasonable on purpose. The hospitality of this man sent the message that my bounty was almost free for the taking intentionally.

​The path was longer than I anticipated. I remember feeling glad he was the one carrying the mountains of clothes because I never anticipated it would take this long to get to the dressing room.

When we arrived I was surprised by the size of it. Looking around I knew that the trek was worth it. I could spread out here. I could get comfortable. Or so I thought. 

I smiled and thanked him generously for giving me such a spacious room. I suspected he had shown me some favor in leading me to this room that was out of the way, a little inconvenient to get to, yet very nice. 

He carefully laid my clothes down on a bench beside me. I couldn't wait to try on these masterpieces. How could I ever decide which to try on first?! But when I looked down at them, I realized with horror that they had all turned into swimsuits.

Swimsuits?!

I did not want to try on swimsuits! In fact, I'd rather eat glass. I had settled in here hoping to get comfortable! Not try on swimsuits! That is the precise opposite of comfortable!

But I felt too far gone, too far out of the way, too dependent on my guide to ever get back to the rowdy market to switch out these revealing ensembles for things more simple and unassuming. Discouraged, I sat down and pieced through them one by one. Tragically, each one was smaller than the last.

Perfect.

But then I remembered that I did actually need a swimsuit for our trip coming up in July and maybe it was just this nice man's way of taking care of me by insisting that I do something I would really rather not do.
 
I shrugged and eventually smiled at what a thoughtful, if not a little annoying, man he was and tried on the first one, a lovely aqua number. I surveyed how much cellulite was showing in the back and right at that moment, I heard a ding.

This ding sounded a lot like an elevator ding. That's weird, I thought and then I realized that my dressing room actually had an elevator in it and an elevator was, exactly at that moment, opening into my dressing room... where I was trying on... swimsuits... of all things. 

I saw two doors sliding open and about twenty people standing there staring at me in the aqua swimsuit that was truthfully a little too small.

Even more perfect.

I stared at them.

They stared at me.

I don't remember it being awful. I don't remember it being great. 

I'd like to say that everyone started clapping but I don't remember that either.

I think they went about their business. 

And then I woke up. I woke up with intense feelings that were  so close to the surface, I felt I could touch them.

I could so vividly remember the lively patterns of the clothes, and I could so accurately picture the kind man's face and his crinkly eyes, and I could so effortlessly recall the feeling in my stomach when I saw the elevator doors sliding open.  

This dream, it felt co-created.

I laid in bed longer than usual turning it over and over and found it alluring that somehow in sleep I was closest to my truest self.

My dream explained something to me that I couldn't know because this daytime language, well, it isn't up for the job. What my  dream told me in story is that in one way writing is like finding fantastic bargains at a flea market-- strangely indulgent. And in another way it is a lot like trying on swimsuits with an audience-- painfully revealing. But the extravagance, something I could never ever afford, is mine for a steal. I need only follow Him knowing that following Him just might lead me to a cross. And that's ok.

I feel led to this place very much on Purpose.

It feeds my soul. 

And for some reason that Kind Man apparently thinks I should wear an aqua number, cellulite and all. I have found over the years that my patient guide, my hospitable hero cares appallingly little about my comfort. He is far more concerned with my conversion.