Deep Sea Diver

When I was little, I had a recurring dream. I was in a truck cab, sitting between two big men, high above the car in front of us that carried my family. I don’t know if the men were menacing or just trying to help me catch up with my family so they’d notice I wasn’t in the car. I kept trying to call out to them, to tell them where I was, but I couldn’t tell if I’d lost my voice or if my family just couldn’t hear me. We drove on, and I was alone. And though this might be a thought I added long after the dream stopped, I don’t think they noticed I was gone—as if everyone had a place in the car except me.

I rarely think about the dream. It only comes up when someone mentions a childhood dream, though none of theirs ever seem like mine.

Dreams are supposed to mean something, aren’t they? So, every now and then, I find myself revisiting it, turning it over and over in my mind. Was my voice silenced as a child? Did my parents somehow say, “You’ll have no opinion other than the one we give you”? Was I forgotten somewhere, and this dream is just a continuation of that memory? I don’t remember breakfast most days—why do I remember this dream? Why did I have it so many times? And how many times, really? How did it end? I can’t remember. Should I make up an ending? Write a new one every year and track if the endings change? Maybe they’d show whether I’m getting better with time—or worse.

If your memory is as bad as mine, you may not remember that I saw a blind therapist for many years. Did I ever ask him what the dream meant? If not, why didn’t I? If I did, did he think I was dreaming about him before I even met him—because my family couldn’t “see” me? Does he have dreams about “seeing”?

I know. Exhausting, isn’t it? Don’t think I don’t know that.

Does anyone else go this deep into things that might be completely meaningless? I always say I’m a deep-sea diver, and it’s hard for me to be around water skiers for long.

Not that I think deep-sea divers are better than water skiers. We’re just different.

But don’t think I don’t notice the water skiers. They’re gliding beautifully on one ski, cutting back and forth behind the boat, smiling under the sun. Meanwhile, I’m 20 feet under, fiddling with my goggles so they don’t fog up, making sure no water seeps in and blurs my view of the coral that might cut me open and call the sharks.

They’re flying through life, or seeming to, having a wonderful time. And I’m digging, digging, digging for meaning in questions only I’m asking.

Sometimes I envy the water skiers. Their life seems easier. But then I remember how grateful I am to be me.

Oh, the places I’ve explored. The people I’ve watched and loved. Looking deeply enriches me. And I hope the people in my life feel enriched, too. I notice the beauty in the little things about so many people—and the challenges too. And while it sometimes hurts more than staying on the surface, it’s just who I am.

If you’re water skiing, not noticing the people in the boat or the scenery flying by, your life might be easier. But is it better?

I’m not for everyone. Not everyone wants to deep-sea dive with me—I get that. Sometimes I don’t want to deep-sea dive with me. And I have enjoyed water skiing now and then. I love a dinner filled only with laughter, not a single deep conversation. Sometimes. Not often.

Maybe people feel about me the way I feel about leg of lamb. Oh, a dinner with butterflied leg of lamb on the grill—marinated in soy sauce, garlic, and rosemary—with scalloped potatoes, a big salad, and maybe a homemade baguette (not from my home, of course, but someone else’s) is wonderful. Once or twice a summer, it makes for an amazing evening. But not all the time.

Anyway, that’s my deep-sea train of thought for the day.