Like hundreds of clients I bring my dreams to Marc Bregman. I know there are ways that I think and feel about myself , others, the world and God that just aren’t true. And I suffer. So, every other week I meet with Marc and we talk about my life and my dreams. I know it sounds like therapy, but what we’re doing is different, essentially different from any therapy or spiritual discipline I’ve encountered. Maybe it’s unique.
Currently being revised - will be reposted.
I'm speeding north on interstate 89, flashing my lights at the car in front of me.. I'm thinking: "If I'm too late to eat staff meal I can still grab a bowl of soup from the line later on." I'm thinking: "If I can clear a hundred dollars tonight I can probably make it through the week without pulling money out of savings." I'm wondering if Heather's working tonight...
I'm five years old, standing on the couch leaning against the backrest, scared, and engrossed in the scene before me. My dad is trying to force my younger brother to poop in a potty chair. My brother is dead set against it.
"Poop!" demands Dad, getting pissed now.
"Mm mmm." says Scott standing up from the potty, shaking his head, his face fixed in a fierce scowl.
"Poop!" insists the man.
"Mm mmm" insists the boy.
Dad picks him up and thrusts him on the potty. "Damn it I want you to sit there until you poop. And I mean business!" He storms from the room.
Once upon a time there was a little boy. He lived with his family but he was lonely and afraid much of the time. One day a chocolate rabbit who dreamed of being real entered the boy and became his companion. The boy didn't know that he had a chocolate rabbit living inside him but he knew that he was no longer alone. The boy's family left an empty chair at meals for the unseen guest and the boy spoke to his new friend and reported his friend's responses to his family.
I remember the first Bache I attended. The previous year Ellen and I had briefly considered going. She had scheduled her first appointment with Marc but felt uneasy around the thought of attending that larger gathering. I wasn’t even considering doing the dream work at that time but I was somewhat curious. I’d heard talk about Marc and the work he was doing, but when Ellen told me that it cost fifteen dollars I decided against it. In fact I felt offended. Why should I pay for an event which seemed to me to be at least partly an advertisement? Who were these people?
-Sunday, July 20, 2003-
I’m pushing a Lawnboy mower through brambles, volunteer trees and grasses some of which are taller than I am. This was once yard now become field and I’m trying to reclaim it. It’s very slow, tough going - six inches forward, pull back, eight inches forward, the engine nearly kills, I tip the blades up and away from the turf, wait until the engine gains rpms then another six inches. I’m doing my homework; I’m feeling angry, I’m feeling a lot of pain, I’m thinking about my dad.
One night, when she was a small girl, her parents stumbled in drunk and fighting. She crept to their bedroom door and saw her dad pass out on the bed as her mother still screaming opened the nightstand drawer, pulled out a pistol and began rooting around for the bullets. She bolted into the room, pushed her mother aside, quickly gathered the bullets and ran outside into the cold midnight air. Her mother yelped and staggered out after her. She tossed the bullets into a bush and clenched her hands white tight as if she still held them.
Currently being revised - will be reposted.