(Saturday, March 9, 2013)
I dream that I remember taking a highway straight north, through the thick pine forests of Minnesota. I notice a small log cabin in the middle of those woods, on the west side of the road.
Later I come into some money and decide to purchase the house. Fred (from Morrie’s Minnetonka Ford) is my realtor. I travel north to inspect the cabin, but when I hike into the woods I discover that the trees have all been felled to create a neighborhood of log homes. Several cabins line the top of a steep southern ridge. A river runs east-west along the ridge and more log homes have been built on its northern shore.
I enter one of the homes near the river. The woman who owns it is a friend of mine. She welcomes me, but she is hidden in the shadows, near the door, and I can’t see her face. I stay for what seems a short visit, but when I am ready to leave, a young man on the sofa starts to laugh at me. Apparently I have stayed an entire year. My friend hushes the young man and communicates to him, telepathically, that my husband has passed and I needed this time to heal.
Day notes:
It’s interesting that the homes are made from cyndrical logs, not flat, sawn lumber