Episcopal Flip

Dream journal: 3 minute read

6/22/24

I pluck the envelope from the air and open it to reveal the contents: little scraps of paper and post-its with scribbled notes, sketched diagrams of floor plans, an ink-bled page with the church’s schedule photocopied too many times, and many bits of red crepe paper confetti. Red the color of poppy petals, of Ruby Slippers, of the heart’s path.

My job is to provide ideas. The building owners are responsible for the actual renovations. For some time, the congregation of a peeling, run-down Episcopal church have been my clients. I’ve been putting them off, juggling other obligations. Sensing their mounting impatience, I’m finally getting their plans to them. These have just arrived in the form of an over-stuffed letter-sized envelope descending, seemingly of its own power, from above.

“Why did I put all this confetti in here?” I ask myself aloud, rifling through the envelope’s contents, not lucid enough to find the answer concealed inside the metaphor.

A tall, slender pale-skinned man with a narrow black mustache and goatee seems like my main contact here, followed by a woman, an earnest graying blonde. They’re pleased to finally have their plans and suggestions from the expert, but they question me. Why did it take me so long? Why aren’t the plans more complete? Why am I expecting them to do the work themselves?

Primly adjusting her floral print blouse, the woman shows me the sheet with the church hours. With a look of concern that borders on chastisement, she insists, “These will need to be printed somewhere.”

“Yes, of course, those will be in your fliers and programs.” This seems obvious. I don’t know what she’s expecting of me. Do I look like the printer?

The woman seems to acquiesce, accepting that the footwork is theirs to do.

During these exchanges, we stand in the front courtyard of the gray, weathered church, an overgrown space marked by several grand, broadleaf trees in full flush. The area has great potential to be revitalized as a gathering space to be used for picnics, performances, even perhaps as a wedding venue. My clients are pleased with the concept.

But in the middle of the courtyard sits an eyesore – a tattered old green vinyl ottoman, exposed to the elements. I wonder how I might incorporate this piece of abandoned furniture into the design. On closer examination, however, I realize it’s too far gone. Broken and moldy, probably infested with fleas, its stuffing and springs poke through soggy, ripped upholstery.

Why am I working for a church, anyway? Slowly I become lucid. I now understand that the constant criticisms and dissatisfactions of my clients are this dream’s mirror. I am similarly browbeating myself and others. Is my job a mirror, too? All my guides can do is offer plans and suggestions. I am my life’s building owner, the one tasked with the actual work of transformation.

Sun and shadow shift in the dappled courtyard as I linger in the liminal space between sleep and waking, considering the dream. Only now do I notice the stout body, enormous paws, and broad, ruffed face of – Is that what I think it is? – a bright magenta tiger. He is standing next to the derelict ottoman, in case I might otherwise miss the point of the elephant in the dream. He regards me calmly, swishing the tip of his pink and black ringed tail.

The presence of the fuchsia feline pushes me solidly over the threshold into waking.

To be continued. . . .

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Photo by Dan Meyers

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