Cross country

The first recurring dream I can remember having is that of a house in the middle of a golf course with two curved trails leading to and from it, the silhouette of a young tree placed every 30 yards or so. The house was dirty white with a shingle roof. There was a line of cross country runners in the distance, running along the trail, symmetrically spaced, running the same speed, passing through the house when they came upon it, their pace steady. The sky was gray, with off white clouds that threatened rain, but never delivered. There was fog also, Missouri’s humidity extending the clouds seemingly all the way to the ground.

The runners ran through the mist and the fog and the woods and the house, and were always replaced with more. I remember one girl, Nora, in my dream. Nora was on my dad’s track team and had baby-sat me on previous occasions. I must have liked her, because I specifically remember her running in this dream.

I’m sure I must have seen some variation of this dream in a waking state, as many Saturdays growing up were spent at cross-country meets. My mother was creative in combating my alternating hyperactivity and boredom when no runners were in sight. We would wait for the main pack to run by, and then we would walk towards the finish line. My father would be there, with his clipboard and stop watch and sunglasses and cap, writing stats, talking with other coaches, and paying attention to the progress of his team. My father’s reputation and respect were solid amongst them all. He would smile when he saw us approach.

Like I said before, I must have seen some variation of this dream at a meet on a golf course on a cloudy Saturday morning. And then I dreamed about the runners in the distance. I still dream of events in the distance. This is the first of many I can recall. I was two. Or three.

I think dreams are important.