I had a dream

*The Last Frontier Gardener, on the advice of her attorney, would like to assure the readership, both the accidental and purposeful variety, that this dream is perfectly office appropriate.  One’s aged neighbors will not be rushed to the ER if they catch a glimpse of your screen.  And your young children may read over your shoulder without harm.  If you allow that sort of thing…. 

Furthermore, The Last Frontier Garden and Christine B. disavow any consequences up to and including boredom that may arise from reading gibberish, blather, nonsense, and any other content on this site. Additionally, heavy usage of italics, bolded type, and parentheses may be employed. (Just because.) The site owner will assume no responsibility for occasional exclamations of “when does this end?” or “I don’t understand” by readers.

Don’t you adore a good disclaimer?  There must be a whole legal industry devoted to crafting those 5,000 word missives we must/should/don’t read upon accepting any free computer software, entering any contest (be the prize a small order of French fries/Porsche/trip to Hawaii), or joining an online community.  There is no rhyme nor reason to have a disclaimer for a garden blog, as far as I can tell, but then reasonable and rational are not selling points for this garden blog.  On to the dream.

Last night I dreamed a dream. Whether it was a dream of the “I ate hot salsa late at night” or the “profound and meaningful” dream variety, I leave that to you to determine.

In my dream, I saw a tulip. And a handkerchief tree (or dove tree), in bloom.  Some might automatically assume I was in a zone 6 dream, but I don’t need to be unconscious to dream about zone 6.  The tulip was an heirloom variety, probably one that doesn’t exist anywhere other than my brain but since I’m not a tulip historian and currently feel no inclination to research this tidbit, we may never know.  It had elongated and slightly twisted petals and a dramatic maroon throat.  The white blooms of the young handkerchief tree, or Davidia involucrata, were waving in the wind in my dream and situated next to the single gorgeous tulip.

Now to get to the exciting bit.  I have a book (a gift from a sister with a sense of humor) entitled, “In Your Dreams: The Ultimate Dream Dictionary” by Mary Summer Rain.  I intend no offense to Ms. Summer Rain, author of over 20 books, when I write that I laughed like Woody Woodpecker when I opened my birthday package and read the title.  But oh, the dividends!  Every bad dream, every ominous object, every scenario and detail no matter how mundane with a definable meaning.  Sort of.

Firstly, according to the aforementioned dictionary, a tulip flower “stands for self-confidence; encouragement; motivational factors; may also point to a beautiful beginning.”  The beginning of a bona fide spring would feel pretty terrific right now.  I’m not holding my breath.  Is the universe telling me not to plan that move to Arizona, that spring will indeed come even to Alaska?

Secondly, there is (are you surprised?) no entry for dove tree or handkerchief tree, but not to be deterred, I looked up all three terms for your interpretive pleasure. Dove is defined as “a peaceful nature or condition”, handkerchief as implying “preparedness”, and tree “symbolizes life force; living gifts; natural talents.”  So how can I account for that?  Shall I prepare myself for a peaceful talent? Or should I be at peace with my prepared life force?

Thirdly, I’m glad I didn’t dream about an angioplasty, an icicle, or a ticket scalper and not just for practical reasons.  You’ll have to take my word on this unless you want to check out the book because, yes, they are all real entries.

Or I could just say “phooey” with the whole interpretation book and conclude this dream was about an unfulfilled need. The need for green things. The need for flowers. The need for days above 50 degrees Fahrenheit and nights above freezing. And mostly, the need for the lingering layer of unwholesome-looking, feces-, twig-, and gravel-ridden snow to finally melt. Even wet, brown grass would be an improvement.

To counter my discouragement with both my shoddy dream analysis and our tardy spring, tonight I plan on dreaming of a zebra with a fear of burglars, riding a moped whilst listening to hard rock music.  If that fails, I’m turning to the hot salsa after 10pm.   

 

Ever dreamed of plants? What’s your dream plant?