A
guest is at my parents’ house – it’s Benedict, the Pope emeritus, in a white
cassock, and though he still seems old, his face is fuller and more at peace.
We
go out onto the lake, and where shallow water was with sand just beneath it, a
recent storm made small islands just barely rising above the surface, and the Pope walks around on them happily.
At
other places sand is closer to the surface than it’s ever been, forming ridges
that pointedly crest just inches below the surface, and I can see them catching ripply sun beneath the waves.
As
we go around to the other section of the lake, there’s makeshift earthen dams,
and the water has been drained out and you can see over 1,000 feet down into this huge pit, into what had
been the deepest part of the lake, to rough terraces of upturned earth where
men are working at something by wooden barriers made of long logs stacked lengthwise.
.
. .
(The
day before I had this dream I was by the lake in the city, and the way the sun
hit the water, sand was practically glowing beneath the waves in certain
parts… There was also that storm
recently at my parents’ house that caused a lot of tree damage and whatnot.)
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