First of all, I woke up this morning at 5:55–probably because I was deathly afraid of missing my Rec Tech final. I got up, “ran some errands”, then hit the sack again. When I got up the next time, at 7:30, I’d had this weird dream. Let me preface it by saying that I have always had dreams–never been one to not have them–but they’ve never been very vivid; always kind of blurry and surreal. Lately, they’ve been frighteningly detailed, and I wonder if it means something. Here’s the one from last night, and I’m recounting all the details I can remember because I don’t know what means what:
We’re all sitting in a small, informal room of about 20′ x 20′ singing praise and worship songs. The room is filled with around 10 people sitting on couches that line the walls. If you’re looking bird-eye at the room, the door is at the bottom left. Dave Hunt, sitting in the top left corner, is leading the songs, and he has a small guitar about the size of a ukulele that he’s playing. The guitar’s frets skip the sound hole like a normal guitar, but continue after the sound hole. I am sitting at the bottom right corner with another guitar, this one if full-size, and I think it was my old Takamine. I have been lightly playing along the whole time. Dave finishes a song, and then before he starts the next one, he looks at me and says, “I’ll handle the audio.”
The song is over, though I don’t remember him doing a song, there’s just a vague idea that a song has just been done. The next thing that happens is that Dave and I, along with everyone else, get up. He starts walking in my direction to fetch his little guitar case, and I circle around him. He sits down on the couch, the same place I’d been sitting earlier, and I stand before him. As he is putting up his little guitar, he looks dead at me, unlike most do when scolding, and proceeds to tell me that there was no need for me to add to the instrumentation. “When you tried out for Refuge, I just knew you thought you were better than everyone else.”
“Dave, I think you’ve gotten the wrong impression of me,” I began to cry. I looked at him, and his eyes were in brilliant detail. I could see the small, red lines in his bloodshot eyes. “Ask anyone, they’ll tell you I’m not like that! I know I’m not good, Dave, I know it!” Heather Schutz sat next to Dave up on the back of the couch nodding earnestly in agreement. “But I want to get better, that’s why I’m here. I don’t want to be a rock star, but I want to be a better guitar player. That’s why I’m here, to sharpen, like iron on iron!”
And that’s it. I don’t know why. That was such a weird dream. It seems so out of character for Dave, though I don’t know him as well as some others do, and what he said cut me deep, but I don’t think it’s something that applies to my guitar playing. I wonder if it’s something that applies to another part of my life. I wonder if I’ve missed the point of the dream entirely.
Note: I didn’t try out for the Refuge band. I’d thought about it, but reconsidered because of my schedule.
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