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Michiana Chronicles writers bring portraits of our life and times to the 88.1 WVPE airwaves every Friday at 7:45 am during Morning Edition and over the noon hour at 12:30 pm during Here and Now. Michiana Chronicles was first broadcast in October 2001. Contact the writers through their individual e-mails and thanks for listening!

A Small Domestic Story

Usually I tell you small, domestic stories, and this one today is no exception, but today’s story, as well as being a bit more self-revelatory than usual,  also may be an allegory of a much larger topic.

In our family, my son, Joseph, has told a story of helping to launch his sons into the world of self-reliance when they were fairly young, by sending them alone to the check-in counter at the airport. This is what he saw from his yes-of-course-he-stood-back-and-observed-in-case-anything-really-went-wrong-and-they-needed-help, vantage point.

His story of this episode played out in my dreams the other night. The boys, Jared and Alex, stood in the line. When they arrived at the counter, the woman on the other side said, “I’ll help who is next.” Thinking that no one was stepping forward, she looked out over the counter at the line of people and repeated, “I’ll help who is next.” Then from his front-of-the-line-position, but obviously below her line of vision, Alex said, “We’re down here.” She then shifted her focus to the voice from what had appeared to her to be only a gap in the line, and life proceeded as you would expect.

Next, in the A-D-D way of dreams, after the airport scene with the boys, the “video” immediately shifted to a sun-filled arena setting. Not only was the arena sun-filled, it was people-filled. The bleachers were stuffed with people of all races and genders who were dressed in traditional garb of many nations. The colors of that clothing, yellows, oranges, crisp whites and vibrant blues were astonishingly beautiful in that sunlight. This mass of humanity appeared to be at some sort of conference where people were advancing from their seats to the podium to express their desires for fulfillment of needs: food, justice, gender equality: those pesky realities. Really, I’m not making this up. This jumble came frothing to the top of the cauldron of my subconscious, played out in the dream, and then awakened me. Awakened me with such force, that I felt compelled to get up and write down these scenarios. I needed to capture them before, like sea glass and shells that are carried in on waves, then are immediately carried back out into the larger body of water, and disappear. I wanted the chance to stoop down and scoop them up so that instead of being a mere glimpse they became a more lasting experience: something to hold in my hand and examine and maybe treasure.

Those of you out there who are of the psychologist/psychiatrist persuasion will just have to take this jumble and run with it. I have no explanations for why these things appear; I’m totally at the mercy of my subconscious and am as surprised as anyone by what comes bubbling to the surface.

I hadn’t thought of this story about the boys for a while. They’re older now, and are navigating their lives pretty well. Sometimes, in the way of adolescents, and to my son’s chagrin, they navigate things a tad too independently, but that’s a bonus of successful parenting, isn’t it: -- usually only appreciated in hindsight. The other night though, when I woke from dreaming their story jumbled with the scene of the arena, I realized that Alex and Jared’s story could be the story of people worldwide who are queued up waiting their turns.

Sure waiting in line at an airport counter with nearby parental oversight is a first world story of privilege, but it serves as a ready example of the situation of people everywhere who are in need of something. We, not just those of us with privilege, but everyone, everywhere, are charged by moral law to shift our gazes to those who are at the counter but just outside of our usual line of vision. Thus the small domestic story sashays out and strides into the world at large.

Jeanette Saddler Taylor lives and writes in South Bend where she is retired, but is active in several community organizations.
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