My little Ara came home from camp with a dream catcher. I was getting her settled into bed and I said, “I forgot, what does a dream catcher do?”  Before she could answer, I had blurted out, “oh ya, a dream catcher gives your dream an extra blessing, if it was a little sad or broken, the dream catcher makes it sweet.” She looks at me, not cold, not excited, quite plain – “mine doesn’t do that. It helps me remember my dreams.”

So much is upside down. We go to the wrong places for fulfillment. We look up to the wrong teachers. We serve idols. We could use a little help remembering our dreams. She is having nightmares for the first time, four years old. I think the nightmares might need to be remembered too. Maybe as much as the dreams, they exist behind our waking hours like a veil, transmuting the shadows and the light so that all the world we see is distorted, only we never know just how much, until we remember, and choose to live with the curtains of fear, as part of the scene.