Like about Linda Yezak wielding a knife. A chopper kind of knife. Something about cutting the fat.
But I’m not sure that was directed toward words. Somehow my stomach was involved. And slicing chunks off it. And my thinking it would hurt. And being assured it wouldn’t.
And then everything shifted to my husband. With the knife. And him nearly pushing me out of bed. And so I got mad and went downstairs to sleep on the leather couch in the living room. And the knife was there. And so was a neat slice across the length of the cushions.
How does that fit into this dream?
Puffy cushions. Fatty cushions?
My paring knife is missing again. It’s not the first time, though. We found it in the field some time back. Probably discarded with potato peelings. But this time it’s gone forever. Part of a Cutco set we bought from a neighbor boy years ago. I’m disturbed about that.
My husband used to work for his uncle who owned a funeral home–and ran an ambulance service out of it. Dennis remembers a man they picked up who had been cut by a butcher knife. His wife just happened to have one in her purse. And she just happened to hit her husband on the arm with her purse. And the knife just happened to cut through the purse and cut him.
Maybe he had fatty arms. Or maybe he was just too honest.
Last night, in a dream, my daughter was on the treadmill. Outside. I don’t know how the treadmill got outside. But she was on it. Holding the reins of two small Percherons who pulled her uphill.
No knives involved.
But a more fun way to cut the fat than taking a knife to the belly.
Does this make any sense?
I didn’t think so.
But dreams are like that.
So is life sometimes.
So glad there is One who is the Source of all sense.
Linked to Duane Scott’s Pleasantly Disturbed Thursdays blog carnival.