Blanket Approval

Dearest Rachel –

It was like walking in on a rehearsal in a Broadway theater. It seemed like you were playing the lead role; something that quite literally was out of character for you, but somehow looked like you were perfectly comfortable with. It wasn’t long, however, before you noticed me in the empty audience, and made some sort of gesture that was clearly not part of the number you and the cast you were on stage with were practicing. Upon seeing your motion, and turning around to spot me, the director (who I couldn’t actually see, but somehow was aware of) called for a break; “All right; take ten, everyone!” at which point, I approached you on the stage.

“Wow, this is literally quite the production; and you’re taking the spotlight? Brave of you.”

You nodded as you toweled yourself off, and sat on the edge of the stage, kicking your legs back and forth as they dangled into the orchestra. “Thanks. Yes, it is.”

I stood there awkwardly for a moment, not knowing what to say to you. I’m not in control of when I get to see you in my dreams, or what the circumstances of those dreams might be, so I don’t know how to react when I’m in the middle of them. Here, I’m dealing with you being the literal star of the show (which, again, was a role you never sought in life, nor would you have been comfortable with, were it thrust upon you, but you seemed at ease with in the moment); how do I approach you, and what do I say?

“‘Yes,’” you smiled gently, nodding. It was an odd conversational gambit; I hadn’t asked anything of you, and indeed, was still parsing what I should lead off with. Puzzled, I echoed you: “‘Yes’?”

“‘Yes,’” you repeated. “Look, I don’t have any control over your life and what happens to you anymore. I know there are things you want to do, but I think you want my approval before you go and do them. Consider this my blanket approval, because it isn’t as if I can forbid you from any of it.”

“Really? Anything?” At this point, I was close enough to the stage myself, and I decided to make my move. “Because what I’d really like to do is to…” and I grabbed your legs, dragged you off the stage, and slung you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, “take you back home with me, right now!” And come to think of it, you didn’t seem to object; in fact, I could hear you giggling in my ear as I turned around and made my way to the back of the auditorium.

But only for a moment. Soon, I could still hear your giggling, but it was farther away, at which point, I realized you weren’t over my shoulder anymore. I wheeled back around, and you were back on the edge of the stage, once again dangling your legs into the orchestra pit that I was now on the opposite end of.

“Well… there are limits to what you can do, sweetheart. Even if you could make it to the exit with me, you wouldn’t be able to find your way home from here.” At this point, you smile faded to a more serious look. “This is a dream, you know, and the only way out is for you to wake up; and you’re the only one who can do that. I can’t come with you; you know that. For that matter, I don’t know how soon that will be. So I have to respond to you quickly; sometimes even before you can think to ask. ‘Yes,’ do what you want to, but you’ll need to do it on your own for now.”

None of this was particularly unexpected – apart from your disappearing from my arms as I playfully tried to drag you away – but I had to ask, “‘For now’? For how long?”

You shrugged, a slightly sheepish expression on your face. “I don’t know, honey. I’m not given your part of the script; I just get mine.” And with that, you got up from your place at the edge of the stage, and picking up your towel, made as if to join your fellow dancers who were starting to reassemble to rehearse. Our conversation was basically over, but I still had one more question:

“My part of the script? You mean, I’m in this performance? But I’ve never seen any script at all…” I tried to turn to face the Director, who was getting you and the others back to your places for the big dance number, but before I could even so much as make out His face – let alone as Him for my copy of the script – everything dissolved, and I found myself staring at my still-dark bedroom ceiling.

With nothing else to do but to get up and put in my three miles on the treadmill, I started my day. But I’d still like to get my hands on that script, and find out when and where my cues are. It seems I need less of your approval than the Director’s; but without His instructions, I’m left to strut and fret my hour onstage completely extemporaneously, which can’t be what He wants from me…

So with that being said, put in a word with Him about that, if you can, while keeping an eye on me, and wish me luck, because I’m going to need it.