Holy Wall Street

My fella grew up with very, very little in the way of material resources or goods. I grew up with 3 siblings and a blue collar, self-employed dad and a stay-at-home mom; six mouths to feed and very little extra to go around. Luckier than many, yes, but not remotely wealthy.

My fella put himself through college and worked full-time. Then he went into the Navy for the steady paycheck and the insurance. I earned a master’s degree in Spanish and moved with him when he got re-assigned to new stations. He’s out of the Navy now and using the GI Bill to return to school for additional practical skills. I’m working for a non-profit, using my Spanish language skills on occasion and my English language skills every waking moment.

We didn’t come from money. And it’s clear we’re not going toward money, either.

The Essentials

Last night in fitful sleep, I dreamed apocalyptic. Back in my childhood home but as an adult, with my siblings and parents, we waited for disaster, knowing, in the Dream Way of Knowing, that it was coming.

We were to be airlifted out of our home via helicopter, but before that, we needed to gather food. I found peaches and carrots and put them in a bag. All of us frantic, terrified. When there was no more food to toss in bags, I rifled through my books, looking for a thick anthology of children’s literature; where we were going, we would have time to pass.

And where was Kegen? Dream Meg needed him and felt confused that he wasn’t there. Shortly, he appeared, and I ran to him and kissed him, a luxury interrupted by chaos and necessary explanations about what was happening. The end.

“But dreams aren’t real!” my best friend protests; she doesn’t care to discuss them. “What is real?” I counter only when I’m feeling existential.

What is real? This morning,