What Happens if you “Die” in a Dream?

There is an old canard that if you die in a dream, you die in real life, too. This I can now say with certainty is not true. Because last night I “died” in a dream, and I’m here to write about it.

I don’t usually to remember dreams for more than a few minutes, but this one stuck because only a couple days earlier I’d been involved in a discussion on exactly this question. So when it happened, I woke up and thought about it enough to fix the memory of the dream in my mind before I went back to sleep.

In the dream, I was competing in a weird event in which I had to push something akin to a shopping cart up an increasingly steep hill, kind of like the runout at the base of a ski jump, in reverse. There was a blue line near the top, shortly before it got super steep, and it was critical to still be running by the time you got to it in order not to stall out on the final pitch and have to try again.

In the dream I had multiple failures before I finally put everything I had into it, passed the line, and looked like I was about to finally make it…only to lose control, veer, and fall of the side of the ramp, nearly at the top.  

In the first attempt, it was me, pushing the cart and trying to run uphill. But with each successive attempt I became more and more detached from myself until there was a “me me” who was competing in the event and an “observer me” watching from the base, like a sports commentator. It was observer me who saw me me fall.

Observer me then climbed to the top and cautiously peered over the side, where I saw “me me” spreadeagled on a concrete slab 100 feet below. I knew it was me because I recognized my hair, and I knew I was dead because there was no way anyone could survive a fall like that. I then wondered a bit about what I’d done wrong to lose control that way, then calmly woke up.

So, I can assure you that if you die in your dream, you don’t die in reality.

I wasn’t even particularly disconcerted and, as I noted above, I only remember it because of the recent discussion. So if you’ve ever wondered about that old canard, forget it. “Me me” is still alive and functioning.

Lessons from Patience

For most of my life, horses have played little if any role, so my first experiences with my friend Vera’s 12-year-old gelding, Patience, were a bit intimidating. Patience, you see, was half-Percheron, and he was big. He’d also once been a wild mustang—something that raised thoughts of bucking broncos and undomesticated beasts with a penchant for kicking through walls.

Actually, he was quite gentle—a relief, since he weighed in at a lean 1,300 pounds. Vera acquired him through the federal government’s adopt-a-horse program, training him herself and choosing his name because, she declared, “that horse is going to teach me patience.” 

It was a lesson that came to include me one Fourth of July weekend when the three of us—Vera, Patience, and myself—attempted a 50-mile packing trip.

Like all really good camping disasters, it started out with a fine idea. Vera loves to hike, but isn’t so keen about carrying a backpack, especially since we’re both photographers and have been known to march off into the wilderness with multiple lenses, tripods, and camera bodies, plus enough film to keep Kodak in business for a month.

The plan was for Patience to carry the weight while we walked unencumbered. At first, I had dreams of 20-mile days, but as the trip took shape, it settled into something more reasonable in Oregon’s Three Sisters Wilderness, a wonderland of lava flows and cinder cones beneath a trio of 10,000-foot volcanoes.

But rigging a packsaddle, I discovered, is more complex than loading a backpack. For starters, I never plan on trying to ram my backpack into anything, so I don’t have to be overly cautious about padding fragile equipment. A horse has no such scruples. We had to think about the fact that half ton of muscle might attempt to squeeze the panniers between trees that aren’t quite far enough apart.

Then, there was the issue of lashing it all down, using a knot called a “One-Person (Two is Better) Diamond Hitch,” based on a drawing that looked more like a bowl of spaghetti than anything I would intentionally do with a rope.

Our first attempt, done at Vera’s stable while various onlookers unhelpfully kibitzed, took an hour. The resulting shape was at best a diamond in the rough, and the whole process was an exercise in such conversations as: “We need to take up some slack,” “No, not that rope, the other one!” “Who’s ‘left’ side? Yours, mine, or his?” 

The horse lived up to his name. We didn’t.

Re-tying the One-Person (Two Is Better) Diamond Hitch at the trailhead was a repeat of the first experience, compounded by a fearsome cloud of mosquitoes that seemed immune to bug repellent, even when we practically drowned them in it. Their favorite landing spot was Patience’s belly, where he couldn’t reach them with his tail. They carpeted it so densely that like airplanes circling a major airport they had to wait their turns to find open landing spots. Patience was stoical. Vera and I did a little dance, and again yanked on the wrong pieces of rope.

Above treeline, mosquitoes were no problem but we began to run into snow. Vera and I could walk over the top of it, but Patience randomly plunged through. On one occasion, we watched with our hearts in our throats as he sank belly deep into a snowfield we knew was underlain by jagged, volcanic rocks.

We’d planned to camp by a creek where we hoped to find forage for Patience. But we ran out of daylight in a lava field, two miles shy of our goal.

We spent the night practically in the middle of the trail, surrounded by sharp, angular rocks, without a sprig of vegetation except a scattering of weather-beaten pines. It was cold and breezy, and the air was damp with the threat of rain. 

Vera and I could huddle out of the wind in the lee of a big rock. Patience couldn’t. Vera and I could light a stove and cook dinner. Patience had nothing to eat but a limited supply of grain. Vera and I could pitch a tent and stretch out in our sleeping bags in semi-comfort. Patience spent the night tethered in the middle of the trail.

Vera suffered on behalf of her horse. I suffered on behalf of Vera. Every time Patience moved, Vera woke up, wondering if anything was amiss. It was a long night.

The next morning, it was time to reassess. We decided there was no choice but to hike out and try again some other month, when the snow would be long gone.

“Well,” said Vera, a few hours later, as we drove out of the mountains in a pouring rain, “that was a learning experience.”

I thought of diamond hitches and horseshoes, mosquitoes and snowfields. Patience, I thought. Patience.

The Race I Never Dreamed I’d Run

Ten years ago, I had knee surgery.

I will never forget what the doctor told me when I woke up. “It’s worse than we thought.” He then added that the drugs from the surgery would mean that I wouldn’t remember those words, but he was wrong. Running as I knew it ended that day.

Seven years later, I had a hip replacement. Arthritis is the family bane. But this time, I wasn’t even thinking about running. Not only had I gained dozens of pounds, but the hip was so bad that the surgeon took one look at the X-ray and said, “That’s a bad hip. Let me check my schedule to see if we can move up your surgery.”

She did, for which I was grateful. I’d reached the point where the 150 meters from the nearest parking spot to the track where I was then coaching had become the longest walk I could manage without a break, and I took it for granted that there would be a time or two each day when the pain would be enough to make me nauseous.

But this is not that kind of story.

Because earlier this month, I rediscovered racing.

Read the rest on Podium Runner…

Remembering Pat Lovett (1923-2020): Remarks from her Memorial Service

Who was Pat Lovett?

That was the question I thought I’d be answering here today. But how can you define a person who graced the earth for nearly 97 years?

When she was born, commercial radio was a new thing. Movies were jerky, silent affairs.

She lived to collect movies on CDs and record them off an invention called TV, using something that wasn’t even imagined when she was a child: satellite broadcasts beamed straight to her backyard.

Which means there’s a lot about her I don’t know. Not that she was a closed book. It’s just that she was a book with many chapters, interconnecting in the unexpected literary tapestry of a long life, well lived.

If any of you have ever read a John McPhee book, you know what I’m talking about. He wrote in tapestries, with threads appearing and reappearing and merging into unexpected patterns.

He would have loved her.

Continue reading Remembering Pat Lovett (1923-2020): Remarks from her Memorial Service

RIP Pat Lovett (my mother)

I have spent the last few days working on my mother’s obituary, with versions for here and two newspapers. Photo, Pat Lovett and son David. Credit Deb Lovett.

Patricia A. (Pat) Lovett died July 3 in Rockford at age 96, due to complications from a fall. Born Patricia Holland in 1923, she grew up on a farm in Milton, Iowa, riding horses, rounding up dairy cattle, and playing basketball and baseball in high school. She graduated from the University of Iowa in 1945 with a degree in English, following it up with a masters in drama two years later—in the process, writing a screenplay that was performed on live TV at the dawn of the television era.

Continue reading RIP Pat Lovett (my mother)