First Generation

As goofy as the last dream might seem on first appearance, the dream I had the night before that was very realistic and serious. In the dream, my husband , son and I were living in a future community that concerned itself with healing the earth and its food sources. We were growing crops for the purpose of extracting the toxins out of the soil, harvest and burn those crops and then grow fresh crops that were toxin free. We were working hard, non- stop, with very positive results. I remember it was very hot and dry in the dream, there was a lot of dust. We had access to a good, plenty full well, and we were working on a rice field. I remember the sensation of planting the rice seedlings in the cool water. The sound of it was very pleasing and encouraging.
When I woke, I told my husband about the dream, and he told me that the technique I envisioned in the dream was an actual technique used. That made me feel proud. Not bad for a dreamy eyed writer and poet, considering my husband was the experienced gardner, not me.
Later that day, my mind kept going back to the dream. Somehow the content and aspirations of the dream made me think of being a first generation immigrant. How hard it has been to hang on to my identity, especially in view of the traumatic loss of my family that immigrated with me. I had read somewhere that the first generation is always the one that sacrifices itself for the betterment of the next generation. I am very devoted to my husband and son, and it is true that I make a conscious and well measured effort to put them first, always. Perhaps outdated as an idea, but in my case it has encouraged me to confront my trolls head on, as one Texas artist friend noted, and as a result start writing, both prose and poetry, and start my metallic threads tapestries and my photography of flowers. A solitary journey to be sure and perhaps that is why I kept going back to the dream where my husband, son and I were healing the soil, to make it better for the next harvests. Perhaps the dream was as much an allegory of my own journey, and the journey of my husband and son, as it was an intuitive way to deal with a concern for the pollution of the earth's food supply. As a first generation immigrant with no original family left, feeling invisible is a daily reality, one I have come to terms with and understand well. I get immeasurable strength from my black Baptist church and its wise bishop. Courage under fire runs as thick as blood in the black American soul and experience. So I consider myself lucky to have had a neighbour 22 years ago who introduced me to the most fascinating spiritual journey of my life. Planting a crop of seeds just to see them grow and then having to eradicate them is unnerving for someone who views all life as sacred, but I understand the symbolism when it comes to my own life. I know a  lot of my 40 years here continues to be planting a crop that will need to be pulled up, cast aside and burnt, so that in time the crop that will be planted after it, will be fruitful and free of past toxins and limitations. When you pay attention to your dreams they can teach you a lot. But you can't be in a hurry. You have to be willing to plant the seeds of understanding one at a time, with care and respect for each one as you put it in the forgiving ground. And you have to pull the sacrificial crop with mercy and love, knowing it is willing to die so the next crop can thrive. Two ends with one middle, one no less important than the other in the process of healing and redemption.