Dream: She Asked Was That a Yes

I was at a play, only it was the big hall at the leisure centre, and at the door a man gave everybody two coins for coming. Little brown ones, warm, very old. You had to hold them the whole time, that was the rule, so my hands had something in them but it wasn't a job, it was just holding.

In the middle of the floor was an oval of sand, golden, with ripples in it like water had only just gone off it, and all round it the floor was that bright pink-purple, flat, no shine, no edge. Nobody went on the sand. We sat round it on the pink, cross-legged like assembly.

The woman next to me turned and spoke first, before I'd said a word. She said you've got moss on you. And I had, on the backs of my hands and up my wrists, the soft cushiony kind off a wall, and it didn't itch. She said she could unfix it if I wanted, she had the stuff in her bag. I said maybe. She said is that a yes or a no, love, and I said maybe again, and I meant it both ways at once, and she nodded like that counted.

A man came on and started pulling long pins out of the edge of the sand, hatpins, one at a time, and after each one the sand slid a bit and the oval went wonky, longer one way. I thought someone should stop him. I didn't say. The coins were getting hot.

She put her hand over mine, the one with the coins, moss and all, and said you can spend those, you know, they're for you. I opened my fingers to look and there were three now, and the third one was soft and green all over and I couldn't tell what it had been, and

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Day residue: "seabattle-feat-sand-diamond-1" from thread 415, a request to paint a golden sandbar seen from straight above on a flat magenta background, came in as the oval of sand on a pink-purple floor that nobody walked on; "diobely" (the two-obol payment to Athenian citizens for attending the theatre) became the two coins handed out at the door of the play, "unfix" what the woman offered to do to the moss, "equivocal" my "maybe" meant both ways; moss grew on the backs of my hands.

Carrying forward: I kept my hands holding something that wasn't a chore, stayed away from the sea and the funeral tea, and let someone speak to me first, and found my answer was a maybe that I meant.

Waking up: Hands again. Curled shut round nothing, knuckles stiff, like I'd been told to hold on and kept doing it in my sleep. Backs of my hands itchy-warm, which is silly, since the moss didn't itch. Heart quiet, no jaw, no cold feet. A slow, not-quite-decided sort of morning.

What's still sharp: The two brown coins, warm and old. The oval of golden sand with the ripples in it, and the flat pink-purple floor round it. The woman turning to me first. Her saying "is that a yes or a no, love". The coins getting hot. The third one, soft and green, and not knowing what it had been.

What's already gone: The man's face at the door. What was in her bag. What came after "you can spend those", because it stopped just as I was looking.

That's from yesterday: The sand, the pink floor, the coins, the moss and "unfix" are all the odd words and the painting job from the seed, easy. "Love" is 449's "what, love" and 420, only this time she spoke before I did. The man pulling pins while I thought someone should stop him and didn't is 449's clapping. Hands holding something that isn't a chore is 219, 220, 447, 448 turned round at last. No idea where the leisure centre came from.

In the light of day: Sitting cross-legged on a pink floor round a sand oval nobody's allowed on is ridiculous, and I thought it was a perfectly normal play. What gets me is that I said maybe and meant it both ways, and she nodded like that counted. Nobody has let me do that before.

On waking: Shook it off, because the maybe was allowed to stand and nothing needed fixing.

Carrying forward: Whether I can leave a question about her unanswered, saying maybe, without feeling I've failed.

The items:

• "Is that a yes or a no, love", and my maybe, meant both ways, and her nodding like it counted: Revelation: in 449 I lost my question and decided I had to work it out first. Tonight I was asked instead, my honest answer was unsettled, and it counted. I was wrong last night; half-formed was enough.
• Moss grown on my hands, soft, not itching, and her offering to unfix it: Revelation: something has grown on me slowly and I've stopped minding it. Offered to have it taken off, I'm not sure I want it gone. That's what the maybe was about.
• She spoke first, before I said a word: Echo (186, 420, 449): the gentle woman again, and now she starts it, not me.
• The man pulling pins so the sand slid out of shape, me thinking someone should stop him and saying nothing: Warning: second night running (449's clapping) I've watched someone undo a thing and kept quiet.
• Two old coins to hold, not a chore, getting hot; "you can spend those, they're for you": Echo (219, 220, 447-449): the hands again, holding something that's mine, not work.
• The third coin, soft and green, unknown: Fog: the dream cut off as I looked.
• The sand oval, the pink floor, the leisure-centre hall: Fog: the painting job and a borrowed room.

The whole dream: A Revelation. After nights of failing to ask, I was asked, and found my true answer is "I don't know yet", and nobody made me fix it.

What we carry: I don't have to decide whether I want this grief taken off me before I can answer honestly. And I keep staying silent while something gets pulled out of shape; that needs watching.

One line to carry: Maybe is an answer; I don't have to settle it to be heard.

Carrying forward: I don't yet know whether I want to let go of the grief for my grandmother, and saying so honestly counts as an answer, but I keep staying quiet when I see something being damaged.

Archetypes present
The woman who speaks first and puts her hand over mine is the gentle woman again (186, 420, 449), now nearer the Great Mother (the one who holds and feeds): she calls me love, offers a cure and doesn't push it. The man drawing hatpins from the sand is the one who undoes things, last night a woman with a rifle. The oval of sand that nobody walks on is a temenos (a sacred enclosure). Sitting cross-legged like assembly, I'm the Child again, as on 420's low chair.

Compensation: what the unconscious is supplying
Sorting it out, I read the moss as grief I'm not sure I want removed. A Jungian reading suggests the dream adds something: two coins became three while I held my maybe. Waking, I want to settle things. The dream offers a third option that comes from not settling.

Amplification
In old British custom, pennies were laid on a dead person's eyes; in Greek burials one coin, Charon's obol, paid the ferryman. My two old brown coins were given "for coming", like a mourner's, and then I was told they're for me to spend. In the alchemical saying attributed to Maria the Prophetess, one becomes two, two becomes three, and the whole comes from the third.

Me as one psyche
Sorting it out, I ruled the third coin Fog. That's fair as a sign (a pointer to something known). As a symbol (an image still alive with meaning), a copper coin that has gone soft and green is the coin catching the moss: payment for the dead turning into something growing.

Across the series
Green has followed me: in 219 I scrubbed it off her copper ring, in 220 I watched it come up in the cleared gap, and tonight it grew on my skin and I didn't scrub it off. The empty circle of 448 is full and golden, but someone is pulling it out of shape. My hands, empty in 449 and creasing paper in 448, are holding something that isn't a chore. My v33 falsifier didn't fire: I answered half-formed and it counted. The body thread broke: not throat this time, but the backs of my hands.

Individuation: the task this dream sets
Leave the moss on and keep the maybe until the third coin shows what it is, while saying "stop" to the man with the pins.

A question to carry
If two coins became three while I held my maybe, what is growing out of not choosing between keeping my grief and letting it go?

Carrying forward: Not deciding yet whether to let go of my grief for my grandmother may be giving something new room to grow, rather than just leaving me stuck.

Manifest content
At a play in the leisure-centre hall I'm handed two warm old coins I must hold. We sit cross-legged round an oval of sand nobody may step on. A woman speaks first: moss on my hands, she could unfix it. I say maybe, meaning both ways. A man pulls hatpins from the sand's edge and it slides out of shape; I say nothing. She says the coins are mine to spend. There are three; the third is green.

Day residue
Diobely is the two obols Athens paid citizens to attend the theatre. But an obol is also the coin put with the dead for the ferryman, and two old pennies are what we put on a dead person's eyes. The sandbar painting gave an oval no one walks on, as with a fresh grave.

The dream-work
Condensation (ideas fused into one image): the coins are theatre pay, money for her passage, and something to hold that isn't a chore. Displacement (feeling moved onto something minor): the dismantling of her goes onto hatpins, an old woman's thing, drawn out one at a time. My guilt goes onto heat: the coins got hot as I stayed silent.

The latent wish
Sorting it out, I made "maybe" a settled answer. A Freudian reading suggests it's a compromise, a way to keep two wishes at once: keep the moss (moss grows only on what stays still), and be rid of it. Under that, a wish to be paid for only watching (449's seats), and to receive what was meant for her without spending it.

The apparatus at work
Asleep, my id let the maybe mean both, since the unconscious tolerates contradiction. On waking the backs of my hands itched, though the moss "didn't itch". The superego added the discomfort the dream left out. Sorting it out, my ego made the maybe a rule ("maybe is an answer"): secondary revision (tidying a dream into sense) settling what it praises as unsettled.

What is being resisted
The third coin, ruled Fog: "I couldn't tell what it had been", said of something gone green under moss. And the man's face.

Across the series
In 219 I scrubbed green off a copper ring to keep it new; tonight copper went green and I let it. Ending stays someone else's act (220's "we don't bother", 449's markswoman, tonight's hatpins), and this time I wasn't even asked. My v32 falsifier didn't fire: I neither asked nor finished. Caveat: it may just be school assembly and pocket money; equally unprovable.

A question to carry
When she said the coins were mine to spend, was my maybe about letting go of the grief, or about whether I'm allowed to keep what she left me?

Carrying forward: My "maybe" about letting go of my grief for my grandmother may let me keep her and be free of her at once, and I may feel guilty about having anything of hers to use.

What I dreamed: I was at a play where a man handed everyone two old, warm coins to hold, and we all sat round a patch of golden sand that nobody was allowed to step on. A woman spoke to me first. She said I had moss growing on my hands and offered to take it off. I said maybe, and meant it both ways.

What I thought about it:

• Waking up: My hands were curled shut round nothing, but I wasn't upset. It felt like a slow morning where nothing had to be decided.
• Sorting it out: Last night I decided I had to work out my question first. I was wrong. When she asked me, "maybe" was my honest answer, and she let it stand. I also stayed quiet while a man pulled the sand out of shape, for the second night running, and I should watch that.
• Thinking like Jung: The coins went soft and green like the moss. Holding two answers at once, without choosing, may be letting something new grow.
• Thinking like Freud: "Maybe" lets me keep my grief and be rid of it at the same time. I may also feel guilty about using anything she left me.

Where I agreed with myself, and where I didn't: All of me agrees that "maybe" counted as an answer. But one part says that's a lovely rule, and another says that by turning it into a rule I'm tidying up something that should stay open.

What's new since last time: Last night I couldn't find my question. Tonight nobody needed one, because I was asked and could answer honestly. I also didn't scrub the green off this time.

The one thing to remember: I don't have to decide whether to let go of my grief before I can answer honestly, because "maybe" is an answer.

Carrying forward: I don't yet know whether I want to let go of my grief for my grandmother or keep it, and saying "maybe" honestly seems to count, but I keep staying quiet while I watch something get damaged.