When I woke this morning, I had fragments of a dream clinging to the cobwebs behind my eyes:

I was living in a medieval building constructed of ancient stone. At some points in my dream it looked like a castle or fortress. At other times it looked like a European cathedral.

I am coming down the stairs when the earth shifts subtly beneath the building, not with the dramatic shaking and quaking you see when earthquakes are represented in movies but more like the quiet slump of a mudslide.

The entire building begins to fall apart, walls tumbling in and out, the roof sliding off, slabs of stone collapsing. It was like a house riddled with termites that looks sturdy on the outside but then unexpectedly disintegrates and gives way.

There was both a sense of alarm and a sense of inevitability related to the destruction. Part of me wanted to flee but I didn’t. Instead I stayed inside for a while, dodging falling debris and trying to maneuver around the damage, making plans even as the ceiling was falling.

Finally, I realized I had to leave, and when I glanced back at the building, it looked like the ruins of the Abbaye de Villers that I visited a month or so ago.

As I emerge from shock, reality starts to sink in. I’ve lost everything! I tell the family I’m staying with that night that I need to go back into the ruins and retrieve my children’s photo albums and my jewelry box. I’m convinced I know exactly where they are and that I’ll be able to reach them.

Interestingly, I’m not afraid to re-enter this structure that is falling apart. It’s as if I recognize the danger but don’t feel it will affect me. I’m ready to wade through the rubble when...

The alarm clock goes off and pulls me out of my dreamscape.

I carry bits and pieces of it with me all day, and continually revisit the dream in my mind.

In quiet moments, I push and prod at my life, my relationships, my faith.

I’m looking for cracks.

I’m searching for fault lines.

I'm wondering what makes stone crumble.

May 15, 2007