why-didnt-you-just-say-so

A few years ago, I had a dream.

I dreamed I was a young lad, an apprentice to a stonecutter. The setting seemed more medieval than anything else, and it was really more about learning a craft than earning a wage.
My master was a big, hulking man, severe of face and short on words, who made most of his living crafting headstones for those who could afford them.

I was content in my work and fairly treated. But I was also puzzled by my master’s habit of retiring to a locked room behind his cellar, where I could hear him chipping away at something late in the evenings, but never showing it to me. We had no other secrets. It pained me to be kept in the dark about something so obviously important to him.

I finally confronted him, on the verge of tears, accusing him of not trusting me, and he relented enough to show me his prize.
It was the most magnificent headstone I’d ever seen. Even in its unfinished state, the clean lines of the solid, pure quartz gleamed like the facets of what I imagined a diamond would look like, the clear crystal capturing and splintering even dim light into a riot of rainbows.
And on the smooth front of the headstone he’d already begun to engrave his name.

He wasn’t sick, not expecting death anytime soon. But he wanted to do his best work for himself, he said. And he wanted to leave something special behind, something of beauty, something to show that he’d lived, that he’d died, that he’d been a presence on this earth.

A few weeks later, wide awake, I decided to pursue my writing seriously.

No, I can’t say I expect anything I’ve written to be immortalized in any way. And the dream wasn’t the only motivation. But it was definitely a factor.

Was that the direction my subconscious was trying to push me toward? Possibly. I had been keeping my writing to myself, constantly chiseling away, reluctant to put it out there.
But geez, subconscious—why not just come out and SAY so?!

I mean, yeah, I can be a little thick sometimes. Hard-headed (head-stone?).
And I get that I’m supposed to listen more, embrace silence, meditate on possibilities, etc. But let’s be honest. When does the subconscious make itself heard? In the shower. While I’m driving. In dreams. All playfully mystical, I’m sure.
But I really wouldn’t mind if it would just give me the thundering proclamation, kick me in the ass, and spell it out a little more often, ‘kay?

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