The Dream
A campsite.
I wasn’t happy
with the layout of my pitch.
It was windy.
I’m trying to decide
where to plant
my herbs.
I wonder—
where to plant
the rhubarb.
Meanwhile,
the wind is getting choppy,
and the cats
have come home
to be looked after—
even though the weather
wasn’t really
that bad.
The Meaning
the campsite
I’m not settled and I’m not happy, but even here, I want things in their right place. It’s not about escape—it’s about temporary order in a shifting life.
Even in impermanence, I crave structure. That’s not control—it’s care.
wind
Choppy, unpredictable energy. Not quite a storm, but enough to knock things loose. I’m impacted by forces that don’t look like a crisis—but still demand my energy, my attention, my pre-emptive problem-solving. This is low-grade overwhelm that wears you down, not blows you over.
herbs
My toolkit: intuitive tending, healing, symbolic nourishment.
But even here—on uncertain ground and under pressure—I’m still trying to cultivate something. This is me practising steadiness, not fantasy. I’m gardening through it.
rhubarb
Rhubarb is powerful—but not flexible. It needs proper placement.
Too big to ignore, too valuable to dismiss.
cats returning home
Survival instincts showing up for shelter. Soft, skittish, responsive. My inner dependents—those parts of me that don’t wait for crisis, but move early.
And I notice: it’s not even that bad. That’s me realising I’ve lived so long anticipating storms, I don’t trust calm. Again, just like I explore in the The sea liner and tsunami maybe it’s time to stop bracing for something that doesn’t always come.
What Lingers…
What if cultivating calm isn’t a weakness, but a wisdom learned?
What if the storm never comes—but there’s a part of self that needs care anyway?
Marginalia
The circumstances around this dream reflect my sense of being untethered. I’ve just left one school and haven’t yet started the next—stuck in limbo until September. And it shows. My subconscious is, quite literally, trying to plant rhubarb in a windy campsite.
There’s a kind of chaotic tenderness in that image: Maybe the rhubarb is just my body’s way of asking, “Is it safe to digest now? Can we let go?”
