I had a little dream the other day. I was sitting in a group of people. There was a chill in the air and the mood was grim. There was pain and sadness, clingy like a damp t-shirt. I was seated. There was an old man directly in front of me. A black man whose face bore the marks of time like rings to a tree. His eyes told stories his voice could never say. We were mourning, what I do not know. He wanted to pray and reached out his hand to me. I took it. He clasped his other hand over mine and I followed by putting my other hand on top of his other. His prayer, I do not remember the words to, only the cadence and gravitas. He finished with a flourish and said amen. The people all around repeated, amen. I saw him notice that I didn’t say amen. He asked me, “You don’t say amen?”
“No, I don’t believe in that.” I said.
“Well, what do you believe in?” He asked.
I said, “I believe we’re all wrong, and that’s alright.”
He looked up as if he was checking in with his God. Then he looked back at me and sort of pensively nodded.
I remember waking up wishing I could shut my eyes and immediately jump back in to hear what he was going to say, what wisdom he might invoke. Maybe he was just going to tell me I was a fool. But now I’ll never know, and that’s alright too I guess. It’s OK not to know things, or to feel lost every once in awhile. I’m glad for little reminders to not be in such a hurry.