My fig farm in the desert


I had a strange dream where I was running back and forth for some mysterious team, carrying water and supplies in a desert region of the world, perhaps the Sahara. There was a cool but demanding woman who was kind of my boss and at one point my dead friend Andrew was there (but also wasn’t there) and we were talking about his origins in this arid region, his growing up tending to these fig trees. It was all quite sad, my friend was there as a kind of ghost, and we were recounting his story, how he had come from this desert place. His world was the world of these fig trees and tending to them. I would soon be taking over, trying keep the grove alive with what I had been taught about their care and it was all very bittersweet. There was a wizened old man that I was relaying Andrew’s story to, and I kept looking down at a small puddle of water at his feet and feeling sad for my friend who was not really dead, but not really alive and present, either. My sadness was for the life that he had been given, and his burdens related to being in this world, these trees, and this region. I awoke to a cat on the bed, pawing at my chest and staring at my face intently.