Pancakes for Peace
Last night I had a dream where lawlessness reigned and I was in danger. An office building had become a jungle of stacked furniture where I and others tried to hide while packs of wildly dressed people hunted us. In the dream, I knew I was a target and my companions were trying to protect me. As the pack closed in, we decided to make a run for it knowing they might see us. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize me. But they did. “Hey! That one there with the blond hair. Grab her!” And I was taken.
I awaited my fate in a room that once had been a large conference room but now was the headquarters of a band of men and women who looked like they’d just stepped off the set of a Mad Max movie. Especially the leader, with his long matted hair, animal skin vest and elaborate feathered headdress. I suppose this was my subconscious’ way of having a little fun with the images of the Jan. 6 rioters at the U.S. Capitol.
I sat in a chair at a long conference table, not far from the leader, but forgotten for the time as the gang discussed what was happening outside. I wracked my brain for a way to escape, surreptitiously making note of doors, windows, heating vents, any form of possible escape. Then I noticed someone at the other end of the table making pancakes. I know, that’s weird, right? But par for the course with my often wacky dreams.
I watched a plate get stacked with three thick fluffy pancakes and an idea came to me. I turned to the leader and asked if I could have some. I said, “This might be the last meal I ever have. Will you let me have this?” Immediately, almost too quick to be sure I’d seen it, I caught the faintest glimmer of a spark in his eyes. He pulled a plate of pancakes in front of me and took a plate for himself.
As we ate, I told him how pancakes reminded me of Sunday afternoons at my grandparents’ house after church where the family gathered for brunch. I described the elaborate set up my grandmother had at the head of the table where she presided over the electric griddle and doled out hot pancakes as fast as we could eat them. The table was surrounded by brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins, and of course my grandparents at either end. It was a family ritual that didn’t happen every week but often enough to nurture strong bonds and fond memories.
As I told my story, I watched that faint spark I’d seen in the leader’s eyes grow into a warm glow. He asked where I was from. He told me similar stories of his own family. And all the while the hard lines of his face slowly melted, transforming him from harsh enemy into human, while the rest of the room watched us in silence.
And then I woke up.
So…did I escape? Did he let me go? Did the battle end? What happened next? I believe the answer lies in what I do with this dream. Today. Right now. It’s telling me to
Find Common Ground
…which, at its most basic level, is to acknowledge the human-ness of those who hurt or scare or disappoint me. Acknowledge their humanity.
That can be hard with those who so blatantly disregard the humanity of others. Hard not to judge them with harshness commensurate with their overt displays of negligence, disdain, hatred, even. How to dig deep and remember that they were once a helpless baby, a child who only wanted the love of its parents? Can we try to use this exercise as a speed bump to slow us down when it’s all too easy to get amped up by media (social and otherwise) that pour gas on already raging fires? Just stop, and imagine the other as a baby or small child. Remember they are human. Let the flames of indignation and self-righteousness die down a bit and then re-engage. What if we all did that?
This isn’t “turn the other cheek” kind of stuff. That feels too passive and lets the other off the hook. This is about engaging. Sharing. Inquiring. And yes, holding accountable. But doing so with compassion.
We’re entering a time where some may find themselves awakening from a bad dream that’s held them in thrall for a long time. Where the dazzling, mesmerizing kaleidoscope of promises will appear in its true form: a big pile of broken glass. We need to find a way to clear the glass and make a safe path back toward the light that’s been bent and distorted for too long.
Maybe we can all do that over a plate of pancakes.
