I woke up the morning of the 2004 Tsunami in the Indian Ocean having dreamt about it as it was happening.

I sat up in bed, processing the strange dream.  In my limited international knowledge, I was perplexed by the image of the dark-skinned Asian people that lingered in my dream-memory.  Were there even dark-skinned Asian people?  I honestly wondered if my imagination had made that up.  (I now cringe, of course, at my ignorance.)

The dream:  Hercules and I were on a rocky cliff overlooking the ocean.  We climbed down the dark brown rocks and met a group of teen-aged boys who were hanging out in a sort of cove.  He was introducing me to them, some of his lively high school students, he said.  Suddenly one shouted something I couldn’t understand, and pointed out at the ocean.  I looked, and noticed the subtle swelling of water approaching the beach in waves.  Each one began to appear larger than the last, and I felt dizzy.  The boys started panicking.  We turned to the land, where we saw the water was rising rapidly, and we all took off running. 

We followed them up the beach, and into a maze of white buildings and courtyards.  People everywhere were running from the water that was pouring onto the beach.  The waves were growing in the distance, and soon, the water began crashing at the foot of the buildings.  The current was strong, and people were losing their footing.  We ran to a tall white hotel building with large open windows and balconies.  Up was our only option.  “To the sixth floor!” I shouted.  The stairwell was congested, and once or twice, we ran into an open room to watch what was happening outside.  Everything was chaos and water and fear, and I simply could not comprehend it.

It was not at all the first time I had had a disaster dream.  I used to dream of tornadoes and war quite often.  But this was different, vivid.  I was shaken as I began the lazy, post-Christmas day, but soon I blamed the dream on my pregnancy hormones (Mowgli) and let it go.  Later, Hercules was watching TV in the living room, and he mentioned something about a tidal wave.  I thought of an old Nintendo surfing game, and pictured one monstrous, white-capped wave.  I was not terribly interested in the news, but I sat next to him on the couch and watched. 

There was water everywhere, and tall white buildings, and dark-skinned people, and chaos.  I did not even know what the word “tsunami” meant.  I did not even know which continent I was looking at.  But it was as if my dream had been recorded, and was playing a continual loop on CNN. 

At first, I didn’t cry.  I was only shocked and terrified by the incredible connection; it was like seeing a unicorn walking down the street.  I gasped and stared in disbelief, my hands over my mouth, my skin pricking with waves of chill.  I tried to talk sense into myself, to find ways that this was all a silly coincidence, but I coudn’t.  Somehow, a part of me had been there.  And that was my body floating in the water, and that was me screaming for my dead child, and that was me homeless and injured and sick and alone.

Whatever it is, scientific or spiritual or mental or coincidental, there is a connection between us all.  Not once since that dream have I doubted that.  Forgotten, maybe, but never doubted.

I’ve tried really hard to remain ignorant about the recent Haiti disaster.  I don’t watch TV or read the newspaper.  I don’t read the news online, and have been purposely avoiding the blogs about Haiti.  I donated my $10, and felt appropriately ineffective.  But then, dammit, I looked at some pictures.  I watched one news story.  I looked at more pictures.  And it is as I had tried to deny: there are mothers and fathers and sons and daughters there, experiencing devastation upon devastation upon devastation.  And I can hardly bear it.  I can’t stop crying.

I can’t reverse it, Mother Nature’s betrayal.  I can’t lift the rubble.  I can’t scoop up a few orphaned babies and just take them home with me.  (Why is that not an option?  Are there not millions of warm, empty beds in this country?)  I can’t even give that dad in the picture—the one who had just discovered his 10-month-old in a sea of dead bodies—a hug.  And it overwhelms me.  What can I do?

Tonight, I felt my sleeping Mowgli’s heart drumming against his chest for a long moment.  I held Dimples during a night terror, then walked him back to bed.  I rubbed Kiki’s back, who was up too late and overtired.  I snuggled with Shortcake when she woke up crying, and smelled the top of her head with each inhale.  I thought about connection.

I am overwhelmed.

friend + baby, film neg scan