The Bean Game

a lesson in dreaming

Oct 05, 2025

Last night I dreamed that I was in my house, only it wasn’t my house, and it was the middle of the night and I felt movement and I went to the window and the woods were moving. It couldn’t be so. The woods only move in weather and creatures. I went to another window to see if it was just the wind, but the woods were still moving. I knew this house as if it was my house. But it wasn’t my real house. But I’d claimed it as my home. Am I dreaming?

And then I realized that the house was moving. I dropped to the floor and crawled to another window and saw the moon and felt the pull of something automotive. Was my house being moved through the woods, away from the woods, by some nefarious force? Was I being taken from the woods? Was the house going to be okay? Were “they” cracking the foundation? How hadn’t I heard them, whoever this “them” was, putting my house on whatever sort of Wide Load flatbed truck? Had I been drugged? Who would want to take my house? Did they know that I am in it? Is it going to be a cruel surprise when they find me in it? I wasn’t worried about myself though. Just the house.

Then I was somehow in the back seat of my truck. Only it wasn’t my truck. There was a strange man in the third row holding something like a shotgun. I didn’t want to make eye contact with him. I was in the second row, on the ground, hiding. It wasn’t clear that he knew I was in the truck. It wasn’t clear who was driving. I realized that I was in my nightgown. I never wear a nightgown. I wished I was at least in a pair of pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved sleeping shirt and had shoes on because I was going to have to run. Somehow. Who were these people who took houses and the women in them, in the night, out of the woods, and seemingly to a city? Because the woods were gone and now the sky was sliced by buildings.

We stopped and the door opened and there was my family of origin. All of them. The dead ones were alive and the old ones were young. All of them were about my age now. Late fifties. They were huddled together outside of what looked like some sort of a residential facility. Any claustrophobe is always one thought away from How can I get out of here?… especially in a situation that might involve being somehow trapped. In this case, facility = restrained. I knew I had to remain calm. If you fight, you lose.

So I got out of the truck, looking for my house to see if it was whole. It was parked behind us on a huge trailer. Whole but disemboweled. I’m sorry, I whispered to it in my mind. Please forgive me. The first two phrases from a meditation I do when I need grounding. An ancient mantra from Hawaii called Hoʻoponopono. The second two phrases are Thank you. I love you. Those were not available to me in that moment. Just apology and penance. Because somehow, this was all my fault.

My father came to me first, in a wrinkly navy blue blazer. We buried him in a navy blue blazer with a heartburn pill in his breast pocket. He always had one handy. He swore that they kept him calm. He was also a claustrophobe. A therapist once said that I got it from him because it was a way to take his burden. He was always eyeing the exit door at church. Always sat on the aisle. Calmed himself by playing with his gold crest ring and shamed himself by saying that grown men shouldn’t be afraid of being trapped in church. World War II—that was another thing. He liked to usher in church. I later figured out that it was because he liked sitting in the back. Near the Exit door. I am the same sort of bird. He was my person.

I went to him and he looked at me with a Get me out of here look and I smoothed out the collar of his blazer and said, “We’re going to get out of here. I’ll get to the bottom of this.” I never knew why he wanted to be buried in a coffin instead of cremated and set free from the body that was so scared of being trapped. Eternally. I can’t bring myself to visit his grave. All I can think about is him in that pine box. We didn’t splurge. We are homesteading stock.

Then my sister and mother and both sets of grandparents were there, even the grandfather who died before I was born. We share the same birthday. And then their parents. The ones I see in sepia-toned pictures. All of them as far back as I know of and before that. A whole parking lot of 59 year olds, all ancestors. They all had the same expression across their faces: concern, false calm, and agenda.

My family is mostly full of people I trust, historically. I implored them: “What is this place? What’s going on?”

My sister spoke first, clearly in charge. Maybe even against their will. Someone was about to be asked to do something that they didn’t want to do and I looked for strong minion-types, standing in waiting, likely with restraining devices. Was it my father? Was it me? Was it them—the dead ones? Was it the old ones? Was it the recent cancer survivor? Was it my reluctant adult children? Because now they were there too. And they really love our house. I’ve worked so hard to keep it, mostly for them. Our ancestral home for generations to come, yanked from the ground and suspended on a flatbed. Where were they taking it? We need it. But it didn’t seem like the house was under attack. Seemed like I was the one under attack.

I looked at my sister—the family of origin member I trust most of all. “Please, whatever this is: do not restrain me. I will have a major cardiac episode. My blood pressure will go through the roof. Please. You know I’m a good person. You know that I’ve done nothing wrong. Just talk to me. What is going on? Tell me. Trust me. I thought this was a family of trust.”

Even she took on this expression of agenda. Her false calm lost itself to concern and my sister said, “You will like it here. You will love it here. It’ll take a bit. But you will. I promise.”

“But I’m fine! Everything was fine! Me. My house in the woods. I’m not leaving my home!”

I looked at all of them, even my kids. “Why would you want me to leave my home?! My brain is strong. My body is strong. Sure, my back has been out all summer and my ankle still hurts from that sprain in April. But I’m fine. I am happy living alone in the woods!” Do not start to panic. That’s when people get restrained.

I looked for the minions. They were certainly in the lurches of this place that looked part airport, part gambling casino, part nursing home, part psychiatric hospital, part prison.

I begged her with my eyes. “It will kill me to live here. It will kill me.”

She didn’t agree but she also didn’t say anything. She just started weeping.

I turned away from all of it, even the house, and walked, freely, to a parting in the bushes where there seemed to be a trail. Ground, not pavement like everything else around me. I felt that free feeling, when you know that maybe it’s your last. Dead man walking. I stepped onto the trail and followed it slowly, not running, savoring the freedom, knowing that it would soon be lost to me. I wasn’t powerful enough to take them all on. They were aligned in something that I knew nothing about but it was clear: I was on the wrong end of the stick.

In my nightgown and barefoot I walked down the trail which went through opposing ecosystems: first an arroyo with cacti. Then ferns and rocks covered in wet moss. Down and down to a village street. I crossed it and now I was in a small city made of brick. Old but not ancient. Brooklyn I saw in faded paint on the side of a building. It was a diner. I went into it. Seemed like someone in a diner would be sympathetic and smart at the same time. At least kinder and more sympathetic than the people who were supposed to love me.

A woman came out from the kitchen then and looked at me like it was normal to serve barefoot women in nightgowns, and said, “Sit anywhere you’d like. Coffee?”

I didn’t have any money on me. “No thanks. Listen, I’m in serious trouble and I need help. I’ve done nothing wrong. It’s some massive misunderstanding. My whole family is trying to put me in some sort of locked-down facility.” My heart started racing. When you try to prove that you’re mentally and physically sound, you’re already…not. “I’m perfectly fine. I live in the woods alone. I’m totally independent in every way. And I’m fine. I love my life. Why are they suddenly trying to ruin it?”

She eyed the door. Maybe she was in on it.

“Excuse me. I need to use the Ladies Room.” I walked, not ran, through the back door. Keep calm. Maybe if you’re slow enough and quiet enough, you’ll just get swallowed up by the city. Stick to the alleys. Go places they wouldn’t think you’d go. Hide in dumpsters if need be. I’d get through this because I was more willing to be everything that none of them would be willing to be. Even my homesteading ancestors. None of them had any idea just how strong I was. How smart. How adaptable. How fierce. I’ve kept that under wraps.

But all I could think of was my uprooted, stolen home in that parking lot. And all of those people who were supposed to love me. What did they know? Maybe they were indeed trying to protect me from something.

And so I returned to the scene.

They were all standing there, now with a woman in a white doctor’s coat, at the front door.

“I will not go into whatever this place is,” I said. “I’m fine and I don’t know what happened that you all are doing whatever this is…but it’s all a massive mistake.” I looked at the doctor. “What can I do to prove to you that I’m fine.”

She eyed me over her glasses and said, “Follow me,” walking toward the sliding automatic doors.

“I’m not going in there. Can’t we just do it in the parking lot?”

“Just into the foyer. I have a game for you to play.”

So I followed her against every claustrophobic sensibility I had. I followed her into the foyer, the feeling of being attacked, restrained, and left here by everyone I love, moving in on me like walls in a nightmare. Is this a nightmare? There wasn’t time to wake myself up out of it. Plus…I am good at games.

She pointed at a table with a piece of paper on it. It was divided into four squares. Each square had two dried beans on it, one larger than the other. “Solve it.”

I looked at the game. The words were blurry. “I don’t have my reading glasses. The only thing that’s wrong with me are my eyes. I just had them checked. I guess I’m developing a cataract in my right eye. But the doctor said that everyone my age has at least the beginning of a cataract. Still, it’s been a hard week. My vision is not what it used to be and I need it. I need it to work. I write and edit for a living. I need to be able to see clearly. And I’ve been getting ocular migraines. I had one today, in fact. The world goes blurry. I need to see my life. My beautiful life.”

I looked at her glasses. “Can I borrow your glasses?”

She shook her head no.

“How am I going to play the game if I can’t see the directions?”

She stared at me over her glasses.

They all chimed in: “In your right eye. That’s interesting. Mine was in my right eye.” “So was mine.” “Mine was in my left.” “Your grandmother’s was in her right eye. When they used to have to cut them out of people’s eyes. Now it’s just a simple procedure.”

I glared at them. “What does that have to do with anything? You took my home out of the ground, with me in it, in the middle of the night, and now you are trying to put me into some sort of…facility? What is going on???”

Stay calm. You do not have power here. Play the bean game.

“Can I please at least borrow a pair of reading glasses?”

No one said or did a thing. They were all fixated on the bean game and watching me play it. It didn’t seem like any of them wanted me to win. And what was winning this game, anyway? If I won, did that confirm what they were accusing me of? Which was…what? If I lost, would that get me back in my house in the woods? It seems like a lose lose because I had no power at all. I just had to win this game and believe that it would set me free.

I was hit then by the smell of rubbing alcohol and stale air. Was I being gassed? Maybe I could run.

But the doctor looked at me over her glasses and pointed at the game.

I put my hands on it and its blurry words and beans.

I started moving the beans around. There was no logical way to solve for anything. There were just the beans, one big one small, in each of the four squares. Was I supposed to put all the small beans together and all the large beans together? That would only take up two squares. Some were brown, some were white, others were red. Maybe I take the big ones and put them into one square. And then the small ones and put them in a square. And then from those two squares, take the white ones and put them in a square. Same with the brown. That would leave the red ones, big and little. So I put all the big ones together. And all the small ones together. And then from each pile I took out the white ones and put them in an empty square. And then did the same with the brown ones. And saw that, indeed, what was left were red beans. I picked them up and gave them to her. “Here.”

I awoke to a hammering on my bedroom window. Was I back in my house? Was it my real house or that other house? Was it a dream? What was real?

I sat up in bed and saw that there was a magpie and a flicker hammering at my bedroom window. Fighting for stink bugs on the window screen and in the gutter below it. Two bossy birds. I was glad that they woke me up. My heart racing. The sheets wet.

There was no way I was going back to sleep. It was only seven on a Saturday morning. I’d wanted to sleep in. But why would I have dreamed that horrible, and so real, dream?

I tried to calm my heart with whispered affirmations:

“I am in my house. I am in the woods. The woods are not moving. The house is firmly in its foundation, firmly on Montana soil. I am alone and safe. No one is trying to make me do anything or play any game or win or lose. No one knows anything about the dream. Most of the people in the dream are dead. The ones who are still alive love me and love my life as it is. Do I? I must have some sort of deep anxiety about being misunderstood and punished for it. I hate that for myself. And it’s true: I have been really upset about my eye diagnosis and the impact of it. But why would I have to bring that into my dream state? Why can’t dreams be peaceful? Why do we have to work out our deepest demons during a time when we’re trying to rest? When we’re trying to be safe from the world and all of its woe. Subconscious: please. Let it rest. Aren’t you tired of all your fear-mongering? Don’t you need a good hard sleep? Why can’t we dream about going to the Chelsea Flower Show like we’ve always wanted instead of doom? Or a white sand beach in the Bahamas full of tiny sand dollars. Or sitting on a park bench watching one pigeon and feeding it breadcrumbs off your sandwich. Your panini sandwich. With prosciutto and fresh mozzarella and fresh figs. Let’s go back to sleep for a few more hours and try that again.”

I admit to having been in the dumps all summer, not just because of my eyes, but because of fear. Fear of all that there is to fear when you’re living independently. You can’t stay young, or maybe even independent, forever. With my 92 year old mother falling twice in one week in the night after her caregiver left her suburban Chicago apartment, lying there alone and helpless all night on her bedroom floor…it had occurred to me, more than once this summer, that there will be an end to this independence. She had said, over and over, “I don’t need a caregiver at night. I’m fine.” Now we’re looking into 24/7 care. Life adds up. Life comes to ends and hopefully beginnings. She won’t be able to live alone in her apartment anymore. Had I taken on her pain? The way the therapist said I’d taken on my father’s claustrophobia?

And now I realize that I, in fact, am wearing a nightgown. All of my pajamas and sleeping shirts were in the wash last night and I put it on reluctantly. I don’t like nightgowns. They twist around me all night, constraining me. Restraining me. But I like to have my shoulders covered when I sleep. My grandmother did too. The one with the cataracts cut out of her eyes. That’s the last time I’ll ever wear a nightgown to bed.

I lie there, my heart still racing, and I stare at the cathedral ceiling, and at a slow fly. It knows that winter is coming and that he’s not long for this earth. I want peace. I am not leaving this bed until I feel peace. I deserve peace. We all do. Even the fly. My mother is likely lying in her bed in Skilled Nursing, staring at something like a fly. I feel so helpless for all of us.

So I do some of the breathing patterns I’ve been taught.

Breathe in 4…hold 7…breathe out 8. Breath in 4…hold…

But I think of the beans. Maybe the red beans proved something to the doctor. What did they tell her? That I’d played the game as a process of elimination? By design: like thing by like thing? That I’d isolated the beans by what they matched? Had I somehow limited them in-so-doing? Discriminated, even? Should I have just put all of the beans into one pile and put them into her hand? “Here.” Not played the game at all? Or maybe…that was the way you won the game? Sort of like Willie Wonka. The one who doesn’t play the game to win…wins.

I wish I had done that, I think now, in my bed.

“It was a dream,” I say aloud.

I think of the house on the flatbed. How I said I’m sorry to it. Please forgive me.

Those are the first two phrases in the ancient Hawaiian meditation Hoʻoponopono. The next two: Thank you. I love you. It was taught to me by a healer who said, “Don’t think about it as you say these phrases. Just feel them.”

I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.

“But who are you saying these things to?” I’d said to her when she taught the mantra to me.

Her eyes are wide windows to the soul and sometimes I can’t look at them for that reason.

“You’ll know. Just feel, don’t think.”

This is the only word meditation that works for me. Every single time.

Sometimes I say it to the side of myself I need to apologize to and ask forgiveness of, and then another side of me comes in with gratitude and love like a conversation. I like the feeling of the inner echo between these two sides of myself.

Sometimes I say this mantra to another person if I feel that I owe them an apology and seek their forgiveness…and then imagine them showing me gratitude and love.

I’ve done it to parts of my body. I’ve done it to parts of my mind. But like my healer friend says, it’s not about the words. It’s a feeling. And it can open up a conversation with not just yourself, “but with all of your ancestors,” she added.

Ancestors. Everyone watching me play the bean game.

So I do Hoʻoponopono in part because my heart is still racing and it almost always puts me into a place of peace and then sleep…but also because maybe my ancestors needed me to. Maybe I need to do Hoʻoponopono for them. I’ve never done it for my ancestors. But they’re the ones that seemed to have dreamed the dream. What were they trying to tell me?

I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.

I say it over and over to my ancestors.

And then to my subconscious which had for, whatever reason, invited them in to terrorize me. But to also play the bean game.

I fell into the dream again.

I was standing at the table in the foyer with the doctor looking over her eyeglasses at me. She wasn’t holding the red beans in her hand. The game hadn’t begun yet.

This time I could see the directions clearly. They said, “Stop playing the bean game.”

So I picked up all of the beans, in all of the squares, and I gave them to her and said, “Here.”

I woke at 10:30. I woke and my heart was calm.

I do not know what that dream meant.

I only know that I’m safe in my house in the woods with a Sunday ahead of me.

I am not going anywhere today. I am only going to sit in each room of my house. All four corners of it. Gather it all up. And put it into the hands of something or someone that loves me. Maybe it’s a gathering of ancestors telling me to start with myself.

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