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[excerpts and art from
The Donkey’s Dream, Barbara Helen Berger]
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Once there was a gray donkey. He was
walking along as usual, with a load on
his back. A man was leading him. And
as they walked on and on through the
starry night, the donkey began to dream.
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He dreamed he was carrying a city,
with gates and towers and temple domes.
He dreamed a child cried in the city.
And doves flew all around.
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He dreamed he was carrying a ship.
I rocked like a cradle. It shone like the moon.
And the sea danced all around.
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He dreamed he was carrying a fountain.
Its waters splashed and sang like a child’s laughter.
And a garden sprang from the desert sand all around.
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He dreamed he was carrying a rose, soft as a
mother’s touch and sweet as the sleep of a baby.
Angels stood all around.
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Then he dreamed he was carrying a lady full of heaven.
They had come to a town. But only the village dogs
ran to greet them.
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The donkey’s lot in life is to carry. He is bred to carry. All his days are carrying, and if he remarks upon a particular burden or complains, well, for the donkey tomorrow will still be carrying.
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As for us all. So much we carry. So many things, and heavy. My dreams, as the donkey’s, are mostly of things I have carried or will carry or am still carrying. Burdensome. Worrisome. Or have I misinterpreted my dreams? Beside our bed, Linda keeps a little handbook of Jungian dream symbology. But can dreams be constrained to pages and print?
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The world is heavy upon the donkey’s back. He is tired, he labors beneath the weight, and yet his dreams are of light and beauty entering the world. For the donkey, as for us, the longest night seems always to stretch before. And yet a star lights his trough. He sees his burden with new eyes and his weariness is no more.
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In this dark and heavy world, is it still possible to dream of light?
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And, dreaming of light, is it possible we will wake?
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But the donkey was left alone outside.
He had walked so long, his back was
aching and his legs were sore. One star
high above him shone in the watering
trough below. The tired donkey drank.
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Just then a cry rang out in the cave.
And its echo rang like a bell,
over the hills, all around. The night
was so still, even the stars heard it.
The man came out of the cave.
He whispered to the donkey, “Come.”
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Together they went inside the cave, where they lady lay
on a bed of hay. The donkey’s saddle was her pillow.
She smiled. “Come,” she said to the donkey.
“See what we have carried all this way, you and I.”
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And suddenly, the donkey was not
tired anymore, though he had carried
a city, a ship, a fountain, a rose,
and all the heavens on his back.
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The Donkey’s Dream, written and illustrated by Barbara Helen Berger; Philomel Books, New York NY; © 1885 by Barbara Helen Berger
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. . .Merry Christmas, Maya! (Michael & Diane, too.)
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