One night I had a dream I was in church, and there were all these older people there, dressed up: women in skirts and suits, with ruffled shirts peaking through. The old kind of ruffles. Panty hose and sensible shoes with small chunky heels. The shoes often match. The colors were things like red and purple.  Some wore hats. Men in suits and ties.

And then there were these other people there, younger people, dressed in their normal clothes; street clothes. Urban clothes. Perhaps some would say “hipster” clothes. And one more thing. All of them had clothing that had some kind of hole in it, exposing some part of the body that is not normally exposed.

And they were standing around this church, not flaunting who they were. Not actively trying to resist an older generation. And not hiding. They all looked slightly sheepish but with a sort of stance like, “This is who I am. I don’t know how to be anything else.” And the two kinds of people did not talk. It seems to me the older folks in their dated Sunday Best stood in twos or threes, glancing briefly around them—trying not to be obvious, at the individuals who stood there being who they were. Looking down at the bulletin. Trying to act like it wasn’t weird that they were there.

And I stood right in the middle, between the two groups of people, trying to explain to the one about the other. Trying to explain both.

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