What does it all mean?

Last night I dreamed I was on the set of a reality TV show.

I found myself in our overfilled living room swollen to the bursting point with production staff and hangers on, when my oldest daughter (who was the star of this show) decided it was time—on national television—to inform me that she was critically worried about the length of my stick-straight arm hair.

The entire room gasped. “It’s just so long,” she continued. “I’m really worried about you, Trace.”

I was mortified. The room exploded in silence and sharp, caustic glares at my daughter’s indiscretion. Murmurs rose. “How could she humiliate her stepmom like that? It was so cruel!” My daughter was not immune to their criticism. Aware of her massive social gaff, she tried to gloss over the incident by apologizing for her ill-timed confession. But the damage was done: Something needed to be done about the ungodly length of the hair on my forearms; and now everybody knew it.

The dream slid away upon waking, and came back full force as I rode my bike into work. I called my daughter and snorted with laughter on her voicemail as I recounted the story: Everyone’s intense seriousness, the overwhelming concern, and the horror of all those who witnessed my mortification over being publicly called out over my arm hair. It was so ridiculous!

Later, and as I often do after such dreams, I tried to put together the meaning of it all. Arm hair? Honestly, where the heck did THAT come from? I even looked at my forearms to verify that I didn’t have any previously undiscovered monkey tufts flurrying about my elbows. I didn’t notice any—but maybe that was the point. Maybe the dream portended that others were worried about me in some other way? Hmm. I let it pass.

I moved on through my morning, enjoying the ride to work, the sunshine and the breeze running through my arm hair as I pedaled along. I love riding my bike; it can be incredibly meditational. My mind ponders and sorts through the various and sundry elements of my day to come. Concerns arise: meetings; am I prepared? Tasks—did I complete them all? Is there anything left out there? And the kids—what do they have going on that I need to address? Laundry. Dinner. Cleaning.

Sometimes I latch onto small things; other times larger ones, and if I allow it, I can become overwhelmed. Larger situations—like qualifying for a mortgage; and taxes; and dreams I’ve begun cultivating but haven’t recently tended to—preoccupy me. It doesn’t take much to cause me to obsess.

A beautiful morning begins to erode under the weight of negativity. And then frustration. Honestly, why do I allow these thoughts stress me out?

And that’s when it hits me: Arm hair.

This makes me smile.

In the big picture of life, how many things merit the amount of grave attention we give them—the stress, the churning thoughts that grow larger and somehow more “real” the more we feed them our attention—and how many things are truly non events; big ado’s over nothing? Simply put, what is real, and what is just arm hair?

I take a deep breath and appreciate the real things of the moment: the scent of the Star Jasmine along the way, and the feel of the morning sun on my face.

And I keep pedaling.