Among a number of dreams I had last night, I recall only this episode.
A baby died and was buried. Apparently others who knew the baby, people I knew, heard about the death and wanted to make a big deal out of it. They found out where the baby was buried and began digging it up.
It seemed that I was there because those digging were related to me. But it wasn't clear to me who these people were, or how we were related.
The grave was dug up, and the little wooden coffin exposed. The women were all being dramatic about how small the coffin was, and how sad it was for such a young child to die.
Meanwhile, I stood in the background, not really participating. I couldn't feel any sadness. I could see no point in digging up the grave.
I felt no need to work at dredging up feelings about it. I couldn't appreciate the drama of it. It was what is was, and I knew that no one had died. I knew that everything was O.K.