Of dreamers and dreams

Four a.m. Someone, something throws water on my face trying to wrestle me back into consciousness. It stings but I do not fully awaken, only enough to be aware of what is playing out. My body lies still, paralyzed in either fear or anticipation of what is to come. I watch in horror as my babies slip through my fingers into a rushing river, the love of my life disappears inside a savage tornado, a gun is pointed to my head and the trigger pulled over and over and over sending shock waves through each molecule in my being. The only thing I can register as reality is the sweat these scenes generate, soaking my bed sheets until I shiver under the weight of its dampness.

What is a dream? Why do we have them? I’ve heard they are our subconscious seeking ways to sort out our underlying fears and frustrations. The players in the dream simply represent part of ourselves that we are unable to come to terms with during waking hours. Reliving past hurts or joys under rapid eye movements. I have a cursory awareness of what Freud and Jung thought regarding them but after reading a few paragraphs, my head starts to spin. Some cultures believe dreams represent symbols to tell the future or our struggles in an altered plane of existence. Recent theorists now lean more toward their meaninglessness than anything else – random visions created by random stimuli before dozing off.

Mostly, they frustrate the fuck out of me.

The room is shadowed in late evening sun. There is a piano and smell of lilacs. We are dancing. Holding one another in a tender embrace that is of pure light. He sings a song gently in my ear, words I know I will recognize upon awakening when they are played on the radio. We laugh and touch as two old souls who chose to walk an ethereal plane while others merely close their doors. It is not sexual, it is a deep knowing closeness that we share. The light gets brighter. It always does. And the music turns into an electronic beeping ripping us away with barely the time to whisper goodbye until we can find each other again.

I want some of my dreams to have significance and true meaning for my awakened soul. Others, I want to forget and give into their nothingness. Can I have it both ways? Of course, I can do anything I want. The battle lies somewhere in between as my inner hall monitor waves her red flag, screaming “You have to chose! You have to chose!”

The history of me has been riddled with nightmares – true, baffling, body-thrashing, involuntary shrieking and a forceful cleaving into rapid consciousness. Images of dead relatives rising from their coffins as I try to bash their skulls back down with a sledgehammer. Desperate chases as someone has taken my child from me and I cannot rescue them before they are lost over a bridge into a flood. The worst are the dreams where I am dreaming of being in bed asleep only to be awakened in the dream by one of these horrors. Distinguishing the line between dream and reality becomes much too difficult for my brain to determine until it is too late and I am writhing in mental anguish, praying for the end to come quickly or the sun to wake me.

There are great dreams, too, where I fly through the skies and know I was meant to. I dream of reading my inauguration poem for the nation on a beautiful, crisp day in Washington DC. Riding whales and horses, holding very old hands with my husband and traveling to distant lands I might not ever get to see when I am awake. I have dreams with my familiar on journeys fantastical or snuggling comfort where the gentle purring echoes long passed awakening. Or the miracle life growing inside of an empty space where my uterus used to be.

The long studied, over analyzed and clearly undefinable classic human conflicts – accepting the desired good with the perceived bad, embracing the dark while living in the light, giving to receive, receiving to give, taking a risk in order to be safe, coke versus pepsi, if it’s okay to go, then it’s okay to stay, less filling or great taste, honoring the flag through civil disobedience, opposites attracting, “to be or not to be” and an entire universe fitting within the nucleus of a single atom.

All of these are in us as humanity – in me as part of that larger family.

Is this what I dream of?

Or am I dreaming right now?

I am driving down a dirt road and see him walking in a crowd of people. He is sobbing and lost. I pull over to talk to him and he tells me a story I cannot bear to hear. Or repeat. I fly into a rage and try to determine if I am awake or asleep. He turns into cake as I rip him apart yelling no, no, no. I lash out at the world trying to make sense of it all. My body rolls over and I see the clock. Four a.m.

Sailing lessons

I got an email recently about sailing without blame.

I imagine the sailing crew working together, hoisting the mainsail, securing the jib to the leading edge, tacking efficiently to follow the course of the wind and all smiling as the warm moist sea glistens on their working bodies. Everyone is fit and tan from the energetic sun and the boat glides smoothly over a calm sea.

I’m going to need some lessons. Or a new manual to follow. I have no idea what I just said.

What I end up doing is nothing like my imaginations. It resembles more of a cobbled together soap box, filled with leaded glass and gun powder on a metal frame that generates sparks while I drag it along the asphalt looking for an ocean to launch it in. I have long since kicked out any crew willing to assist me out of fear of losing them first to a better boat. I desperately thought I had abandoned this slip a long time ago and cannot figure out how to unlock it from my hitch.

Then, I seem to stall out…like now…

Lava tables and jumbled sleep

My soul slid through the narrow breach like molten lava whilst my trunk got stuck on its junk. I pulled and pried until my soul hardened, sealing the crevice only to break up into jagged rubble once cooled. Only my heart remained warm. It grew and grew until it took flight and left the trunk covered in ashes to rot on the ground.

My soul soars higher without a weighty pen. As a proclaimed artist, so many times I focus on what the pen is doing that I forget what the pen can see.

Look here…

The table is enormous and yet extremely crowded with a boisterous, extended family of lives. There is a woman desperately looking for a place to fit. To sit down. No one moves to let her in. Nor should they. They all belong equally. She sees a space on the corner with a wobbly chair and broken plate. Enough space, enough. She sits, she fills her plate. Her body straightens, her smile broadens, her shoulders even out.

Just trying to sit down…

I am up in the middle of the night scribbling dream induced words on the back of an old prescription paper. I believe myself to be desperate to find my place to sit down, hungry for my chance to eat at a table filled with food that won’t harm me. I fight with words on a page, slam the delete key too many times, contort simple phrases into jumbled consonants and question every inspiration, doubt each opportunity, long for any free moment.

Images of strength are vivid in my sleep, they fade closer to awakening.

I fight to stay there, awaken I always do.