I love dreams. Not because they contain messages from former lives, or predictions or omens of what might happen in the future. Rather, they are the vehicle through which my subconscious talks to me about myself right here and now. Reminding me of deep emotional memories stored away long ago, answering questions to problems I have been struggling with, or confronting fears in manageable, sometimes humorous ways. Dreams are like thrillers or detective stories challenging my brain as I unravel the symbols and clues provided to discover meanings for the stories I tell myself about me.
I remember last year going with Judy and Alan to Strindberg's A Dream Play, and adoring the fast, flowing absurdities that portrayed the very essence, the stuff of magical mysteries that make our dreams so fascinating, exciting, intriguing, terrifying, alarming, humorous, and vital for self-understanding.
Ah, last year seems like a long dream away.
This morning, very early, I awoke out of a vivid dream, remembering very few details. Something about a basket of cats and boiling heat. Stretching and yawning my way to the coffee machine I look out the large living room window. Mist is rising over the huge old trees after another stormy, wet night. There is a wild bird call that I cannot recognize as I stumble onto the enclosed sun porch. A couple of cats rubbing against my legs sleepily and I sigh. The air pushes out from somewhere deep in my body, relief released from my brain, and my eyes widen to the new morning light.
"Be careful what you wish for," escapes from my lips in a whisper and I almost turn around looking for who said that.
Wishes and dreams. There was a period of life about seventeen years long, when I was working and studying ten or twelve hour days, and wishing that I could have time alone to think, reflect, read and write. I yearned for such a luxury, which, in those days not long ago, seemed like a very basic necessity for mental and physical health.
This morning, after my basket of cats-boiling dream, on the misty porch through my deep, relief sigh, I became aware that my dream has been realized. For I have buckets of time. Hours and hours to spend alone reflecting, reading and writing. In fact, I have had it for over a year. Time for learning and knowing myself. No wonder I have been reluctant to reach out and make new friends. Each moment away from my home, the woods of the Wissahickon, or Molly and Ada has been excruciating. Indeed, it has been confusing for me as I am usually so gregarious and outgoing. The reality is that this is the first time in my life that I have time, space, and peace for me.
All the moments of sorrow and fear at leaving Buffalo, learning to be alone, missing and yearning the company and busy-ness of my work-a-holic life, have, in fact, been screening the very realization of a long-awaited dream.
Reality is here and now.
Excitedly, I realize it is not too late to embrace my dream with joy, and protect it with gratitude. In fact, I can't wait to continue ... as my choice ... consciously, aware, intentionally ...