|My childhood home|
Where do we go when we dream? To places inside our heads? To places of the heart? Are our brains trying to make sense of our daytime lives or just processing the excess information? Are we working out unsolved problems, perhaps putting them in a new light? Do dreams come true?
I dream in color. Always. Sometimes I'm a participant, sometimes an observer and other times I watch myself, all the time conscious of the fact that I'm also doing what I'm watching. Most often my dreams take place in familiar locales. I have repetitive dreams; one reoccurring dream finds me in a familiar house, going from room to room explaining to the people following me what each former inhabitant used the rooms for. I have falling dreams and dreams of being chased. I've had numerous dreams about being in a car that has no brakes.
I've had prophetic dreams, dreams of destruction, of the end of the world, of trying to save my children. Such dreams came before my then husband and I moved to Vermont with our four children. The real estate agent drove us to a town that I recognized from those dreams. It should have been a warning. My husband and I divorced in that town. My children had to choose a parent to live with. The world we'd all known ended there.
Ah, but last night's dream was of a different sort. A lifelong friend who died of cancer years ago came to see me. He was whole and happy and he had a life he was pleased with. He showed me his new house and it was the house I'd grown up in, the loss of which I still mourn. And I was delighted to realize that if he now lived in it, I could go there too. I could still see him, talk with him. And I'd be home. I woke smiling and the happiness has remained with me all day.