As my first post, I thought I’d briefly set up for you the intention and structure of this blog. To get a sense of who I am and what this blog is about, it might help you to read the “about me and my dreams” page.
In this blog, I will post a dream I’ve had in the past, recently or not, in no particular chronological order, but rather in a more artist order, which basically means whichever I feel drawn to posting any given day.
After reading my dream, I invite you to comment on it in whatever way you wish. You could write about your reaction to it, what it evokes in you, your own analysis of my dream or share a dream you’ve had that you’re reminded of. Dreams love other dreams. You could comment on the imagery or give a poetic interpretation, discuss the philosophic or psychological implications of the dream or just simply say whether you enjoyed it or not. I’ll leave that up to you. And please be fearless in your comments. Nothing you say about my dreams can upset me.
I’ve haven’t decided yet, but I might post my own analysis of and the story behind my dreams after others have commented, so as not to influence others’ interpretations. Or I might just let the dreams stand on their own. The purpose of posting my dreams is not to seek answers from others as to what my dreams mean. I know what they mean. I know my dreams intimately. Instead, what I am hoping to do is inspire others to appreciate the beauty and power of dreams and view them as works of art, as I do.
Now, let’s begin with one of my favorite dreams that I had last year:
March 2008 (exact date unknown)
John Locke/Painted Veil Dream
Everything is bathed in muted earth tones. I am gazing down at a grave. My husband, my great love, has been laid in it. He is wrapped in tattered cloth, like bandages. He has died of cholera. (This scene echoes that in the The Painted Veil, which I had just watched that evening. The body in the grave resembles actor Edward Norton from the movie.) It is left to me to bury my love. As I am pouring dirt on his body, one shovelful at a time, a part of me realizes that he is not dead. His body keeps twitching slightly. Suddenly I am of two minds, split. The part of me that realizes he is alive is growing alarmed because the other part is completely detached, robotic and continues shoveling dirt and burying him. This part of me will not stop and resists my pleading and efforts to cease the shoveling. It claims the death is necessary and must happen. It understands that the man is not dead and that continuing to bury him will kill him. I am desperate now, horrified. I cannot let him die. If he does, so will I. He must not die. But my body continues shoveling. At last, when I am certain the opportunity to save him has come and gone and all is in despair, my body freezes. As I stand there in the silence of the grave, the body begins to rise. We are now above the grave, standing on the earth, lifted out by his energy. He is John Locke from Lost. Zombie-like, he stands with his back to me and extends his left arm toward the barren landscape in the distance. I cannot tell if he is pointing or reaching, but I do know that he is directing my attention to this land. Over his shoulder, I see it is littered with the debris of collapsed human structures due to many great battles. The fog hovering low radiates the peaceful stillness and hushed silence of death. This place is important. It is where I will find what I seek. It is my future. I must pay attention.
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