Another Language

Have you ever had a dream in another language? I had a dream in Ukrainian the other night. I was in the church, the incense smell strong, the language filling my ears, my voice echoing all the proper responses. And then I was chasing someone down the steps of the church, desperate to catch him, shouting in a language that I don't speak. It was one of the most complicated dreams I've ever had. Have you ever heard of anything like this before?

Nightmare

I had the most horrific dream last night.

I was back in high school. Only the high school was beyond giant...sort of Mall of America giant. I had gym fourth period and found out that the locker rooms were co-ed. To top it off, I wasn't even in high school with high school kids. It was a bunch of adults like myself, who for some reason, didn't take gym during senior year. For me, there was a medical exempt from my doctor because of a knee injury. I don't know everyone else's stories, but we had to go back and repeat our senior year because we missed gym.

So bizarre.

One of the "seniors" was none other than actor Taye Diggs. He was in the shower across from me in the locker room and was smart enough to shower with his clothes on--he didn't want anyone to see him naked. He was kind of uncomfortable, though, because we had 5th period lunch together and he had to sit in a puddle of water. When I asked him about it, he said that he hadn't brought a change of clothes, so he would just tell people that he peed on himself.

So. Weird.

Dream Fairies in Overdrive

Lately, I've had more dreams than I can keep track of. Months pass without a single scene, and then-- BOOM! Non-stop visions every night. The worst was about a month ago when I dreamt in black-and-white for the first time in my life. Even while unconscious, I knew that a carnival setting without color was trouble and I forced myself awake.

But last night I had a dream about rocking chairs. I wanted to buy one, so I was looking online and visiting furniture stores. It was very real and consuming, this rocking chair need.

What is going on?! Rocking chairs?

Have the dream fairies been busy at your bedside too? Or am I alone in this dream burst?

The Devil and Dane Cook

I typically don't get much sleep--a few broken hours here and there, but that's about it. Well, all that has changed in the past few nights.

Thursday night, I didn't sleep long, but I slept hard and had weird dreams about tornadoes, floods and rental cars. I'm pretty sure it had something to do with feeling like my life is spinning out of control, I feel like I'm drowning and I just want drive away from it all.

Friday night was so-so.

Saturday night, I slept for eight and a half hours. I don't think I got eight and a half hours of sleep total/combined the entire week before that. Growing up, I always had very vivid, live, in-your-face, technicolor dreams. In the past few years, that's really tapered off, especially since I don't get much in the way of REM sleep. But back to my story.

So, I slept amazingly well Saturday night and had one of those dreams that seemed to last from the time I went to sleep until the time I woke up. In my dream, I was in an episode of Ghost Whisperer. Except it turns out, it wasn't an episode, it was all actually happening. I was with Jennifer Love Hewitt and a bunch of other people in this big warehouse-type building that had been converted to lofts and small apartments. And the whole building was possessed by the devil.

Crazy, right?

So, we're in this devil-possessed building and all the doors open to brick walls, the windows are covered with some stuff that makes the glass unbreakable, and there are these weird, zombie-like people wandering in the hallways. JLH and I knew the building was possessed and we both really wanted to get out, so we were trying to kick the glass out of the windows.

Out of nowhere, this giant demon head started rising up out of the floor--it was sort of a weird cross between that freaky scene in Beetlejuice (when Beetlejuice turns into a snake or whatever in the hallway) and the part in Aladdin when the lion, cat or whatever it is comes up out of the sand to lead people into the Cave of Wonders. So, there's this big, giant demon head and JLH and I are screaming. The head had a big, scary mouth with needle-like teeth, and it opened up and started talking. The voice was deep and gravelly, with Exorcist-type undertones. And the voice said..."I need yum-yums. You are my snacks." (If you don't understand this reference, please go to youtube.com and type in Dane Cook Christ Chex.)

I woke up after that. I don't think there's a dream dictionary in the world that could explain this.

Musing on My Lunch Break

Here's a quick, funny post that I'm doing on my lunch break.

On the recommendation of Crazy Sister #3, I purchased a Pilates DVD featuring the stellar instruction of Ana Caban. I feel really good today, though my abs are a bit sore. But that's not the point. Definitely not the funny point.

I did the whole session right before bed last night, which actually worked out really well. I think all the deep-breathing induced a deep peace and relaxation and I fell asleep right away and slept HARD. The crazy thing is that I had the most bizarre dreams! Now, crazy dreams are nothing new to me, but these were exceptionally strange. To enhance the humor of this, I have to share that when I was visiting #3 in D.C. back in April, I had a dream that I was having an affair with the detective from Law and Order: Criminal Intent. I don't know his name on the show (Danny??), but it's the guy who played Thor/Mr. Dawson in Adventures in Babysitting. In the dream, we didn't actually do anything. It was just one of those situations where I knew I was having an affair. Weird, right?

Okay, so last night I dreamt that I was having an affair with another detective, only this time it was from Law and Order: SVU. It wasn't one of the cute detectives...I can't remember his name on the show (Munch? Muench? Something like that.), but it's the older guy with the gray hair and glasses. He tends to be pretty sarcastic and mouthy on the show. Not my favorite character, but whatever. My mind was working overtime, I guess, and I would also guess it's fixated on Law and Order because those are pretty much the only shows I watch. It was the same as the dream I had about the other detective, but this time, I kept kissing him. I was aware that I was dreaming and kept asking myself, "Why aren't you waking yourself up? You shouldn't be kissing this man!" FYI: He did kiss good for an old guy. I know, I know. Eeeeew. TMI.

Anyhow, I woke up from the dream, very puzzled and feeling naughty (and a little dirty, too), but I ended up going back to sleep. Now here's the REALLY crazy part. I had another dream--but I didn't realize I was dreaming at the time--that I actually met the gray-haired detective in real life and he came up to me and said, "Hey, I had a dream about you last and we were kissing!" And I said, "Yeah, I know. I was there." And he kissed me again!

Bizarre beyond any words, right? I woke up this morning and was just laying in bed, trying to figure out what's going on in this little brain of mine. Now, I've always had a thing for a man in uniform, but ironically enough, these guys don't wear uniforms.

Being the therapist and sometimes-dream-analyst that I am, I think these two detectives are possibly representing parts of myself, or at the very least, representing parts of myself that I'd rather ignore. Like Mr. Sarcastic giving me a wild kiss--like trying to stop the sarcasm that usually flows freely my mouth??

Any thoughts?

My Brain is Leaking!

Help me.

I had such intense, vivid dreams last night that for a few minutes after I woke up, I had to struggle to figure out whether they were dreams at all. Now that I know they were dreams, I keep trying to analyze them and understand what they mean. I enjoy doing a little dream interpretation every now and then, but this is sort of beyond my realm of experience.

Here's what I know. If those dreams had been real, this would be my life...

My husband would have shacked up with his mistress and her sister, fathered a child for each of them, then would have moved to Israel to work as a gas station attendant washing windshields and headlights, and sue me for child support, even though I'm raising our child.

Yeah. It doesn't stop there.

I would still be living in my house with Stephen King as a boarder in my basement with his dog, two cats, a flock of parakeets and a stuffed monkey.

The upside to all of this? I was a millionaire.

If anyone has any idea as to what this means, I'm open to hearing your opinions. And trust me when I say you don't want me to describe the other crazy dreams I had.

Snowscape

I'm watching the big fat snowflakes rush past the windows. Even though there is a foot of snow on the ground already, I don't mind the additional flurries. I only wish there was more of it. Much more. I'm longing for a blizzard despite the inconvience it would be for the rest of the city. February is a wretched month, so dark and gloomy still. I'd like nothing better than to wake up and find everything cloaked in dazzling white. Despite my love of summer and the beach and a star-filled sky, I do believe that a snowscape is one of the most beautiful things to behold. Perhaps one day I'll get a chance to paint a picture of the trees outside my back window with their branches laden with perfect snow...

Cloudscape

Someday...

I want to paint a nighttime cloudscape.

Dreamscape

Sister #1, you may not want to read this. I'm afraid it will creep you out...

There is a forest that I visit several times each year. It’s more than a forest. It’s an entirely different world. A strange, sleepy nether-world…transforming…haunting…

It’s not of this Earth, not of this universe, but strangely part of both…and part of me, as well.

When I think of years past, stretching far back and probing the deepest recesses of my memory, I find that I cannot recall a time when I didn’t visit this place. It’s always the same in appearance, the temperature is always the same, the anticipation always as tingling as it was the very first time I realized I was still asleep, but still magically able to step into the twisting vines.

It’s as familiar to me as the reflection the mirror bounces back to me each morning. The paths, trees, shrubs, the racing river and thick, twisted roots of fallen trees are always in the same spots. The slightly rickety, wooden bridge that yawns across a gaping ravine appears to be so flimsy, yet each time, it holds my weight, never swaying or groaning, the ropes never snapping.

The animals are always there—countless bears, wolves, rabbits and deer…the same chirping of the unseen birds high overhead, masquerading in dense foliage…the same humming of the exotic insects that move too quickly to be seen…the occasional snake slithering across my path.

And yet, the place is different each time. There’s the tree root that shoots high up out of the river—it’s always the same size, always in the same place, but sometimes it’s green, sometimes gray or brown, sometimes rotting and pulsating (odd, like a skin infection, hot fluid straining to break through the surface) with something that’s not quite lifelike. There’s the “Tree of Life”, as I call it, which separates the living half of the forest from the dead half of the forest. That tree sometimes leans in one direction or another, pointing me down the path I’m supposed to follow. I’ve never defied the Tree, though there have been many times when I prayed to wake up so I wouldn’t have to follow where it was leading me. And then there are the curious stones that rise like pillars across the small tributaries of the river. They’re always just large enough for me to step on, but sometimes, they stop just short of the bank I need to be on and I have to make a flying leap toward the soggy earth, knowing that I cannot touch the water. To touch the water would mean death.

Every time, I feel as if I should be afraid. But I’m not. Not ever. I don’t feel fear. I feel a strange ache, a hollow sensation, yearning, longing for something. Something. Or someone. But what? Who? I’m always searching. It’s a mindless search, one that will take as much time as is necessary, to infinity perhaps. There never has been any sense of urgency.

Until now.

Time (is it time? is it something else?) is catching up with me. Something dark and ominous is behind me, its putrid breath on the back of my neck, a silent laugh reverberating in my head, shaking the air of this netherworld with mirthful vibrations.

And this time there was a dog. A large dog, a white, gray and brown spotted body, dark brown ears, cropped tail. He (how do I know it was a he?) was barking, racing back and forth, desperately jumping and howling as he watched me walking across the bridge. And there were people, too. There have never been people in this place before. People waiting for me when I enter the forest or re-emerge later, yes, but never people in the forest. There are many now. Watching me with knowing eyes, waving me forward, shouting words that I cannot hear. The dog continues to bark.

And that’s when I hear it. A small cry, barely a whimper echoing from somewhere in this non-real place. Is it an injured animal? It can’t be. The sound has a human quality to it. Is it my child? Is it someone else’s child? I’m running now, needing to know, hurrying along to find the place where the crying comes from (who would leave a child alone in this strange wilderness?) before darkness falls and I no longer have enough light…before I wake up and the child is lost until the next time my dream takes me to this place.

I look to the Tree. It’s pointing to the North. The cry (I’m coming, little one, whoever you are, wherever you are, I’m on my way.) is coming from the Southwest. Which direction do I choose? The cries are quieter now and I strain to hear (keep crying, little one, keep crying and help me find you) knowing that I can’t be far now…just up ahead, a little bit farther. It’s getting darker. And darker.

And then lighter. Sunshine is pouring through my bedroom window. I’m awake. For the first time, the forest has left me feeling unsettled. I try in vain to go back to sleep, hoping to pick up where I left off, to find the child, to bring it home. It’s useless.

All I can do now is wait. And wait.

Secret Wishes

I know you have some.

I have some. These are the secret wishes that are never talked about, not the grand, nor abstract, platitudinous remarks for "world peace" and the like one overhears uttered by strangers while waiting in line with the children to visit Santa. These wishes are the big ones, not the realistic ones, like gloves, or jewelry, or books, or slippers that end up on the list given to friends and family. These are concrete, not the overwhelming hopes parents have for their children's health and happiness, and future ability to pick up after themselves--which I do have, along with the hopes for goodness to always conquer badness, but that is not what this is about.

Here's my secret wish list:

• a piano (I miss having music at my fingertips)
• an extra 150 sq feet of living space and a powder room, without having to move
• the wood floor in the kitchen refinished, but kept the same color
• a part-time scullery maid
• gorgeous, sexy, and therefore expensive, shoes to wear to the playground (or anywhere)
• a six month supply of daily ham and Swiss cheese sandwiches

Any secret wishes you want to share?

Dreams and Wishes

I was watching Cinderella with my little girl over this past weekend—after a brief tantrum in the kitchen because she said she wanted a snack and when she said “Relly,” I thought she meant celery. Ooops. Turns out she wanted to eat yogurt and watch Cinderella.

Anyway, you know how right at the beginning, there’s that whole little dance and song about how “A dream is a wish your heart makes/When you’re fast asleep.” Do you think that’s true? Sometimes I wonder. See, I have some crazy dreams that in no way would I want to come true. But others…others make me long for a different kind of reality.

Ice skating. I think my heart is telling me I should have been an ice skater. Several times every month, I have vivid dreams about ice skating. Sometimes it’s a very involved dream, with different people and places and events, but it always ends the same. I’m gliding over the ice, graceful, swan-like, elegant, impervious to everything around me. And then I start to spin, slowly at first, my arms up over my head, my skates barely touching the ice, then faster, faster until everything around me is a blur and momentum gradually pulls my arms down and I’m lost in a sea of white silence. Then, the music I’m skating to suddenly stops and I throw my arms out and take a bow to an audience that’s not there.

Odd. And yet, if I look deeper into it, maybe my heart isn’t telling me that I should have been an ice skater. Maybe the wish my heart is making while I’m fast asleep is that I wish my life wasn’t spinning in a million different directions. I don’t know.

What I do know is that I look forward to that dream because I always wake up feeling a little happier than I did when I went to bed. And that’s a good thing.

Now I need to think about the dreams I have of becoming a Rockette…

Worse Than A Dream

Is Knowing That You Are Awake

The voice woke me up. How do I know I was awake? I thought it was the alarm (set to turn on the radio), so I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. It was not the alarm. I looked hard at the time, imprinted the numbers in my mind--two more hours of sleep to be had was what I calculated in that split second--then I closed my eyes. And the voice asked me the same question again.

Fear is not cold.

The seconds it took to scream seemed like an hour. Who knew it would take so long? Just to scream?

So, of course, now it knows the answer to the question.

Now what am I going to do?

Lucky Sweven

I went to bed that night, feeling restless, anxious, worried about everything going on, concerned about whether I would be able to continue at the pace I've been going, afraid I was going to finally crack under the pressure of my life. Not even crack, but experience a seismic shift.

Sleep was a long time coming, as I stared into the darkness, trying to quiet my thoughts and force my mind to be still. Sleep, when it did finally come, was fitful. I stirred just before dawn, reveling in the hazy feeling of being both awake and asleep at the same time. I left my bed and walked downstairs, gazing out the front door, admiring how night and day collide in the sky, creating a misty, pre-dawn, pale sunshine.

A shrill ring cut through the stillness. Who in the world would be calling at this early hour?

I picked up the phone, my heart racing, knowing that it had to be something bad. Bad news to start the day.

"Hello?"

"Hi," I heard in return.

It was a strange, yet soothing voice. But there was something...something that was eerily familiar, yet not familiar. But it tugged at the recesses of my memory, gently prodding me to remember.

"I'm here," the deep voice whispered, barely audible over the rhythmic, electronic static that hummed through the poor connection.

"Where?" I asked.

"Behind you," he replied. And I felt the strong presence of someone. Of something.

I waited to be frightened, waited for my skin to break into goosebumps, waited to feel dizzy with terror, waited to give way to the scream that should have been building in the back of my throat.

None of that happened.

Instead, I carefully hung up the phone, cradling it in the receiver. Then, I allowed myself to relax, free-falling backward into two powerful arms that swept me up and held me.

"It's okay," he whispered, his breath warm against my ear and neck. "I love you. You're not alone. I'm here, and it's okay. You're going to be okay."

I felt tears welling up in my eyes. Tears of relief. And I felt at peace.

He held me tight, pressing my head to his chest for a moment. As he carried me upstairs, I rested my head against his shoulder, looking back, aware that his feet left deep imprints in the plush carpet. He laid me down in bed, and continued to hold me, stroking my hair. I drifted back to sleep, unconcerned with the fact that I never saw his face.

When I awoke again, this time to bright sunshine pouring through the window, I had only one thought...When you looked back and saw only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.

A Word and A Story

Because I know you like a good story*

sweven (n.): dream; vision


There was a girl, born into a modest family some years ago, who was the oldest of four daughters in that family. One favorite pastime, as the children grew older, was the sharing of the previous night's dreams. The retellings were often fantastical, as many dreams themselves tend to be, and energetic. The father sometimes joined in, recounting his most ferocious struggles--the ones that left him tired once he awoke. A popular theme for everyone, except the eldest child, was one of flying. She had never experienced such exhilaration in her slumbers. She seldom shared anything of her dreams. In fact, she often went months with her mind a blank slate as she slept. And that was fine with her. Because, unlike the other family members, when a sweven came, it was not fancy. Held within each of her visions was a message, a truth. Often it was a presentiment, as sometimes happened during her waking hours. The sensation would wash over her with such knowing that she was often frightened, whether she was asleep or not. Knowing what was to come was often difficult to bear. No, not often. Always.

But sometimes there were dreams that were memories of the past--memories back beyond this lifetime, which were not so frightening, because they were over. She always woke knowing the difference. She was sad, too, because her own daughter now had this...whatever it may be called... this recalling of the past. The daughter of the daughter, when barely old enough to speak, told her mother of a dream...

But that's a different story. It's that child's story to tell when she gets older. If she even remembers it at all.

One of the most disturbing dreams of all though was the one that was about what was yet to happen concerning this woman's past. The event itself had not yet occurred, but it would be about her life before. The life before this life. Or possibly the life before that one. Even she was unsure of exactly which time before since she had been through many.

She was walking through a gallery, somewhat like a museum, but more of a place where things might be purchased. But the impression of the gallery was important. It seared into her mind. She was with a special soul, a friend or sister perhaps, but that was less important. Whom she was with was not imprinted upon her memory as this occurred. But the glass was. The glass and the underplate...

The pair belonged together. It was rare, perhaps one of a kind. It was not the underplate for a gravy boat (how common!). Not a finger bowl, nor a dessert coupe with an underplate. And no, it was not a horrible little mayonnaise (how modern!) dish with a plate underneath either! It was a goblet. The goblet and underplate were a set. And as she saw it, she was overwhelmed with hunger. The desire, the longing to hold that glass once again nearly sent her to her knees. That glass had touched her lips in the time before. She had held it with a gloved hand, and tasted the sweet liquid upon her lips. That glass was HERS!

She moved away shaking. How could she not shake? To behold a thing, not a mistily familiar person or soul, but a concrete physical reminder of a past life? It was terrible.

But not as terrible as waking. Waking, and knowing... Soon, she would see, with her very eyes, an object she had held in her possession once before--in a life before. For it was an item that she knew would be impossible to explain to anyone.

*no story stealing allowed