Long Enough Have You Dreamed Contemptible Dreams
When I was a child I had a number of terrifying, recurring dreams. I often dreamed, for instance, that I was hiding from home-intruders who were trying to kill me. As they came very near me in my dream, and my sleeping self tried to lie very still in my hiding place, the words, "do not be scared--it is only a dream. Even if you are killed you will feel nothing" would come to me. In these dreams, I always escaped the intruders, but was filled with fear.
In recent years, this dream has evolved into something that is not at all a nightmare, but rather a device that brings me tremendous calm: now I dream of an old house on a small island where my family used to live, and of its exquisitely beautiful and near-magic hidden rooms in which I steal away, feeling utterly unfindable and safe there. These secret rooms, accessible only to me, are on the upper stories of the house, and have small protected windows that grant sweeping views of tree-tops on one side of the house, and of the white-crested waves of the channel on the other. From these windows I can see, depending on the dream, any number of people of ill-will trying to enter the house. But what they do below is of no consequence to me, as I am cozy and protected in my cherry-paneled rooms lined with books, the burgundy swirls of Persian carpets, soft sofas, and silver vases crowded with full-blown roses. The objects in my dreams are those that I have touched during waking hours, those that I have smelled or used, or have seen handled by my loved ones. But truly the calm in this dream comes from the memory of the water around the island--the way the sun would dance across the waves to Canada--and the memory of the breeze sighing through the boughs of the grand centenary trees around the house. That place was peace, and now it comes to me in dreams some 16 years since I have lived there.
Dreams are notoriously difficult to interpret, as John Tierney's article in the New York Times today reinforces, but one thing I can determine very concretely is that my dreams attest to the power of place. The places I dream of are awash in colors: the sea-foam green of my Great-Grandmother's living room walls, or the green of her lovingly tended fern; Mediterranean blue and the feeling of being 13 with my sister in Nice, or the crinkled blush pink of tree-peony petals in the Parc Floral. But it is the light in my dreams that often stays with me when I awaken and is that which determines the mood cast over my day.
Sometimes it is the honeyed light of an autumn morning beside Kingswood Lake (nostalgic),
the silver August light that cuts across the Straits of Gibraltar (excitement and possibility),
or else my dreams are lit with the veiled light of Michigan forests (tranquility).
I have walked by that lake, crossed through that strait, and touched the leaves of trees in those forests.
These are places of such potency that still the sight and feel of them come to me in dreams.
I am sure the textures and content of my dreams are common enough, and that my brain's way of producing them is common enough; is there not a grown woman who has dreamed of a golden field where she played as a child, long-since covered over by subdivisions? What immigrant or exile has not dreamed of the tree he climbed as a boy, his lips stained perhaps with berries? The land leaves its trace on us--the land where we grow, or those we pass through--the roots of the land make their way into our sleeping minds.
Let us then live in waking hours with each of our senses and with our eyes wide-open. Let us therefore touch, examine, feel and smell the world around us: notice the sun, feel the grass, smell the soil.
I think if we do, we may dream not only more beautiful dreams, but perhaps we can recognize the essential meaning of the physical world around us. As sacred forests are chopped away, and as ever more healing waters are polluted, maybe feeling just a little more sentimental about our physical landscape would not be a bad thing.
In recent years, this dream has evolved into something that is not at all a nightmare, but rather a device that brings me tremendous calm: now I dream of an old house on a small island where my family used to live, and of its exquisitely beautiful and near-magic hidden rooms in which I steal away, feeling utterly unfindable and safe there. These secret rooms, accessible only to me, are on the upper stories of the house, and have small protected windows that grant sweeping views of tree-tops on one side of the house, and of the white-crested waves of the channel on the other. From these windows I can see, depending on the dream, any number of people of ill-will trying to enter the house. But what they do below is of no consequence to me, as I am cozy and protected in my cherry-paneled rooms lined with books, the burgundy swirls of Persian carpets, soft sofas, and silver vases crowded with full-blown roses. The objects in my dreams are those that I have touched during waking hours, those that I have smelled or used, or have seen handled by my loved ones. But truly the calm in this dream comes from the memory of the water around the island--the way the sun would dance across the waves to Canada--and the memory of the breeze sighing through the boughs of the grand centenary trees around the house. That place was peace, and now it comes to me in dreams some 16 years since I have lived there.
Dreams are notoriously difficult to interpret, as John Tierney's article in the New York Times today reinforces, but one thing I can determine very concretely is that my dreams attest to the power of place. The places I dream of are awash in colors: the sea-foam green of my Great-Grandmother's living room walls, or the green of her lovingly tended fern; Mediterranean blue and the feeling of being 13 with my sister in Nice, or the crinkled blush pink of tree-peony petals in the Parc Floral. But it is the light in my dreams that often stays with me when I awaken and is that which determines the mood cast over my day.
Sometimes it is the honeyed light of an autumn morning beside Kingswood Lake (nostalgic),
the silver August light that cuts across the Straits of Gibraltar (excitement and possibility),
or else my dreams are lit with the veiled light of Michigan forests (tranquility).
I have walked by that lake, crossed through that strait, and touched the leaves of trees in those forests.
These are places of such potency that still the sight and feel of them come to me in dreams.
I am sure the textures and content of my dreams are common enough, and that my brain's way of producing them is common enough; is there not a grown woman who has dreamed of a golden field where she played as a child, long-since covered over by subdivisions? What immigrant or exile has not dreamed of the tree he climbed as a boy, his lips stained perhaps with berries? The land leaves its trace on us--the land where we grow, or those we pass through--the roots of the land make their way into our sleeping minds.
Let us then live in waking hours with each of our senses and with our eyes wide-open. Let us therefore touch, examine, feel and smell the world around us: notice the sun, feel the grass, smell the soil.
I think if we do, we may dream not only more beautiful dreams, but perhaps we can recognize the essential meaning of the physical world around us. As sacred forests are chopped away, and as ever more healing waters are polluted, maybe feeling just a little more sentimental about our physical landscape would not be a bad thing.
I love to dream. Even when the dreams are frightening, or disturbing, I appreciate the opportunity to experience such a wide range of emotions, without the consequences of reality. Dreams are such a mish mash of the day's activities, unvoiced thoughts, secret desires; It is a wonder to see what our minds can produce.
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