I’ve been having a lot of crazy, funked up dreams lately. I don’t know if it’s the excess amounts of coffee and maté I’ve grown accustomed to drinking as an avid late afternoon barista, or if it’s just my overactive imagination working steadily after hours. What I do know is that I have no idea what they all mean. My experience in dreamwork is limited to rolling out of bed and scribbling random key words into makeshift journals, words that might help me to piece together the puzzle of images later on when I’ve had a cup of coffee or two. Only when I do wake up, I’m usually more haunted by the images than soothed into creating any kind of lasting epiphany.
Is it any wonder that I often find myself little comforted by dreams when my journal scrawl tends to be laden with an endless enjambment of nonsensical images? Snakes writhing, across muddy stepping stones reaching, squishes beneath my restless feet, pattering on…
What am I to do with all of this? I don’t know. Get on with my day? Brush it aside, pretend it never happened, I never saw it, I never breathed it into being in the dark recesses of my subconscious mind? Well, that does sound so easy, but for some reason quite impossible for me. I find myself captivated by images — particularly those that enter my dreams — sometimes for countless days.
So this dream from several days ago stays with me, jumps into my thoughts when I least expect it and tantalizes me into wanting to get a good dream book and truly sift through the layers of images to come away with some sort of substantial analysis. My only problem with that resolution is that when I’ve tried it in the past, there’s usually nothing on some of the images that enter my dreams. What do I look under to find an analysis of severed and skewered breast, I ask you?
In this latest haunter, I’m in the foyer of a little boutique with my mother and a few other people. A dear old friend comes in with her little daughter, and asks if someone will watch her while she tries on some clothes. She points to a specific spot on one of several round mirrors on a nearby wall, and tells me to keep her focused right there. I immediately understand what she’s getting at, and I’m eager to hang out with her adorable daughter.
My mother pipes up, something along the lines of “What?! I don’t get it. And I don’t have time for that!”
I’m tuning her out, saying: “Of course! I’d love to!” I understand that what she wants is someone to keep her girl focused on herself — in her imaginary and reflective world — just long enough to find a decent pair of pants.
I’m enraptured by this girl. Chatting away with herself, she climbs into a playhouse style box with an oval cut out window and an oval mirror inside. She doesn’t want me to watch her, but she tolerates my presence. I’m calling her name, asking her questions, but she’s far away in her fantastical world of play.
Then the phone rings. It’s the middle of the day and I’m jostled away from dreaming on. I was just taking a quick cat nap that turned into a droolfest. I want to know what was going to happen next, but it’s too late to return to sleeping and dreaming. I have to find my keys and pick up my son from school.