dreams – Page 7 – One Woman's Quest

Best Laid Plans

The man seated across the table pried me with questions.

“Who played Wendy?” he asked. “Was it you?”

I nodded.

“And who played the Hooker?”

“Also me.”

“Really,” he drew the word out as if chewing on it. “Both you?”

We were celebrating closing night at a local eatery. My questioner was not a familiar face amongst our usual theatre crowd, but I could tell by the way others were addressing him that he held some position of esteem.

“Have you done a lot of acting?” he persisted.

“High school, mostly.” I loved acting, and had contemplated pursuing it at University. Just recently, I had purchased a ticket to travel to Great Britain. It was my plan to investigate theatre school there, hopefully Shakespearean.

“I am currently writing a play that you would be perfect for, if you are interested. You have heard of me?”

I recognized him now – playwright and critic. He was well-known in our area, although this was my first meeting.

“I’m flattered,” and I was. “I am leaving for England shortly.”

“Of course you are. It would be a shame to waste that talent locally. If you have a change of mind, look me up, will you?”

The play had gone well. Even though I had bit parts, apparently I had made an impression. Maybe there was hope for me. I looked forward to the future.

The date of my departure was fast approaching. Disillusioned with life in my hometown, I was anxious to explore the world and embrace adventure. To celebrate my move, my sisters threw a party.

Seven years older than me, Mae is a classic beauty with dark eyes, and a perfectly sculpted face draped with beautiful flowing brunette hair. She stands 5′ 8″ and has curves in all the right places. I was used to being eclipsed by Mae’s presence, but she made up for it in sweetness.

My other sister, Lily, was eleven years my senior. Also a brunette, she was a fireball, who commanded attention and rivaled Mae for attention.

I shrank into a corner and disappeared into my dreams. This was not my crowd. Apart from a fellow I had been casually dating and a mutual friend of my sisters, I really didn’t know these people. Just when I thought the night was a total loss, I heard a knock at the door.

I opened it to find Stewart at the door. Stewart was one of Mae’s many suitors, and I knew he’d be disappointed. Mae’s current boyfriend was also here. I offered him a drink and some friendly conversation. I felt bad for him.

“I’m headed to England,” I offered. Stewart had a very distinct British accent.

“When?”

“In three weeks.”

“Really? I’m headed to England in three weeks. Where are you flying into?”

“Heathrow.”

“Me too!”

“What date?”

“What date are you going?”

“The 19th.”

“Me too!”

“No way! You are flying to England on the 19th!”

“Yes, I am. We might be on the same flight.”

I have to admit, he had me going. Turned out he was just playing with me. Always fun to tease the little sister.

I busied myself in the kitchen, playing hostess. Stewart made his move on Mae.

Last to arrive was the last to leave. Mae had already left with her beau, and Lily was nowhere in sight. I escorted Stewart to the door, where he paused before stepping out and turning around to face me, leaning in for a kiss.

“Good night,” he whispered leaving me alone and slightly stunned.

What had just happened?

“Don’t pay it any mind,” Mae told me the next day. “He has a crush on me.”

I knew she was right, but it was me that Stewart invited out later that day.

Our courtship was a whirlwind race against the ticking of the clock and my imminent departure. Stewart made me laugh, and caused my heart to flutter. I couldn’t sleep, didn’t care to eat, and was certain that this was love.

He was all I could think of while in England, and I wrote to him everyday – long, lengthy letters oozing with mush. When I’d received no reply, I finally called him. He hadn’t received one letter. I had sent them care of Mae, and she had forgotten to check the mail. I couldn’t stand the emotional turmoil.

I came home.

Stewart and I would later marry and have three children, ending a seventeen year relationship in a bitter divorce.

I always wonder what might have happened, had I stayed in Britain, but I have never regretted the gift of my three children.

Isn’t it miraculous that life turns out the way it does, despite our plans to the contrary?

(Image: afadedromantic.wordpress.com)

Broken Locks

The house we have moved into is old and on closer inspection has many more rooms than we had initially understood. It is a pleasant surprise and I am wondering what we will do with all this extra space, when I notice that the back door is broken: there is a problem with the lock.

I awaken, my heart racing.

“The back door is unlocked again,” I jokingly tell my husband. It has become an ongoing theme in my dreams, and one I fail to grasp.

So what is the back door? Interestingly, we have purchased an older home, and while it doesn’t have extra rooms such as the ones in my dream, it does come with an additional building we had not anticipated: a bomb shelter. It is difficult not to notice the parallel to my dreams. Our new home is one of hope for a better life, security, and maybe one day, retirement.

So, why the difficulty with the back door?

The back door isn’t the entrance that is used by guests or even ourselves, for the most part. It is purely the entrance to the back yard. Our back yard is private. A place where family and friends will gather; a place of solitude and escape.

In terms of the psyche, I always think of the backyard as being what the public doesn’t see – private lives, or maybe even the past.

Aha, I think. No matter how much I move on in life, or tell myself I’ve moved on, it isn’t escape if the back door isn’t secured.

Could it be that my dreams are telling me that the only way to enjoy my present is to find a way to lock out the past?

(Image: brooklynheightsblog.com)

Dream House

There is a house that I often visit in my dreamtime. I am either thinking about buying it, or have just moved in. It is set in the country, high up on a bluff overlooking the water. It is not a new house, nor does it stand alone; it shares the quiet street with other houses, different from itself. Tall trees line the street, and green sloping lawns surround the house. The setting is idyllic, but I have concerns about the house. Sometimes the house appears as a yellow brick, two-story, older style home; other times it is a small white raised ranch. Every time, I worry that the house is not big enough for comfort.

When I enter, the main living area appears cosy, and has a certain charm. It is liveable, I think to myself. Then I look around, and am amazed to find that there is so much more to this house than I first thought. Always there is a second kitchen and living area, as well as endless bedrooms and bathrooms. I awaken with a feeling of pleasant surprise and a longing to explore more.

* * * * *

None of the houses, nor the setting in the dream are places I’ve been to in my lifetime, however; there is a certain familiarity. The setting is a feel good place: quiet and serene, and off the beaten path. Years ago, as a single mother, I used to drive up to the lake and admire the houses on the bluff, wishing one day that I could live there. I would dream of a simpler life, where I could be close to nature, and write.

The old, yellow house reminds me of a rental property my former husband and I bought, hoping it would be an investment that we would profit from. The house turned out to be a money pit and a bit of a nightmare. We just didn’t know enough about real estate values at the time.

The white house reminds me of the home my parents bought at the lake for their retirement; a home that became a wonderful gathering place for friends and family.

Often, I think the house in my dream represents me: aging, and plain on the outside, although surrounded by beauty and comfort. Inside, I appear uncomplicated at first, yet there is more to me than even I know. I love the idea that there are many more rooms to discover within.

Learning About Death

Taylor was diagnosed with lung cancer at the age of twenty-one. Although he never smoked a day in his life, his father’s family were heavy smokers, and he suffered for it. He was my cousin Lynn’s only son.

I belonged to a weekly meditation circle at the time, and Taylor, who was studying to be a physicist, asked if he could join. I told him that we not only meditated, but liked to explore the realm of intuition as well, and he said that was fine with him. So week after week, Taylor would join in and add his scientific musings to our experience. He told me that while he was skeptical, he was sure physics was going to bridge the gap between the rational world and the irrational. He said that I needed to involve myself in research, if I was ever to prove the existence of anything beyond the accepted norm. I would laugh and tell him that I was a Literature major, and research was outside my norm.

Taylor’s bald head, and limping figure became a fixture at our weekly meetings, and we all came to love his gentle banter. Unwilling to accept anything at face value, he brought a healthy balance of skepticism to our circle.

Then one evening, he did not attend. Nor the next.

His mother called me. “Taylor is in the hospital, and they think he has three more weeks to live. He is asking for you.”

He was asleep when I entered the room. His girlfriend greeted me and told me that he slept most of the time, but that if I could wait he would wake up. She excused herself and left us alone.

Taylor’s body look so fragile and boyish lying in that bed. An oxygen mask covered his face, so that only his closed eyelids could be seen. His head was still bald, and he looked more like an infant than the young man I had come to know. At this point in my life, I had not been this close to death, and I wasn’t sure what to say.

Taylor’s eyes opened and I saw him register my presence.

“Hey, Tay!” I tried to sound cheerful, compassionate.

He reached up and pulled the oxygen mask down. “Thanks for coming.”

“No problem.”

“I asked you to come, because I want to talk about what’s happening to me.” His words were laboured. I could see it was an effort for him to talk.

“Okay,” I began. “Are you sure it won’t be too much for you? Are you okay without the mask?”

“Oh, yes. It just keeps me comfortable.” He replaced the mask and took a few breaths. “I fall asleep a lot. Even mid-sentence.”

“That’s okay,” I reassured him. “I’ll just wait.”

“Thank you,” and he was gone again, sleeping behind the mask.

I looked around. The room was spacious with a large picture window overlooking the southwest part of the city. A recliner sat in the corner by the window, and several other chairs allowed for many visitors. The blue walls reminded me of the night sky just as the last rays of light are vanishing: a blue tinged with indigo. So this is where people came to die.

“I want to talk about my dreams.” I understood now why he had invited me. I had enrolled in a course at the university that explored the meaning of dreams. It was actually a religious studies class, and examined how God speaks to us through our dream messages. “Everyone else wants to talk about things that have no meaning for me anymore, like getting their cars fixed, or the weather. I don’t have time for small talk.”

He closed his eyes again. I waited.

“I have been dreaming about horses.”

“Interesting. Horses were the original mode of transportation, so they are seen symbolically as the vehicles that transport us from one realm to another. Apparently horse dreams are common at the end of life.”

He nodded. “Sometimes I can’t tell if I am dreaming or it’s real.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am so emotional. I can’t seem to turn it off.” I had to smile. My highly rational, intellectual cousin not being able to control his emotions.

“Well, I’m no expert, but I’m going to guess you are going through one hell of an emotional time.”

His eyes met mine and we both laughed. “You’re right about that.”

We both fell silent.

* * * * *

Our visits became a daily occurrence, but I never stayed long as it tired him too much. We talked about his dreams, his emotions, and as it got closer to the end, we talked about his fears.

“I’m not sure if I’m actually dreaming,” he told me one day. “More and more I feel like what I am experiencing is real.”

“Describe it to me.”

The silences were growing longer. Speaking, or even staying awake, seemed to take great effort now. I would hold his hand to let him know I was still with him. I felt such reverence towards my young cousin for letting me share these moments with him.

“I see figures. Grey figures.”

“Do you know who they are?”

His eyes stared, unfocused, into the space before him. “No. Can’t really say they are people.”

I pondered this revelation while he rested. I thought back to a story my mother told me about my birth. During my delivery, she suddenly lost physical consciousness, and found herself, disembodied, floating above the delivery table. She said she saw her father beside her reaching out his hand, and as she went to take it, she realized what was happening and pulled back, being jolted back into her body and the labour pains. She claims that she had refused death in that moment, and remembers telling her father that she had five babies to look after and couldn’t go with him.

Taylor’s eyes were open again. “What if the figures that you see are here to escort you to the other side?” I asked. “How do they make you feel?”

“Afraid.”

“Maybe your fear is what is clouding your ability to see them.”

He didn’t wake up again that visit.

* * * * *

The next day I arrived at the hospital later than usual. Taylor’s mom met me in the hallway. “He’s gone. He tried to wait for you, but didn’t make it. He did leave a message for you, though. I don’t know what it means, but he said to tell you that you were right, that all came out clear in the end, and not to worry about him.”

As I hugged her in condolence, I thought my heart was going to burst.

In his short life, this beautiful young man shared so much with me: his theories and questions, his deepest vulnerabilities, and his experience of the beyond. Together, were we able to strip away all the noise and distractions of everyday life to touch something much more sacred and real.