Atlanteans?

I am at the shore of an ocean.  Looking out toward sea, I see a peninsula curving into the ocean on my left.  Looking to the right, however, the horizon is empty.  I believe it is my mom with me on the shoreline as we face the sea.  She is pointing to the right and giving me instructions where to look.   Although giving directions such as south or southwest, she is using number words like “one by two,” etc.  I disagree with her intention because I see an island not far from the shore.  It seems like a tempting place to visit so I ignore my mom’s instructions about where to look, and I run down the narrow, sloping and sandy beach to the waves.  Leaping, I plunge into the ocean and find that it is very deep, but clear and filled with light all the way to the bottom.  [I always love to swim in water in my dreams, am never afraid of it, and can always breathe underwater without any difficulty.]  I am pleased with the beautiful view underwater.  There are rocks and corals, fish and a gentle, rippling, sandy bottom.  I want to dive down and play in the water, but I still have my destination, the island, so I swim through the white-crested waves.  I also have a small fear of the water [which is very unusual for me, and I noted it as unusual while dreaming...] because I see a few rays, which make me think of sharks because they are related.  Somewhat lucid about the rays, I talk myself free of most of the fear although it lingers until I reach the island.

At the island, I seem to be in the company of some other people who were intrepid enough to make the crossing with me.  We set out to explore what I believe is a wild place with trees and rocks.  This plan is quickly altered when the inhabitants of the island come forward to greet us.  As if by magic, we can now see that there are many fine, but exotic, buildings of stone built amidst the trees.  The buildings are graceful, sturdy and blend with their natural environment, giving an impression of harmony and serenity.  The people are tall and dressed in long robes of fabric made of shimmering thread.  They are calm and gracious, and they invite us to join their community, which I sense is advanced over our civilization on the mainland and quite peaceful.

The tall, graceful people in the shimmering robes give us a tour of their buildings, where I see that they are truly advanced people with regard to engineering, medicine, philosophy, etc.  As we proceed, however, I start to get a feeling that not all is as it should be, and I feel afraid of something I can’t identify.  It is an unreasonable fear because I also know that anyone is free to leave the island whenever they like, although no one wants to do so.

Expanding Room

I am in a shopping mall from which point I am heading toward my dorm room, a small apartment about the size of a closet crammed full of my belongings, dumped there as if after a move.  There’s one small window.  In transit to the room, I try to apply for a position wrapping gifts at a large retail store in New York at Christmas time.  The transit scene occurs in a busy mall, where at intervals, I am addressed by a couple of young women who try to dissuade me from attending the college where I am enrolled.  I find the newspaper ad for the gift-wrapping employment and try to call them, but I can’t get through.  No one will answer on the phone.  The address of the store is clear in my mind (although I can’t remember it now).  When I arrive in the dorm room, I shove my way past and through the boxes and paraphernalia, my belongings.  I start to clean and organize.  I have a visitor, a young woman who adds to the cramped feeling, but as I put things away, there seems to be more room.  I continue to shuffle my belongings, a potted plant here, a desk here.  First, there is one desk, then another, maybe a table, and I begin to see a pleasing arrangement to my furniture and walking space between.  Then I glance out the small window, which has become an enormous plate glass with an amazing view of the night sky.  The moon is full and shining beautifully white.

Frustrated Arts

I’m with a group of people (male and female) in a long classroom with long tables.  We are all painting on paper laid out on the tables.  At first, my painting is rather controlled, but I hate it so I begin to splatter and splash paint on the paper in an attempt to paint something bright and interesting.  I am still not satisfied, and my painting becomes wilder and wilder until I am flooding the paper with paint and water.  Sadly, I see that I have washed off nearly all the pigment and have only a slightly stained paper to show for all my effort.

Giving up that approach, I search desperately for pure, black paint, the inkier the better.  I’m manic as I sort through the shelves, testing bottles and shoving people away.  Desperately, I grasp a bottle of black ink and then grope for the clam shell I use (the same one I use for ink in my waking-life studio) to dribble in the precious drops of blackness. Once I have my ink, I grasp a brush, eye my paper (which is cut in a sort of wide “S” shape) and stroke on dark, confident lines of a sitting woman with her hair coiled at the top of her head except for a stroke that flows up very long and sinuous on the paper.  This one swath of hair is made with a single, wide stroke, tapering out into flying whites at the top.

I like this figure very much, but then the activity of our group becomes focused on a play we are all preparing to perform.  [I can't remember my attitude toward the play, although it was important.  Something to do with my mom, too.]  There is a male actor in the play who can levitate and move about like that.  He is the only one besides myself who can do this.  I want to show him that I can levitate and float through the air just as well so I follow him.  Unfortunately, he is faster and outpaces me, although I try as hard as I can to keep up.  I become frustrated with my effort.

When I woke, the image of the woman and hair was clear in my mind, so I grabbed a marker and sketched it on a paper towel without my glasses in the half-dark of my bedroom. Inkyhair001

Magic Hands

I am with my aunt and cousin (her daughter).  My aunt is wearing pants that need a belt, and I am supposed to loan her one.  Although I’m not happy about it, I feel obligated, so I let her look through my belts.  She ends up taking a shirt instead, a sparkly shirt with spaghetti straps.

Shortly after, I am walking with my cousin (the same one) through the streets of a town and chatting about travel.  I’m excited as I make suggestions about my cousin joining me to visit some foreign countries.  I’m trying to convince her how fun it is.

Our walk takes us to an open air market where the vendors sell make-up.  The saleswomen compliment me many times on my clear skin and try to push make-up on me, but I keep telling them my skin wouldn’t be this fine and clear if I wore make-up.  I flatly refuse to put any on my face.

My shopping trip continues alone.  Now I’m wearing camo head-to-toe and sipping from a bottle-canteen with a straw.  I’m looking through shelves that are high and industrial like in a warehouse store.  Like in the market street, I attract attention for how I look, this time for my clothes.  I mention to the salespeople (male and female this time) that I’m not shoplifting, whatever they might think.  I mention something about how the army gives some people a second chance if they have committed a crime, but it doesn’t mean that everyone in the army is a criminal.

I want to go to a different part of the warehouse.  To get there, I slog through deep mud over my ankles.  It’s hard to walk up the slight slope through the mud, but I’m wearing army boots so I feel confident and strong, and it’s fine.  I find some outdoor lamps on tall, iron posts.  I want to buy these and some other items.  Unfortunately, the posts get tangled in the shelves, and I lose the lamp glasses somewhere.  Maybe they broke.  It’s darker here, hard to see, so I raise my hand to bring back the light as if I made the sun climb higher in the sky.

I wrangle a bit over the lampposts.  I turn a corner around the shelves and see a black man facing me, a lovable, huggable type of man.  We approach each other and embrace.  I need to touch the small of his back with my hand so I can heal his pain.  Before I can, I am interrupted by the commotion of three, little girls.  They have run from their father, who appears to be Hispanic.  He can’t control the little girls so I offer to do it.  I chase the littlest, blonde girl, who is being naughty.  When I catch her, she becomes very docile and sweet in my arms.  I carry her past the high shelves to the open hills where it’s sunny.  There are not quite enough flowers for my liking, so I raise my hand and make more pure white flowers bloom across the hills, then I make berries ripen.  I give the little girl to her mother, Jane Seymour, and her father, the Hispanic man, then I give her a ripe strawberry, which she thinks is delicious.  Her sisters, the other two, little girls, run off to pick blueberries.

After this, I feel drawn back to the black man, still wanting to heal his back pain with my hand.  Again, I am interrupted, this time by a group of men who want me to return to being a man after the sex change I had to become a woman.  It appears that they have a legal dispute, something about property, and it can only be settled by my identity as a man.  I refuse to transform back into a man because I am completely a woman and never want to be anything else.  The black man takes my side in this argument.  I turn my back on the group of men in the legal office and make my way past some wares displayed on tables like at a flea market.  I shop through some cheap vases and artificial flowers, although not really wanting any of it.  The black man stays with me and is there when I begin to collapse because of a liver ailment (or maybe the kidney…not sure).  He lowers me to the floor when I limply fall.  I’m not unconscious, but unable to move.  It feels nice and relaxing…and forever.  Prepared to physically defend me, the black man stands between me and the legal people.

Streetside Garden

It’s my opinion that dreams are predominately about personal, inner states, but I believe there are other types of dreams, too.  For example, there are health dreams, and I think I had one of those last night.

Garden Dream:  I was in a flower bed area alongside a busy, college campus street.  The street may have been paved with brick…or parts of it were.  I was on the side of a curving lane that branched off the main artery.  I was pulling out old, moist, dirty carpets used as mulch and laying them out to dry so I could reuse them later.  I notice an older gentleman across the street and realize he’s the university gardener.  He’s preparing a flower bed by digging in the dirt with a shovel.  I cross the street to join him and look through the various potted flowers grouped together in a box, the flowers he plans to plant once the bed is ready.  I recall that there was a pot of blue salvia amidst them.   I glance across the street to where I was working and wonder if I have permission to place my garden there or not.

There’s a disturbance of unknown origin.  Several men are in attendance, all of them taller than I am by a significant margin.  I mingle with the men, touching my hand to their shoulders or arms in a gesture as if I am testing them or seeking something.  I touch my hand to the gardener’s shoulder.  He has become very lumpy and bumpy and slightly gray.  When I place my hand on his lumpy shoulder, I feel his heart racing at great speed.  The tall men try to convince me that my gesture of comfort is not needed by the gardener, that he’s not affected by anything.  I disagree with them.  For proof, I tell them how rapidly the man’s heart was beating and that it had slowed under my hand.

I cross the street again, making small gestures of contact with more of these random men.  Alongside the curving lane, a man touches me with a feeling of purpose.  I never see his face.  He stands behind me, enfolding me.  I feel melted, relaxed to my core.  We move back across the street, a propulsion having nothing to do with me because I’m incapable of lifting a finger of effort, where we do nothing at all except experience this overwhelming calm and comfort.

Without alarm (because nothing can alarm me while I am in this state of blissful repose with the man who touches me), I notice that a van is trying to enter the street, but the way is too narrow, hemmed in by thick, green bushes on either side.  In addition, there is a tall row of scarlet-red cannas stretching across the street.  I am of the opinion that the van will destroy the red flowers if it drives over them.  The old gardener believes they will only go dormant and come back the following spring.

Sunday School Lesson Gone Wrong

I am cleaning the stage of a large church as part of a Sunday School lesson for a class of students who are seated in the auditorium.  I clean the wooden floorboards of the stage with a wet cloth, holding it up sometimes as if it is important (or very unimportant).  I think that was part of the lesson, to show that it seemed important and belonged to someone important, but that maybe it wasn’t.  Maybe it was only a wet cloth when that ownership was stripped from its identity.  Sometimes I leave the stage for long minutes at a time.  It’s a lesson for the students in patience.  In my absence, I am preparing a place for them behind the scene of the stage.  In this background, there is an enormous, cavernous storeroom for the church.  It reaches up very far and extends for a great distance.  It is filled (crammed full) with treasures and wonders of all sorts.  It’s a wonder of the world, and I am excited to lead the students there to share it all with them.

There is impatience in my audience.  Someone, another teacher perhaps, a woman, leads the students into the cavern before I have an opportunity to do so.  I am heartbroken, and I refuse to go because I had wanted to do it myself.  I’m in a terrible funk, sitting on the floor and leaning against a wall apart from the group that goes into the cavern to see the wonders.  One boy feels sorry that I won’t go in, so he tries to console me and tempt me to join in with the students.  I won’t do it.  I feel too deflated to even get up off the floor.  There’s a male teacher, too, who tries to get me to come in.  He says something about Stonehenge to which I reply that I don’t believe it’s right to “thank Stonehenge.”  I don’t know what I’m saying, don’t know what it means, only that it doesn’t seem appropriate to me.  I wonder if I only have sour grapes or if I really feel it’s wrong.

Then there are the pamphlets that were given to the students for their tour of the caverns.  These were something I had prepared, but the other teacher distributed.  I had gained the information from President Obama.  Not directly.  There was a token of his, maybe a tooth, that I had to give someone to assure them it was alright to provide the information for the pamphlets.  This was not supposed to be known, but it came out that I had done this.  There’s a shooting, and I fear that this data intrigue has been the cause of it.  I’m in a small room with Michelle Obama when I begin to suspect that I’ve caused this violence through my actions.  I feel terrible and try to explain to Mrs. Obama that I never thought anything like this could happen~and I didn’t.  I never intended my Sunday School project to end in such tragedy.

I see men being wheeled on gurneys past this small room.  They are taken down a long, carpeted hallway to an elevator.  I’m so afraid one of the men is Pres. Obama.  Another man might be Joe Biden, but I can’t see them clearly, although I rush out to try to follow the gurneys and identify the men.  Secret Service guards keep me from getting too close.  I do see one man, a Mr. Michigawa, but I don’t know anyone by that name, only that he was somehow involved in the intrigue.

I rush past Mr. Michigawa (on the gurney) and his wife, Mrs. Michigawa, beside him distraught in the hallway, and hurry to the elevator.  I am out of breath and asking in dread over and over, “Is everyone all right?!  Are they all okay?!”  I’m frantic, so worried.  I don’t want anyone to be hurt.  An agent, a woman, tells me they’re fine.  I look at her as if I’m not sure I believe her, that she might be lying just to calm me down and cover up the truth, but I want to believe her so badly that I do.

I see myself from another viewpoint.  I’m leaning my hand against the wall, leaning over with breathlessness and worry.  I’m wearing a long, pale dress with layers of ruffles.  I breath out with great relief that everyone is okay.  All the agents and other political people in the hallway think my concern is overwrought, but I can’t hide how afraid I had been that something bad might have happened.

Growing Family

I was swaddling a very small baby, my own child, in my arms.  It was a baby boy at first, but later in the dream, it was a baby girl. (or the other way around…I’ve forgotten)  Also, I didn’t realize this as the dream began, but the child grew larger and older as the dream progressed.  I first was pressured into a room from off of a street.  It was my exH, I think, with a hand at my back, pushing me and my baby in the door.  I didn’t want to go because there was a creepy guy inside.  He was tall, but hunched over.  He had lank, black hair and black clothing that hung in tatters.  There was another man there, too, a henchman of the black-draped man.  The second man never spoke.

The villain wanted to do something to my baby who I was clutching in my arms.  I was terrified of this.  I pleaded with him at first, but he could not be persuaded.  Then I asked him to explain what would happen to my baby when he did whatever he was going to do.  He explained my baby would “see woes,” which sounded horrifying and was no comfort at all.  I could not let this happen, so I tried to find a way out of this small room, but I was watched all the time, either by the villain or by his henchman.

The scene shifts, placing me outside beside rows of crops.  I am still clutching the child, but it’s a boy (or girl) now and older.  It has grown larger without my taking notice until now.  Briefly, the child is not in my arms.  Instead, my little dog has run off between the rows of tall corn, and I try to fetch him, but he’s too quick.  Then the child is back in my arms.

I find myself walking alongside my family outside of a farm house, which is ours.  The family consists of some older boys, teens, and a teenage daughter.  They are all tall for their ages, strong, vital and happy.  I feel very proud of them.  I muse out loud as we walk that it seems I only had one child, then two children, then suddenly I have these five, terrific children who all make me very proud.

Spaceship, and Men’s Store/Kitchen/Horserace

Spaceship:  I’m in a spaceship with a small crew flying in space.  We come up alongside an enormous spaceship and cruise along its length.  I have a good view of the other ship, its many ports and lights, antennas and cubicles, a veritable city in space.  I find it to be exciting and beautiful.  I do wonder, however, why no one from the large ship has bothered to contact us as we zip along its length.  I am told  that I will have the opportunity to board the larger ship, which is something I had not expected as I was not an important or particularly knowledgeable member of the crew.  More excited than ever, I become flustered about what I will wear over to the other ship and begin rummaging in a compartment filled with clothes in shades of blue.  I can’t find a shirt and pants with the exact same blue, so I decide I will have to make do with a blue scrubs shirt over blue jeans.

Men’s Store/Kitchen/Horserace: My BIL is in a men’s suit store, where he has come to construct and special order a gift for someone.  The gift is a little, cartoon man made of clay with the letters M & M (like the candy) written in clay on the side.  He’s quite satisfied with it and has the men’s suit store mail it off.  [This scene had the feel of days before the internet when people physically went to stores and/or used the phone to find or have custom items made or repaired.]

After watching, but not participating in the men’s suit store scene, I’m in a very small, country kitchen, crowded with my family members, most of them teens or very young adults.  Everyone is busy doing something, but the stove is left on, and there is grease on the floor, and someone is using a Teflon pan, which is not good for them.  There is something that has to be repaired, so I tell a young man to go out to the bed of my truck where he will find a tire iron.  He can use that to make the repair.  I decide I will have to intervene to set things right in the kitchen, so I put up my hair in a ponytail and look for sneakers to wear.  The sneakers are for walking securely on the greasy floor while I take care of things properly.

The kitchen scene rapidly dissolves, and I am now on a swift racehorse.  The horse and I jump onto a high, narrow, elevated track like a train track.  I am wearing a turban, either red or blue.   There is a horse race in progress, so there is another horse and man there.  The man wears a black turban, and he is very fast, but I know my horse is much faster and will easily win the race.  As we pass the man in the black turban, I reach out and strip the cloth off his head, letting it blow away in the breeze.  We are nearly at the finish line when I see that there is a wide gap in the elevated track.  Unfortunately, my horse has lost his attention for the race.  I know the gap is coming up fast, but I can’t get the horse to focus.  I hope that I can will us over the jump myself, use my force to propel both the horse and myself over the gap.  We come to the break in the track, and my horse jumps, but it’s not far enough, and we just miss the edge on the other side.  We fall into the gap down into nothing.

 

Dying from a Vaccine

I’m in a laboratory, not modern and sterile, but a place with wooden counters and old-fashioned glass, chemistry equipment.  There’s a man there who ingests or injects himself with a vaccine that is toxic.  A second man there says it will probably kill the first man.  The second man is immune to the toxin/vaccine because he has been in the natural places, exposed to the natural plants/environment from which the vaccine was derived.  The second man says I should also make myself immune, so I ingest/inject one of the six toxins/vaccines.  I become very sick with fever and hallucinations, and the second man says I will probably die.

I run out of that laboratory into the streets of an old village with wooden buildings.  It is night time.  I run through the streets until I see a shop with yellow light glowing in the window.  Still feverish and sick, I stumble into the shop and then back out again into the street.  The shopkeeper runs after me, wanting to find and help me, but not sure what to do.  My point of view in the dream shifts, and I no longer see myself.  Instead, I see two women on horseback, their coats and hair flying, racing through the village.  They are friends of mine searching everywhere to try to help me.

Planes & Polka Dots

I’m outside.  There’s a small building and tall, chain-link fences.  There are other people around, too, with no particular relationship to me, although we seem to have similar purposes.  We are being harassed by planes overhead, so we try to evade them.  There’s one man, especially, whom we cooperate to protect.  He doesn’t want to be enclosed by us, so I embrace him and whisper why we do it all.  The group of us join hands to form a fence around the man, protecting him.  I hold paper towels in each hand to avoid making contact with the others.  It’s all for naught because the man disappears.

Afterward, I am walking through a large room filled with boisterous children and teens.  One teen jumps on a table and begins shouting or singing.  I notice I’m wearing polka dots in pink and white, and I have a matching pendant with a black accent.  I recall having doubts about my preference for matching black & white polka dots with pink & white polka dots.  I enter a shop with wall-to-wall costume jewelry and proceed to shop for a new necklace to go with my pink & white polka dot clothing.  I am interrupted by my husband, who wants to join me, but I want to shop at my leisure, not in a rush.  I try to shake him, but he wants to leave and find a place for us to eat out.  I don’t want to leave the shop.  A salesman appears who isn’t sure whether to stay with me or to go with my husband.