The Meeting

I am in an office building, specifically a conference room although it lacks a conference table.  Instead of business chairs, there are low-seated, comfortable chairs like one might find in a hotel lobby.  I’m a junior employee or apprentice, and I am supposed to give a presentation on the proper arrangement for a formal meeting.  I’m quite enthusiastic about it as I stand to explain to the few people seated casually around the room.  One is my boss, who has designated what I’m supposed to do.  I stand and wave my arms, pointing to walls, gesturing with my hands to explain.  I describe a fireplace for one wall and what manner of chairs and table.  With aplomb, I go into a talk describing the etiquette and procedures.

I must have mentioned UFOs because someone questions the legitimacy of discussing UFOs in high-level meetings.  This makes me feel defensive, so I rebut with the names of some executives in the field of UFOs, respectable people who would talk about the subject in a meeting like I’ve been describing.  My boss, a man, glibly lists the names of some extremely important people in the UFO field, but I haven’t heard of any of them.  I become confused, so I keep quiet after that.

It seems now that no one is interested in my talk about the formal meeting, so I sit and start to tell it to my two sons instead.  They are around 8 and 11 years old.  They are seated on either side of me on a long, padded bench.  We whisper together, heads close, keeping the talk among ourselves.  My younger son says something witty, which makes me laugh.  The longer I think about it, the more I laugh.  He’s so very clever and smart that it makes me happy.

 

Bear Hug

I remember many images, but few of them in any linear fashion, not well enough to piece together.  The best I can do this morning is the memory of a big bear sitting on his backside.  He (or she) was hugging me, squeezing me to death in its enormous, shaggy embrace.  Not wanting to die, I squirmed and struggled free.  I should not have had the strength to get away, so I must conclude that the bear released me.

Shortly after, I am on my back, floating in the water of a narrow canal, a chute of concrete.  My arms are folded across my chest in the way we arrange the deceased in their coffins.  Although the pose is different, the mood reminds me of the beautiful painting of Ophelia by Millais, and the feeling was similar to the one I felt when I saw that painting in Amsterdam.

I realized I was dead, but I wasn’t afraid or regretful.  It was a feeling of unfettered bliss and freedom.  On my back, I was channeled (floating blissfully) along the narrow canal.  I slip under a partition.  On the other side, the bear is sitting by the bank of the channel/canal, and I realize I’ve met him (her) before in a hug.  The bear grasps me, hugging me again in the same way, killing me.  (Yes, I was already dead, but it’s a dream, and that’s how it seemed, that the bear killed me or finalized my death in some way.)  The bear hug was very nice this time because I had nothing to fear since I was already dead or, rather, didn’t fear death anymore.  After the bear kills me (again, maybe), I continue on down the chute on my back, floating blissfully with my arms folded across my chest.

I float into a larger area of water that looks like a marina with piers and people.  I could stay here if I wanted, but it’s not quite the paradise I want.  This place is for those who like a more urban existence with plenty of people and activity.  I would prefer something quieter.  On I go down the water chute, floating blissfully in death.  No expectations; no worries.  I float toward another partition under which I will slip as I did before.  I anticipate another kind of place in which to spend my blissful time, but I wake up before I learn what is on the other side of the partition.  I do remember hoping or thinking that my dad will definitely be there since he has gone before me into death.  That seems to me the best thing of all that could be on the other side of the partition, to see Dad again.

It was quite disappointing to wake because it felt so wonderful floating on the water.

Into the Wind

I’m in a courtroom where a trial is taking place.  The room is filled with people who each have their functions to perform.  In the corner, a very old man, my grandpa, is sitting in a rocking chair.  He keeps falling asleep, and his snores bother the judge, who wants him quieted or removed.  I insist that grandpa’s presence is necessary to the gravity and justice of the court.  In deference to the judge, I try to soothe the old man in his sleep so his snores won’t be so loud.

In that corner, water begins to rise in the room.  Knee-high, I am standing in it.  Small, water creatures begin to appear, some harmless, some with sharp teeth like piranhas.  A little fish tries to bite me, but I’m wearing sneakers that protect my foot.  I also notice three bunnies underwater.  I fear they will drown, but then I notice one of them rise to the surface, take a breath of air, and swim to the bottom again to feed on the grass that is green below water.

I wade out of the knee-high water and notice that the rest of the room is not submerged and that there are animals moving around.  I wonder why the underwater bunnies don’t swim out of the deep end of the room to come onto land.  I go back to try to lift one of the bunnies out of the water, but I can’t get my hands on it.

I wander further through a door, leaving the courtroom behind me.  I enter a much larger room with a vast ceiling.  There are many animals making their home in this wild room.  I walk along paths that I have made through the habitat.  I am the keeper of the animals.  When one is in trouble, I help them.  Other times, I leave the animals alone, especially when they have young.  I leave the path to avoid confronting a mother bear.  Again, I detour to respect the territory of a mother bobcat’s den of kits.

As I am walking on my rounds through the habitat, men enter to take command of the place.  They want to hunt and kill the animals.  One of the men comes to capture me, too, but I fly straight up into the air to try to reach the rafters of the high ceiling.  I am a mere inch of grabbing hold of a rafter when my power gives out.  I give one more push, which somehow causes me to lose all my power and I tumble down out of the air.  I am taken captive by the man who drags me out of the wildlife room and gives me to a burlier man who wraps me in his arms, dragging me along.

The second, larger man threatens to rape and kill me.  He says that he might have to simply kill me.  I am more confused than fearful.  I can’t understand why they’re killing the animals or what they want with me or why they dragged me away and to what.  I look at the other men very deeply, wondering about all this, when the answer comes to me.  I need to love more.  “More love” and “Love more” is what I keep repeating.  I need to love these men so much that they stop doing what they are doing.  I try.  I know they are bad men and un-lovable.  I know their actions make them unworthy of love, but I have to find someway or something about them to love anyway.  It’s the answer, although I’m not particularly sure what the question is.

I turn in the arms of the man who wants to kill me, and I love him.  He’s not especially moved by this.  He’s a hard man not easily touched by love or any tender emotion.  I try to kiss him, but he suddenly disappears and is replaced by a younger man with dark hair.  I am confused again.  They are playing tricks on me.

We have been in a small room exterior to the wildlife room, but now I want to be free of this place, too.  More than anything, I want to feel the wind.  When I move to leave through another door, the men don’t stop me.  Instead, they are watching me, maybe to see where I am going.  I keep repeating, “I need the wind, the wind!”  I am desperate for the wind against my face.  As soon as I step outside the door, I feel it, and I want to follow it.

Outside the door, the grass is incredibly green.  There are large, mature trees that give deep, cooling shade beside meadows of perfectly green grass where a few horses graze.  The horses are special in some way that is a mystery to me.   And wind…  I keep following the wind, and the men are following me as if needing me to point them in the right direction.

My journey into the wind leads me along a row of beautiful, old trees.  In the shade, I come across a stump upon which there is an apparatus made of plastic painted green and brown, a model of a child’s wildlife scene.  There are two disk-like spots on the plastic base.  As I look at the object, two little men about 2 inches high appear glowing on the disks like holograms.  One is an old gnome.  The other is a younger person.  The little figures are visible when viewed from one direction, but disappear when viewed from another.   They seem magical to me, and I truly want them to be alive, but no matter how I look at them, they remain toy-like.

Discouraged by the lack of life in the figures, I travel onward, the green grass to my right, a canal of clear water appearing on my left.  I follow the beautiful water, straight and clean in its concrete banks.  Sometimes there are railings, sometimes a glass conservatory like a tunnel arches over the water.  I run a long way, always thirsting for the wind in my face, running into it.  To my left, seen in a place I can’t quite reach without leaving the canal, there is a greenhouse filled with colorful flowers.   I come finally to the end of the canal.   The glass conservatory, intermittent before,  encloses the canal portion, although many of the window glasses are open, allowing the wind to flow in.  There is also a long table here running alongside the water canal.

A woman in a long gown is here.    We are high up on a hill with the landscape stretching out green and luxuriant below us.  We both notice the sky past the end of the canal.  Dark clouds are moving in from beyond a mountain range.  Despite the shadows, I want to continue my journey into the wind.   There is something about the woman that makes me believe I can’t go any further, but that she had hoped I could.  That’s what the men behind me had been hoping, as well, that I would find a way forward…into the shadow of the approaching clouds.

I become frustrated with the woman, and I accuse her of betraying the goddesses, of losing their friendship, thus depriving them of power.  I recall accusing her with the names of many goddesses, names like Demeter, Cassandra, Frigg.  I remember clearly the name, “Cassiopeia” and “Freya.”  I hold up a large frame and portrait, about 20 x 24 inches, of a goddess, maybe Freya, and drop it angrily against the long table.  Now a slightly older woman joins us.  She’s also in a long gown.  She seems wiser than the first woman.  She faces one of the open windows and raises her head slightly as if smelling the wind.  She says, “An eruption,” then turns and walks away.  It feels very sad and final, like the clouds are  actually full of ash from a volcano and that if I tried to continue forward, I would only come to an end of fire and lava.

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.