Sometimes I dream about silly things, meaningless combinations of people and daily routines and journeys to nowhere. It’s like my brain can’t handle all the data and throws it together in perverted ways, going shopping for shoes while eating broccoli and meeting my husband for drinks without wearing pants.
Occasionally there is a peace that washes over my soul like blue waves. I wake up softly, like on the shores of Maine, and flip over on the pillow with a sigh. I thank God for coffee and warmth and softness, and it’s these moments I reach for him, lying beside me, to feel his touch. These dreams are rich in color. Green soothes my tattered nerves and Red rises up live lava from the underbelly of some great unknown. Yellow bursts from clouds and Dark Violet erupts from the blackest of darkness. Color is opera and it flows through my subconscious like a rich aria, and all I can do is be present in it, wallowing inside, basking in the glory.
And then the nightmares come. Images that stain and bleed and cut so deeply I wake up gasping for breath. I can’t shed the pictures and I end up churning and weeping and praying for my brain to un-pixilate the data. It’s after these restless nights I wake alone in an empty bed with a dusty heart. I want to shake these dreams free, angry at myself for conjuring up unwelcome images. And yet they are all part of me, the waking and the sleeping and the living and the dead. The sweet and the wholesome and the angry burning fire that consumes.
They all have their place, really. The silly and the rich and the dark are all woven together to show what our minds are thinking while our bodies rest. I had a dream once that a bomb landed in our home but didn’t detonate, and I went to the attic and clung to what I loved the most. The very next day my life totally changed. The bomb went off. Pieces scattered. I saw it coming.
I often lay in bed at night, wanting to find truth. I pray and I read and mull over the day. But truth is never evident in the twilight. It’s only revealed after my subconscious repeats the day’s pattern a few thousand times. When my body stops moving long enough to let God in. And in the morning, things are clearer. Not always more beautiful, mind you, but clearer. Like a direction has been forged.
I don’t like the terror: I want to cling to the aria. And yet we don’t get to choose these things. We dream what we need to see in order to process life around us, and this is one thing we can’t control. It’s a lesson to pay more attention to what your internal soul is trying to say. To allow God a venue. To hear the hard stuff. Because it’s through the hard stuff that you grow, and change, and become stronger.
Dreams are not always rose-colored glasses. Sometimes the rose turns dead and glasses break and we wake up hurting. And yet there is hope that someday in the future we’ll wake up in Maine again. That love will be there to hold onto. That in time, the colors will return in waves, and we’ll smile in the knowledge that our souls are happy. That we listened to truth. And we’ll all dream about going to dinner without any pants while eating asparagus ice cream.
Oh my dear soul. Let the silly come.
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Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/zigazou76/6855067667/sizes/m/in/photostream/
Because even in our sleep, He speaks to us. Sometimes it’s a lesson in listening, being alert to life in ways we weren’t before. I’m glad you are paying attention. And that last line had me laughing out loud. Yes, let the silly come. I love silly. Miss you friend.
Oh. How true this is: “I don’t like the terror: I want to cling to the aria. And yet we don’t get to choose these things.” I’m so there. I was just thinking last night, how I hadn’t “heard” from you in awhile (in my inbox ;-D) – and here you are, with your words aching and beautiful and silly. Thank you, once again, for your honesty about the hard stuff. All of this spoke to me, to where I’m at right now – and particularly this last paragraph – the hope that it holds even in the shattering of glasses and the death of roses and dreams.
For some reason I am reminded of this poem by Dan Albergotti:
Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale
Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.
Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires
with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals.
Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.
Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way
for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review
each of your life’s ten million choices. Endure moments
of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you.
Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound
of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart.
Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all
the things you did and could have done. Remember
treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes
pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.
— Dan Albergotti
You always bring the heavy when I most need it. I woke up today a few steps back after feeling like I’d been progressing well, so it was nice to read this. Thanks, as always, for your transparency!!!
Hang in there Amanda,, Your Dreams will one Day turn to Sweet ones again.
Gorgeous writing, Amanda. And yes, dreams are where a lot of important work gets done in us. I spent three years of my life with a spiritual director who worked only with dreams – it was a time of deep growth in self-understanding and God-understanding for me. Praying your dreams will continue to teach, warn and encourage you – as only dreams can.
beautiful words. never stop writing my friend. we all need your colors in our world.