the mind's playground

I woke one morning recently in the middle of a horrible dream. It was the mother f*cker of bad dreams. It hung over me the rest of the day even though I realized I was the lucky mom who got to wake up and say, "oh thank god, it was only a dream."

After waking, I pushed back the tears, calmed my wildly beating heart, and waved my kids off to school after hugging them extra close and extra long (hoping they wouldn't notice). I crawled back in bed. I couldn't move, or think, or function.

It was the kind of dream that I will not be talking about. It's the kind of dream I would not want to walk into just any shrink office and share, waiting for understanding or absolution. No way. Not with the kind of dream analysis I've heard, was trained in, rejected years ago as wasteful, misleading, sometimes harmful, often a form of the therapist's projection rather than meaningful to the owner of the dream.

I was not responsible for the dream, even though in the dream I was responsible for the terrifying elements.

My husband came home to find me nearly catatonic, mentally at least. I tried to tell him about the dream, feeling silly to have been found so affected by "just a dream." The attempt at retelling unleashed a well of tears so deep that I couldn't finish. No, I told him, in whom I confide just about everything. I couldn't even tell him.

But the part I did manage to get out, in the retelling, put me right back into the terrifying feelings of the dream, felt again, and sent me into another crying jag.

But sh*t. I had to shower. I had work to do, clients to meet. The shower, I hoped, would clear my head and let me get past the tears. But no, more tears during and after the shower. My towel dried more tears than bathwater.

The drive into the office did help, finally. And focusing on other people's real life problems helped too.

In the evening my husband and I took a walk. He asked about the dream. I was able to tell it all. And then I felt relief. Someone else knows the script that ran undirected through my head.
"Oh god!" He said. Yeah. It was like that.

I met with friends later but couldn't tell them about the dream. Wouldn't. I don't want to be judged, or figured out, or any other dimestore interpretation thrown my way. I don't want my terrifying, imagined ordeal to be retold.

Dreams do not represent us. They do not tell a story of what we want most deeply but cannot admit. Or not always. Sometimes they tell a story of what we most deeply fear, what we worry about for ourselves and our loved ones. And as any mother knows, we worry a lot.

And I have been worried much, lately. Life has thrown a curve ball that millions before us have faced, many have triumphed brilliantly, but too many have fallen under the staggering burden.

And while this dream only touched briefly and indirectly on the actual theme of my worry, the finality represented the loss that I fear.

Dreams, I believe, are the playground of the mind. The cat is away so the mice can play. The CEO is sleeping so the mind can take it's memories, experiences, and feelings and turn them into a story of it's own creation. Make crazy stories. Scary stories. Fretful stories. Hopeful stories. Sometimes the story holds value and meaning. Sometimes it's just a kalaidoscope of randomness.

Some dreams motivate us to take action. This one did. First I looked at the most dominant feelings in my dream: Uncertainty, fear, resignation, regret, grief. I looked hard at the uncertainty. How do I face this particular problem? What can I do? I decided I need to do something, to take action. To move past the passivity and into proactivity.

I reached out farther than I have in the past and have taken steps in a direction contemplated for some time.

Those steps? So far so good. My fears have settled down. Hope has taken up a larger space. Maybe some future dream will guide me toward the next step.

How about you, reader? Have you had a dream that motivated you into action?

Image, The Sleeping Gypsy by Henri Rousseau, found here