TELLING DREAMS

I am not one to normally remember my dreams. Usually in the mornings I have a fleeting sense I dreamt something but cannot remember what. Any dreams I do seem to remember tend to follow a theme, even if at first glance they do not seem to be connected at all. The theme continues, or the dreams will repeat themselves, until I figure out what they are trying to tell me. I know that not everyone puts stock in the meanings of dreams, and I usually don’t buy into the explanations that the dream dictionaries give, because everyone is different, and there are many nuances to each dream that no dictionary could possibly cover. Having said that, I do believe our dreams come from our subconscious minds. In our sleep we try to solve the day’s problems. Or we wrestle in our sleep with something we are totally unaware is bothering us in our waking world. Though, sometimes I am aware of a general nagging feeling but I cannot place it, until my dreams explain things for me.

Since we left a week ago on our maiden voyage in the Raven, I have been having bizarre dreams. Most of my recent dreams include my birth-family members, which is odd because I have not seen them since shortly after my mother passed away almost three years ago. It is a long story, which I will not divulge now. We have our differences of opinion. ‘Nuf said.

The first dream I remember this week involved my twin sister, a friend of hers, and me being honored at a charity benefit. I was upset because they were late in picking me up. The entertainment portion of the program was top notch, and I had helped arrange most of it, but I was missing it because of them. When we finally arrived, they chose to sit in the second row, where we were noticed by everyone as we sat down. It would not have been so bad if my sister and her friend had taken the inside seats and left the outer one for me (since I was last to sit), but they made me crawl over them. Then my sister kept pushing me and telling me to scoot over, but there was a large woman and her small son sharing the next seat. My sister would not stop pushing.

The next night my dream was brief and disconcerting. It was auditory instead of visual. I clearly heard my cat crying, meowing for help. It woke me out of a sound sleep and I later had to call my son to ask if Julius was okay.

The next night, I dreamt that the status quo for the neighborhood we lived in was to dress all little boys in pink. There was even a committee of spinsters and busybodies to discipline those who did not comply. I refused to dress my son in pink, not because boys cannot wear pink, but because he and I were not being given a choice in the matter.

Last night’s dream was totally off the wall. It had many parts. I had parked the Raven at our local Fred Meyer store, intending to go into the deli to get us some jalapeno poppers. For some reason, I wandered all over the store before making it to the deli, and when I did make it to the deli, there was only one popper left, so I did not buy any at all. In home goods, they were demoing wines and they kept pushing a glass of red wine at me, even though I explained that I cannot drink red wine because of the sulfites causing migraines. When we attempted to return to the Raven, I could not find it. The parking lot was full of motor homes, and someone had moved the Raven. From there, I was immediately at my mom’s house. She was going on and on about her boss and this disabled child he was sponsoring. At work, she said that he had declared it left-handed day because the boy was left-handed, and so she wanted to do the same at home. I was fine with it, since I am left-handed. There would be no adjustments I would have to make in order to comply. My siblings, however, were very upset. They thought it was unfair that I did not have to switch hands, too. My argument was that it was left-handed day, not switch-hands day. After that, mom demanded that I take my oldest sister to the dentist the next day. I adamantly refused, saying, “I will not take her and her screaming children anywhere!” My brother was trying to quiet me, but I said that I did not care who heard me. “I am not going to do it. Why wasn’t I asked instead of told?”

To surmise, it seems I may be having internal struggles with my nonconformist choices. Society says that you must have a sticks-and-bricks dwelling and, therefore, a permanent physical address. Society says you must maintain roots, hold down a 9-to-5 job, and do things as everyone else does them. I fear these conflicts with the “norm” threaten our plans. I worry about those I am leaving behind. I fear others may be jealous of our ability to live out our dreams. Even with my fears, it is good that even in my dreams, I am beginning to stand my ground. I am not the mealy-mouthed pushover I once was. In my dreams, I struggle to become the person I want to be, so that maybe my struggles in life will be less.

I have never really fit in anywhere, at any time in my life. I have always tried to do as I am told, even to my own detriment. Now I am standing up for myself. I am choosing to live my own life the way I choose. I was never meant to simply be a follower, though my upbringing and early life tried to keep me down. I am my own person, and at 43, it is high time I figured that out.