On this first day of a new year, I recorded my dreams as usual, wondering if they would preview what I’d be dealing with during 2015. Now dead family members—my uncle Jack, Grandpa, Mum—paid me visits, so I’m left thinking about how they’ll influence me in the coming days.
Each morning I walk into my dreams, an invisible membrane I wear throughout the day. The characters and moods and colors of the dreams interact with the world, enlivening and deepening it, as I discover parallels with inner dramas. Gradually, some of the meaning from these nightly narratives seems into daytime consciousness.
The authority in a dream that is trying to intimidate me matches a similar instance in my current life. Or I’m left pondering the image of adding something to a milk bottle that curdled the top layer, though the rest was okay after I poured out the curdled part. I think of the milk bottle top being similar to our head and how things we take in can sour because they aren’t accurate or relevant, so we need to get rid of them.
Dreams function much as the large mirror does in my study, giving depth, creating another dimension. They’re the water that recirculates through me constantly, renewing and refreshing.