Tuesday, April 9, 2013

a little dream therapy

This post is going to be a departure from my other posts. I have a post all laid out tracking some of the funny things Peter has been doing lately, but there is SO MUCH going on around here, and I am using this blog to process. So this morning, you, dear reader, get to read about my dreams last night. Don't groan, please stick with me, because I have already written the post and I am satisfied and a little surprised- this dream writing exercise carried with it a lesson my subconscious has been trying to hammer me with, and I now finally just got it.

I have been dreaming about houses lately. Two-story, elaborate houses with turrets and things I need to look up the name of, architectural features; and also one story, simply laid out houses. Almost all with hardwood floors, almost all associated with someone or an event.I guess that isn't surprising- I spend a lot of time in my own house, taking apart its features, planning changes, decorating, deciding to love something as it is.

The two story, rambling homes, loosely based on our home in VA (we didn't have turrets, of course) In my dream this house was only seen from the back, alongside its neighbors at the odd angles they build on near the creeks there.  I don't remember much from the dream, just talking to someone about my memories of living in the house. You could catch crawfish in the creeks there, although I only remember doing that once with my sisters and some friends. We weren't super outdoorsy. I did ride my bike along and thru the dry beds one summer for hours. It was terrible fun. Unfortunately, the hard riding did my bike in. One day I was riding it home from a friend's, standing on the pedals to get up the last steep hill before my house, and the whole frame came apart. My dad took it to the bike shop and the owner asked 'wow, is the rider okay?' They'd never seen that much damage on a bike that wasn't hit by a car. Then my sweet grandpa and sweet father put my handlebars on an old bike we had that was sturdy and good, but it wasn't the same as my shiny, red, comfortable, familiar, beautiful bike, and I never rode it. It just didn't feel right. The seat was unfamiliar, uncomfortable, the body of the bike blue and rusty in places. I wanted to ride it, to please my dad and grandpa. But it didn't feel right. I was still at an age when I wouldn't do things just to please other people. My parents didn't like that much- it was the cause of many fights- but its a trait I wish I had held onto as I grew into my teens and then my twenties. I could have saved myself a lot of heartache.

I moved onto other places in my dreams last night, always noticing the houses, angles and windows and light. The dream this morning ended with an odd little duplex. It wasn't odd in itself, it was quite beautiful, all piney wood and quirky southwest charm. What was odd was that my friend lived in one side, and her ex-husband in the other. So I was having tea with my friend, perfectly happy and enjoying the way the sun came in on her dining room table, as she and her mom bustled around the kitchen, preparing salads probably, and the conversation was relaxed and happy and peppered with laughter. I felt a real longing. Its been a long time since I sat in her kitchen with her and her mom, just enjoying the conversation and company. Completely relaxed. Then for some reason known in the dream, but unknown once waking amnesia sets in, I went to the other side. It seems I was collecting some things, my arms were full the whole time. At one point I sat down on the ex-husband's leather couch, I was meant to watch a movie, but he wouldn't stop talking to me. He was leering, as he used to do, and smug and knew of course everything about which he was speaking of. What strikes me now is how those were definitely characteristics of this person- but so too of many men I've known throughout the years, all whom are (thank our better sense) left behind by us women who moved on to find better and gentler, kinder, more self-satisfied men. At any rate I was very ill at ease the entire time I was there. I wanted to leave and return to the other side of the house, the duplex. But I had grown out of the age when I worried more about what I wanted and less what others wanted. He clearly wanted me to stay. So I stayed. And then my alarm clock went off and here I am.

I hope that if my alarm clock hadn't woken me up I would have stood up and walked out after a polite goodbye. I hope I would have returned to drinking tea with my friends. I hope my subconscious knows what my thirties have brought me- the ability to get up and walk out of any situation I don't like and walk back into the places and arms where I am valued and cherished.
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