Tuesday, March 17, 2009

These Dreams

Consider these song lyrics by Heart, made popular by the same group:

Spare a little candle, save some light for me. Figures up ahead moving in the trees. White skin in linen, Perfume on my wrist, and the full moon that hangs over these dreams in the mist.

Darkness on the edge, shadows where I stand, I search for the time on a watch with no hands, I want to see you clearly, come closer to this come closer to this. But all I remember are the dreams in the mist.

Is it cloak and dagger, could it be Spring or Fall? I walk without a cut through a stained-glass wall. Weaker in my eyesight, a candle in my grip, and words that have no form are falling from my lips.

There's something out there I can't resist. I need to hide away from the pain. There's something out there I can't resist.

The sweetest song is silence that I've ever heard. Funny how your feet in dreams never touch the Earth. In a wood full of princes, freedom is a kiss. But the Prince hides his face from dreams in the mist.

These dreams go on when I close my eyes. Every second of the night, I live another life. These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside, every moment I'm awake, the further I'm away.

Pretty song but a bit spooky. Yet to a dreamer like me, it speaks volumes. I’m a dreamer. Not the heady kind who consistently has her head in the clouds daydreaming, fantasizing, scheming, an optimist with no vision of reality. No, not that kind of dreamer.

I dream dark, murky, and often violent dreams. At night. When I’m in a deep sleep. Often, I have night terrors, waking my husband with a scream or in a sweaty fit. I’m infected; it seems, by visions of my past. For some unknown reason, there are two things I dream about consistently. Tornados and the house I grew up in. Last night was one of strangest dreams about the old house on Waterloo Rd.

During my growing up time, nothing scared me there. I felt loved by my parents, safe, cared for. But truly, strange things happened in that house. Mostly to my mother, who has always been sensitive to “things not seen.” But that’s a subject for another blog.

Anyway, in this latest dream, I was standing in my mother’s kitchen. It looked exactly as it did when we lived there. My parent’s house was full of antiques, but tastefully done. I was peering out the windows over the kitchen sink which happened to be the front of the house. Suddenly, a large bolt of lightning exploded in a straight line from a violent sky. It seared across the front yard, like a ban saw, heading straight to the middle of house. As it cut the house in half, a train track appeared and a passenger train crashed through the house. The train stopped, as if the middle of my parent’s house was a train stop. People got out. Nice folks, apologizing for this horrible intrusion. I was screaming, “How can you do this? Why did you ruin this house? Watch out, don’t touch a thing! Stay away! Get out of here! Get out!”

In a way, I suppose it sounds funny. But in the dream, it was no less than terrifying. In other dreams, I’ve watched my parent’s old house slide off the face of the earth into some red, hot abyss. Tornados tearing it apart, and on and on. But always, my nightmares are about this old house. A house I’ve not seen since the day they moved out over a decade ago. I’ve heard the new owners have all but trashed it. But I dream about this place of my growing-up years, at least once or twice month.


I’ve not a clue. I heard once that someone died in that house. Way back in the 20s or 30s. It was a pretty house. My dad worked endless hours on it, remodeling every part of it. His handiwork was evident in each room. Mom, however, worked like a dog to clean it, repair it, fix it, and decorate it. She was glad, she said, to leave it and move back to the South. It was nothing but work to her.

To me, it’s nothing but a memory. And often, a nightmare. But again, I have no idea why.

I think it’s time to pray it out of my head. I need to get a good night’s sleep.

Blessings to you and yours.

1 comment:

Dena said...

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