"I
heard something scratching at my door in the middle of the night," the
young man in the front row began. "When I opened the door, I found my dead
cat, the one that died a couple of months ago. Then I noticed my house had four
stories, which is a couple more than it ordinarily has. I was wondering what
was going on in those extra stories up top. Then I heard my dad's voice. He was
calling to me, 'Hurry up! You don't want to miss the music!'"-
"How did you feel when you woke
up?" I asked. It's always my first question, of any dream.
- "Kind of nervous. My dad passed last
spring, and I didn't know what he meant." - "Have you
had any previous contact with your father, since he passed?"
"Oh sure. I feel like he's been
dealing with a lot of stuff, and I've been helping."
"How did your father sound, when he
spoke about the music?"
"He sounded real happy. Like something
happy was going on."
"If it
were my dream," I said carefully, "I might think that my father's discovered
something really good, and he wants to share it with me. Maybe he wants to show
me that he's found his way, in his new life. If it were my dream, I might want
to see if I could have a proper conversation with my dad. I want to know the
rest of our story. Those extra levels to the house give me the sense of space
and possibility. I might want to light a candle for dad, and put out something
personal pertaining to him - like photo - and maybe something to eat or drink
that he would enjoy, and see whether I can just start up a dialogue. Could you
give that a try?"
"Sure," the young man nodded.
"I like the idea of getting the rest of the story."-
I
looked around the group. "Would anyone else like to share a dream?" A
few hands went up. This was a group of newbies, gathered for an evening program
at an adult learning center. For some of them, this was the first time
they had talked about a dream in their whole adult lives.
"I dreamed I went to this very pricey
restaurant," an older woman began. "I started sipping a glass of wine
and the glass broke in my teeth and the shards of glass were inside my mouth,
stabbing me. I was trying to tell people what had happened, and that I needed
help., but they wouldn't believe me, even though there was blood
everywhere."
"How did you feel when you woke
up?"
"I couldn't understand why they
wouldn't believe me."
"Yes, and how did you feel
about that?"
"It's hard to say. Slightly
disturbed."
"But you didn't feel frightened, for
example? Or disgusted."
"Nothing
that strong."
"Well, that's interesting. That sets a
little distance. Sometimes it's revealing that we don't have strong feelings
around a dream. Reality check - could you go to a restaurant like that in the
future?"
"Sure."
"Is it possible this could involve an
occasion, maybe with family, when there is some conflict brewing and it's
difficult to say your piece?"
"That's entirely possible."
"If it were my dream," I
pursued, "I'd think about the broken glass in terms of emotional
conflicts. I'd think about my need to express myself in such a way that others
can hear me and believe me, on whatever I need to get out."
This resonated deeply with the dreamer.
After more discussion, I asked her for an action plan. She said she would start
by keeping a journal and getting practice that way in saying what she needed to
say.
"Can you come up with a one-liner that moves in that direction?"
She produced one right away, "I'm going to tell my story."
This
threw my mind back to something I had seen the previous morning in my local
paper, at the bottom of the local news page. It was an ad for coffee. Across a
landscape of green mountains scrolled the following text: I realized
today's the day I will tell my story.
The ability to tell our story - and in
doing so, choose the stories we are living - is not only a creative gift, it is
a vital survival tool. We live by stories. If we don't understand that, we are
probably living inside old, unacknowledged stories that may cramp and confine
us, stories passed down through families or imposed on us by others. A grand
way to get into the practice of telling our own stories is to share our dreams,
large and small.
Another woman in the group began, slightly
diffident, to talk about a recurring dream from which she was always relieved
to wake up. "I have a baby, maybe eighteen months old, and I'm supposed to
take care of her. I want to get away because I don't know who she is."
When I asked
some questions, she added, "The baby is fine. I'm the one who's not
fine."
"If it
were my dream, I might wonder whether what I running from was actually a part
of myself. I might want to sit down quietly, at the right time, and take a
closer look at that very young child and see whether she is a very young part
of me that separated out for some reason but is now ready to bring her joy and
energy into my life."
This struck a
chord. She was willing to give it a try. Through our dream stories, we
sometimes find a part of us that was missing is calling to us, seeking a way to
gain entry to our lives, to make us stronger and more whole.
- Notes from my road as a dream teacher. I teach at many levels. There is great joy in teaching beginners and watching the light of spirit come on in their eyes, and their excitement in finding there are ways to share dreams and personal stories that are safe and fun and socially rewarding. The simple four-step method of dream sharing I am using here is my own creation. It always leads to an action plan to embody and apply energy and guidance form the dream in everyday life. I call it the Lightning Dreamwork process, and it is explained, along with other core techniques, in my book Active Dreaming.