I have a dream journal next to my bed but it has very little written in it. Most mornings I wake up with a sense that I have been in another place; visiting another time and it feels like whatever structure I have been inhabiting while I have been asleep was crowded with other souls or beings.
I try to grab onto the tail bit of the dream cape as it exits my awareness. Sometimes, it is like a detective story and I hold only a sheered off strip of fabric of the dream caught on the thorny entry way to day light.
Almost always, I feel as if I have been in a busy place and there has been much information passing between those who have gathered there. These beings or souls or creatures are on purpose: This I know.
Recently I remembered as I woke up that there were over 200 people who had come to where I stood. They were hurt, anxious, depressed, confused. And I knew that I was to find a way to help them. That I could find a way to help them.
The original 200 stood quietly in the architecture of space of that particular dream, but others were pushing into the classically structured semi-cave ampitheatre.
I had to ask two helpers to stand at the door way and keep the winding lines of new comers from entering the already filled space. There were too many. There were too many levels of injury to ameliorate at once.
Sadness along with a clear feeling of necessity was still upon me as I woke up.
There was only enough time, space and energy for those who first came to learn something.
And then two nights ago, I awoke with numbers in my head. I knew that during my dream, I had gathered a group of 86 women who reported only being happy 10% of the time in their lives.
I was immediately suspicious. I don’t do maths. Even the word maths seems specious. I can barely add, let alone fly among the tree hanging vines of more sophisticated enumeration shifting from one to another.
My attitude towards my dreams is something I am working out. Are they messages? Are they astral travel? Are they memories of past life times? Are they echoes or are they callings?
I don’t know. Right now, I am just trying to allow them to stay with me long enough so I can catch a glimpse of them. Their purpose remains a mystery to be solved.
I read in one of the many how to save your marriage books, while I was still hopeful, some interesting advice. (Obviously the methodology requires two so THAT didn’t work.) The coach-therapist suggested that the couple store up good feelings so that they could draw on them when it was necessary in times of stormy weather.
Coupled with my reading on discipline fatigue, I was thinking about designing a life strategy. As I did my daily five loads of laundry, hanging the purple sheet, I thought of how edgy and irritable I get when I stick to my check list, and work with a total focus on building new habits.
I kick like a four year old… “don’t want to”. The promise land of supportive habits is mapped out on my giant calendar check list pasted above my reading chair.
“But what happens when I am just plain tired of making myself do better, be better, push for bigger goals,” I thought as I hung the golden colored bed sheet.
It was then it hit me. I have a less than peaceful relationship with myself. There is tension between me, myself and I.
Basically, she is always dissatisfied and reaching for more. I make a plan… and the vast stretch of the day with undulating hours like some ocean or desert spreads before me. I am both overwhelmed and bored..
“What I need,” I advised myself, “what I need is more treasure in my treasure chest of good feelings.”
Bingo, bazat. There it is. That could help my primary relationship.
Instead of only allowing myself a beggar’s hoard of joyous moments, what if I went after them with intention in order to help out when I was just so done.
Saving positive moments
“But not just indulgences, “I remind myself. “You need to stick to the habit building plan.
I stood back and looked at the purple, golden, yellow and hot pink sheets waving on the line. Beautiful. So simply beautiful. I start with that image. I start now.
So arrest me, already. I went to the beach which is a 20 minute walk away one time this summer and I almost immediately regretted it.
The water was churned up by the flopping of bodies. The sand was searing. Mating rituals involving the showing of skin, the flexing of arms, the tossing of hair were enacted everywhere.
Mothers hobbled by little wagons, backpacks, carry bags were limping either toward or away from the radiant heated beach trying to set up what looked amazingly like a nomad’s village of plastic toys.
The only element that I found uplifting were the line of toddlers marking the tide line. They were intent on learning. Physics of dropping objects, trajectories, weight, force fascinated them. They are trying to understand the rules on the planet. They are intent, absorbed and innocent.
I thought about reading my ever present book; however, the sound of radios, family members screaming to one another important messages just created too much background static.
I sat for a while on the benches next to others wearing hats, long sleeved shirts who looked like the very beach toys that were so laboriously lugged to the water. Only we were all a little deflated. We were slightly hunched over in the 38 degree Celsius heat magnified by the sand and water.
I could barely hear my imprinting ego say, “But this is fun.”
“Oh just shut-up,” I thought.
I gathered my book, towel and sweated my way back to the car.
I have learned physics. There is no way I am going to seduce a mate to appear while posing in my bathing suit. And I just want to read my book.