I write my dreams down, when I remember them. I'm not sure why, except that I have a sense (as do we all, probably) that I'm a completely fascinating person, and everything about me is wonderful.
And maybe I will learn secrets from my inner self.
So far, however, not much valuable info has come to light.
I don't have many bad dreams. Once in a while I have an anxiety dream – losing my wallet, missing a airline connection – but I usually wake up relieved to find it wasn't real. Sometimes I think that's the point: my mind is trying to tell me to worry less. Things could be worse.
And actually my dreams are very pleasant, most of the time.
I spend a lot of my dream time in the big house I grew up in, back in rural Washington state. Everything is just the way it was in 1968. My late parents are still alive in my dreams, and are usually both in pretty good moods. Both of my sisters are still alive too, and make regular appearances. I'm often traveling somewhere, by train or bus or airplane. Sometimes I'm back in North Africa, walking down long sunlit boulevards in Tunis or Casablanca, looking down toward the ocean.
I confess I don't really believe in heaven. It'd be lovely if it were true, but I'm not pinning my hopes on it. But, if there's a heaven, it would be nice if it were like my dreams: big cloudy landscapes, one place blending into the next, always places to go and people to see, and all my dead family and friends still popping up to say hello.
Here's hoping.
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