The majority of my dreams aren’t worth relating. In this dream, however, my father was still alive, and we were chatting in the bedroom of the house I grew up in. He and mom left the room, and I suddenly thought, “Hey, wait, dad’s sick. No … wait …”
I knew it was a dream, and I knew that knowing that would wake me up. I fought it. I ran down the hallway and grabbed him, held him so tightly. He was alive and he was healthy and reality was about to take that away from me. I was shouting no, no, no, and could see the edges of the dream peeling away into dark, ragged strips of my bedroom here in my current house.
I thought I was still shouting when I woke up, but I didn’t seem to disturb L, so maybe I managed to keep it down. I had the pillow clutched so tightly to my chest that my hands hurt. But that stark, raw emotion of love and fear and basic unfairness had overwhelmed me.
I’ve asked the world before to help me break out of the intellectual wall I’ve spent twenty-five years building around my heart, my opinions, my passion and intuition. I’ve been trying to be more authentic with expressing how I feel, what I want. That wave crashed through me last night and it was incredible. My chest and heart opened, even though it was in sadness.
Today the brain is back in control, telling me the dream was “odd” and how great it would be if I could learn to control that lucid dreaming. I’ve felt it, though; felt it strongly and authentically. It’s a good sign. And it was good to hold onto him again, if only for a little while.
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