I had MANY strange dreams last night but one really strange one had me entering a suburban house in the midwest and walking upstairs and seeing my mom desperately vacuuming rugs and wall to wall carpeting. She lived there alone. She had all new decor- very Americana- none of our old stuff. Nothing recognizable at all. She kept vacuuming, looked up with angst on her face. Then Tobey, our old dog, walked up and vomited a cat-like hairball on the rug that she was vacuuming. She just kept vacuuming around it. We didn’t do our usual belly laughs. It just felt hopeless.
“Everything can happen. Everything is possible and probable. Time and space do not exist. On a flimsy framework of reality, the imagination spins, weaving new patterns.” – August Strindberg, A Dream Play
Instead I fell down a nap hole and dreamt of a fox.
I was going to write tonight about how much I hate my face, but instead looked up foxes and symbolism. And put on a pot of coffee.
I was going to write tonight about how I (could) love my face, but instead pulled out a drawing pad and turned on Netflix (crime, French).
I was going to write tonight about how strange it was finding my house filled with people last weekend working on my passion project and discussing crime and science, but instead pulled out china markers and white acrylic paint.
I was going to write tonight about how the wind storm swept in as spirits started swirling on Sunday evening, but instead made some eggos with fresh strawberries and honey.
I was going to write tonight about coming across a 1940’s fur coat strewn over a park bench by the Hotel Sylvia. But instead put my drawing board across my lap.
I was going to write tonight about navigating anxiety, but instead tapped into my subconscious.
I was going to write tonight but my hand just drew and drew and drew.
Lore has it that a fox sighting was thought to be a signal from the spirits of the deceased. Fox animal symbolism takes a turn of intelligence in the Celtic realm, as the Celts believed the fox to be a guide, and was honored for its wisdom. The Celts understood the fox knows the woods intimately, and they would rely upon the fox as their guide in the spirit world. [source]
I used to have a recurring dream— it started in my adolescence and continued into my early 40’s-
I would dream that I was getting ready for dance class and changing in a public bathroom stall– it would be at a university pool, or at a community centre, or at a school- but it would always be the grossest toilet stall– and I would try to get my pink tights on without getting them dirty on the gross, disgusting, piss and shit and hair covered floor. Anxiety sweat dripping off my forehead.
This dream repeated for years and years.
Then suddenly, one night, I had a dream that I brought a bucket of hot water, a cloth and a big bottle of Pinesol into the stall and I scrubbed that stall spotless.
And I never had the dirty bathroom dream again.
Until two nights ago.
I’m back in a stall- some kind of school washroom… I recall someone had called me disgusting, so I ran into the stall to hide and, yes, to change. I’m barefoot, and the floor is not only covered in shit and piss and hair, but now also oozing with a brown sludge, slimy, slippery mother-fucking sludge. And I just slip and slip and try to hold myself up and whisper, please, oh please, please, oh please.
Basically, bathroom dreams may be addressing your need to relieve yourself emotionally and/or psychologically. [source]
I know the inner critic/child has been reawakened lately. The little girl inside has been loud. And looking for love. She’s nagging at me, tugging- clouding my ability to think straight and she seems to not want to trust that I am on the right path.
Everyone has an inner child but the majority of us remain oblivious to what it is. Whenever we miss out listening to our inner voice we have a tendency to encounter trouble and face conflict. After we know about our inner child, we are responsible for our own mess and, consequently, start to clear our own mind. This is a message of this dream, that it is time to clear away the old, to make way for the new. If this is a repeating dream, then inner work with our inner child is a necessary part of one’s life. When one is too busy, or disinclined, to heal ourselves, that’s when the dirty toilet dreams start to appear. [source]
So I am taking more time to clarify and ensure that decisions I make now and directions I take are best for me. To just take a breath and follow the heart. I will sit down in the muck, hold my inner child, and listen. Then it is bath time for both of us and reintegration. And I will remind her that I am pretty spectacular and deserve good things and success– and that I won’t deny her or shush her, but love her and embrace her and maybe she’ll finally trust me and open doors for me to sustainable and sustained success.
I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death, And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings His soul and body to their lasting rest. – Shakespeare (King John 5.7.24-7)
I am a bit lost these days. Spinning in place the last few weeks. I know the spinning comes from diving into the past for a certain personal project. The triggers pull the rug out from under me.
And so I freeze, bite my nails, feel exhausted.
Yet at peace… strangely. For I am ready.
I know that the spinning in place also helps the inner critic inside me to rise, causing me to over-think my current book as I prepare a presentation for my agent. I find myself wanting to succumb to self-doubt.
And so I freeze, bite my nails down to the quick, feel exhausted.
Yet still at peace. For I am ready.
And I am taking care to take care. Reminding myself to stand in my successful self. To remember to trust that magic.
Yes- to TRUST.
To just LIVE.
But it’s hard. It is a weighty time. Especially in the fall. The anniversaries come quick this time of year- like Dad’s death October 25, my kitty October 29, Molly’s suicide November 6…
My mother- today.
My mother. My God. 7 years ago- today.
So much to process there. And that is certainly a large part of the personal exploration I am on.
I acknowledge the umbilical cord.
I adore my mom. Miss my mom. Fear my mom. Love my mom. Learned so much from my mom.
As I go further and further back into the past (more on that journey later), I am gathering clues and connecting the dots as to why I am who I am, made the choices I have made, found myself in certain situations, found myself powerless at times, why I am drawn to the therapeutic work I do, why I am drawn to researching crime, why I am drawn to my main character, Molly- why Molly chose me…
So much of it all is intertwined in my relationship with my mom.
And so I’m spinning in place.
Yet at peace. For I am ready.
And I feel it is key for me to try to UNDERSTAND all this– at least to acknowledge and explore, for that may, just maybe, make my spinning stop.
I am so much part of Molly’s story and to write it- I need to know why.
I recall all of a sudden, a childhood dream!
I believe I may have been at age 5 or 6 (before moving to Canada). I know I was very young at the time.
In the dream, Mom and I walk along a gravel road in the middle of a large field. Large empty lots on either side. In the distance- mountains. The lots are empty, unkempt, and overgrown, with knee-high beige dry grass. We are on a single gravel road in the undeveloped giant field, and the road ends as a cul-de sac. There are no buildings. In fact, I don’t see any buildings anywhere. It appears that the lots sit empty, but will be used some time in the future. The centre of the cul-de-sac has a roundabout island, also overgrown with 6-foot tall grasses- some green.
As the dream unfolds, the action loops- we sometimes walk along the right, counterclockwise around the cul-de-sac, or along the left, clockwise… the gravel road and our direction of walking points north.
As we walk around the roundabout island, I am holding my mom’s hand. I am about 5 years old. I feel like I should be scared. We continue to loop- walk down the road again, walk around the roundabout island. I am still holding my mom’s hand.
Finally, we come across a rotting corpse. A human corpse.
The events re-occur again and again. Looping. We walk, we walk, we come across the corpse.
The dream is recurring within the dream.
I am aware that it should be a nightmare, but somehow, it isn’t. Instead, I am filled with curiosity- as long as I hold my mom’s hand.
The corpse shows decomposition, maybe several weeks old. Teeth exposed. I am not scared. As long as I hold mom’s hand. I crouch down and look closer…
Was that the first moment I heard the calling to investigate the silent voices of the dead? To peel back the human psyche to search for clues between the lines, to not take any clue for granted? Was the dream an awakening of the curiosity gene I inherited from my mom?
My dear friend, filmmaker Patti Henderson, requested we start a mutual journal sharing. Do a page on hope, dream, goal, gratitude. Then take a picture and send it. Lather, rinse, repeat. Here is my first page.