Why is it that my dreams are so vivid, so imaginative, but during the day when I sit down to write I too often struggle with attempting to create the right character arc, or enough drama and tension, or an interesting dialogue. Why does my mind have no problem telling an intriguing story when left to its own devices? In my dreams I discover all these rooms I had no idea existed in the very house in which I’d lived for years. I fly. I seem to frequent elevators that fail to stop at the appointed floor and instead zoom up into space, sailing over the city until I land, somehow uninjured, in a field. The ordinary humdrum of life is filtered out, leaving more excitement that I can conjure up when my eyes are open and my body upright.
Speaking of dreams, I had dinner in Bali last month with a man who told me he writes down his dreams every morning, and he has more than 1,500 dreams recorded, which he assured me was “more than any other man on earth.” I myself haven’t had the discipline to write my dreams each night for 1,500 nights in a row, but I’m not so sure that my dining companion is the only man on earth who has done so. And he takes his dreams to heart. God told him in his dreams that he was the King that will bring back an ancient Kingdom for the Indonesian people. And that he is from the moon. And all sorts of other quite unusual things that made for a most interesting dinner.
Dreams are a mystery, a way to connect to ourselves at a deeper level, thought-provoking, so scary at times that they haunt us even after we awake. Dreams are our imagination soaring large, uninhibited by the constraints society and family and responsibility and fear have placed on our consciousness, free to be who we are or who we want to be.
All this writing of dreaming has me thinking of bed, so I think I’ll sign off and snuggle under the covers and await what movie my mind has in store for me tonight!