My younger son leans back in his chair at the dinner table and reaches over to the bookcase. He slips out a glossy paperback and begins flipping through it.
“Why do you have a book on dream analysis?” he asks.
My son doesn’t normally initiate a discussion. This is a pleasant change.
Oh that, I say. When I was working on a piece of fiction years ago, I needed it for research. Interesting stuff.
Dreams over dinner
He doesn’t need to know more. That it was also during an extremely active period of dreaming nearly 10 years ago. While writing, I was trying to decipher mysteries in my childhood. There are extended periods that are blank, though recurring dreams remain.
Then he surprises me. “Do you know about lucid dreaming?” he asks.
I had been reading about lucid dreaming very recently.
Yes, I say. I experience it about 20% of the time, as far as I know.
“Wow. You understand what it is, right? Knowing you’re in a dream while you’re in the dream, and there are ways you can learn how to have lucid dreams.”
Do you remember your dreams? I ask.
“Sometimes. But I’ve never had a lucid dream.”
I nod and watch him eat. He’s silent again.
Connect-the-dots communication
My son catches me off-guard with these questions. They arrive without articulated threads; the connections residing in his unspoken thoughts. He has a habit of providing only the dots and is entitled to do so; others will choose to connect them or not. It is challenging as a parent, and I continue to work with him on more fluid communication, explaining when and how it’s in his best interest.
But otherwise, I understand. I live in my own variation on the same theme: reliant on what is left unsaid as much as what is spoken, on what is withheld out of privacy or economy, rather than shared in performance. I live inside and around and behind my words – those that rally as a cohesive unit when instructed, and those that drift in images, sometimes out of grasp, eventually giving birth to speech. I live in purposeful pauses to be read on the page, in punctuation to slow down or speed up, to convey emotion or its absence, excitement or fatigue. The melody of language and its rhythms form their own heart beat.
Like breathing. Like making love.
My son falls back into the quiet – or noise – of his own thoughts. I drift into the light of mine.
Lucid dreaming
It was a night of dreaming, another good night for sleeping, and for socializing in a bustling world where nothing hurts and everything is alive in a jumble of visitors to my home – adults rather than teens.
There are poets and writers, artists and musicians. English and French are being spoken. There is laughter. Food. Energy.
C’est le rêve de chaque journée.
There was no special occasion, only an impromptu gathering. The conversation is one gourmandise after another – course after course, each unusual and satisfying: airy, filling, savory, sweet. In dream, everything may coexist. Conscious rules are disbanded and reassembled as the imagination pleases.
Just before I wake, one of my guests says:
“You’re dreaming.”
I know, I reply.
“Stay. You need this sleep.”
Yes, I am in a dream and this sleep is helping me. I will stay longer.
“So what do you want to do, in another kind of dreaming? What is your dream?”
It is a forward question, a personal question. It is something I do not speak of, yet I know I am dreaming and I feel safe here so I want to answer. But I say nothing.
“C’est quoi, ton rêve?” He repeats, this time in French.
I laugh. I am inside a dream, aware I am inside a dream, being asked what my dream is. The irony is not lost on me. I am even being queried in the language of my dreams. I laugh again, marveling at the silliness and wisdom of it. Now I am willing to answer, in French.
J’aimerais faire publier un livre, tout petit, de poésie ou de contes. De qualité. Oui. Ce serait le comble.
I feel the warmth of a fire in the hearth, just behind the man who is speaking with me. We’ve never used the fireplace in this small house though I’ve been telling myself for years to call a chimney sweep and I do so again, noting that I must when I wake, and ask for an estimate. This is wonderful, I think. In this dream, I even have a log in the fireplace, the crackle and aroma of holiday scents, burning wood, oranges and cloves.
No, I say, mixing English and French now. I’m dreaming, but I need to rephrase. Il ne s’agit pas de “comble” – un livre c’est le rêve, oui, mais ce serait plutôt un privilège. Le comble, c’est autre chose ; c’est le rêve de chaque journée ; la prière, les yeux fermés : que mes enfants soient heureux et en bonne santé. That I may be here, for a long time, to share it. That is the ultimate. My sons, happy and healthy.
And yes, writing is the dream. Writing is always the dream.
And then there is this. The gift of dreaming.
This is lucid waking.
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Loved this… I don’t think I have ever experienced lucid dreaming. I thinking I am missing out…
I have experienced lucid dreams. They are not the pleasant experiences you describe. As I have mentioned before, most have to do with heart wrenching experiences of losing a child, being ignored when I need help, or other frightening themes.
As for your son, and his sharing of small pieces, that is me. I often allow silence to become my interpreter. I choose to not say something because I am afraid of the passion I feel inside, the sadness waiting to come out, or the anger threatening to explode. I would rather suffocate those frenzies than feel their repercussions.
I feel as if I am rambling. I have a lot on my mind and your post has added another thing to my list. I am grateful. It helps me analyze my struggles while finding my strengths.
By the way, your use of French amazes me. I wish I knew enough to read it! Your writing reminds me of Jane Eyre. How I wish I could have understood some of those French sentences in that compelling novel.
You dream beautifully
I have experienced lucid dreaming before. I know that, but my memories of what those dreams were about is not entirely lucid. Hmmm… but what an intriguing topic. Being aware that we are enmeshed in a dream world. And I love how you end the post poetically with lucid waking.
I’ve said this before, but it’s all about our dreams – actual and metaphorical, lucid or no. Dreams teach us about who we are and what we want. Dreams are like the blog posts – meaningful and messy, utterly unedited – penned by our subconscious. They reveal bits and pieces of self…
Aujourd’hui tu nous as donné un bijou.
Tu verras, tu seras comblée, tu es lucide et romantique et de ce fait tu pourras réaliser tous tes rêves.
Years ago I interviewed Eugene Ionesco who told me he kept notebooks and pens next to his bed to take notes on his dreams throughout the night to “perhaps” incorporate into his writing.
(His apartment was full of rhinoceroses of every sort from leather to metal.)
Comme d’habitude, I shall leave the accents to your bon soin.
Je t’embrasse,
Tish
I seldom remember dreams. I am presuming I have them as my children say I talk a lot in my sleep – usually, as far as they are concerned, giving them permission to do something I would never give permission for.
I love reading your French. I have not spoken French since I was very young – fourth grade – but can still read quite a bit and, during college, use to read Quebec newspapers to keep in practice.
Your dreaming/waking lucidity, particularly the chimney sweep notion, brings to mind Burt from “Mary Poppins”—an exemplary animus in contrast to the rigid bourgeois father of the family; Burt is dirty and ashy at one moment, then splendidly on a jolly holiday the next. His rooftops-of-London viewpoint interweaves with the ideas Aidan floats about our postings and dreams revealing bits of the self… perhaps, taken en mass, even suggesting that we are working on a puzzle of the collective SELF… a messy, beautiful, webby tangle sprawled across some some tabala rasa warmed by a roaring fire.
I had a lucid dream recently where an intruder burst into my house and I confronted him lucidly, saying, “This is a dream and you are my Shadow. Let’s sit down and talk about this.” He stared at me, silent, then took my hands and held them firmly, and then rather tightly. Then everything became a chiaroscuro of black and white abstract pattern, a bit 60’s psychedelic, perhaps, but compelling.
Where’s Inonesco when you need an absurdist to interpret?
I’ve had this, but didnt know what it was. Lovely.
fascinating topic- I have very vivid dreams- every night and I look forward to them (even the bad ones… it’s a relief to wake up and realize ‘it was all a dream’)
I will be traveling on holiday for a month and will not be able to stop by as often as I would like… apologies in advance! xo
I’ve experienced lucid dreams–all of them were horrible and I remember telling myself to wake up, get out of this dream. It was such a weird experience.
I have not had a lucid dream in about 15 years. I wonder why? When I was a kid I remember getting into a dream where I was one of the Voltron Lions. I knew it was a dream and I was able to control the action. For several months I was able to will myself into that recurring dream while I slept (it was a good dream). It was such a cool feeling to be able to control my dreams. I miss it.
It sounds wonderful! I cannot relate as I don’t remember my dreams, but now I think I wish I could!
I feel as Aidan does–I think I’ve had lucid dreams, but I can’t tell you now what they were about. Now I will be more vigilant in my dreaming and waking. Especially since my littlest one is sleeping. Through. The. Night. Oh the miracles. It took my son THREE YEARS. So, now if I can relearn how to sleep through the night, maybe I will dream again. Maybe even lucidly.
As for your son, I think it’s so lovely that he reveals to you these moments. You must just gobble them up and want them to last forever. I can’t know what that’s like yet; as my kids want to be with me all the time and tell me everything. I have to remember to treasure this now. Because if and when they change, I will be sad. And maybe dream of the way things were?
Lucid dreaming is actually a brain state in between sleeping and waking. When you have a lucid dream, some of the areas of the brain that in most people are active only when awake remain active.
When I was hypnotically regressed, I explored the meaning of recurring dreams I had as a teenager. It all came together and made sense about who I was and why certain people were in my life and dreams. My dreams are still a source of information about myself, even if I don’t like what it was.
And what was that like – being hypnotically regressed? Are you sort of lucidly dreaming as that process is taking place?
Huh. Interesting. I think I mostly know in my dreams that I am dreaming… so I guess I have lucid dreams quite often then? I’m not really familiar with the subject. A few weeks ago I had the strangest dream of my life. When I blogged about it I titled it “Not A Dream” because it seemed more like an experience- like I was out of body or something. I blogged about it because it was such a strong and meaningful experience- the problem is, I know it was meaningful but I haven’t quite figured out what the meaning itself is yet. Does that make sense? I think it had something to do with afterlife and reincarnation and spirituality.
Anyway, now that I sound like a whack nut— you have a great blog by what I’ve read so far 🙂 I look forward to reading more.
IntrigueMe
http://quarterforherthoughts.wordpress.com/2009/11/20/not-a-dream/