Who knows how young I was when I had the dream for the first time, and I’ve had variations of it a couple times a year since.
The early dreams were almost exactly alike. I’d open a closet in my house and discover a secret passageway into a part of the house that I hadn’t known existed. No one had known existed. The house would always be whichever house I was living in at the moment, only with a bonus.
In my early dreams I’d need to brush aside multitudes of cobwebs and layers of dust as I explored the secret space. I was always saddened and amazed that there existed what amounted to an entire house, complete with furniture, unused and wasted.
Somewhere along the way an epiphany hit and I realized that the dreams were giving me a message–to write. That hidden part of the house, the part that was unused and dusty, represented the part of my brain that made me a writer.
So as soon as I began to devote myself to writing the dreams changed. Now the dust and cobwebs are gone and the space is often occupied by a plethora of characters. Once it was even filled with an entire circus compete with ferris wheel and performers!
But just this month I’ve had two of the dreams, both with a new twist.
In the first I discovered a separate house in my yard that I was very excited to find, since it would make a perfect writing studio. But as I talked with my husband about it we were disturbed by a group of neighbors who entered one door, traipsed right across the open expanse of floor, and out the far door. Then it happened again, and again. It seemed the neighbors had discovered the unused building in our yard and had made a habit of using it as a shortcut.
The second dream happened the night before last. In the dream I’d gotten up very early to drive my daughter somewhere, and returned home with every intention of hopping back into bed to snooze until the sun made its morning debut.
But my bed was occupied by two sleeping strangers. I backed out of the room, confused, and began to explore my house. Everything had been changed–the walls, the furniture, the paintings–and the entire house had suddenly become HUGE. I mean, it wouldn’t have even fit on the block, huge.
I raced around, looking for something or someone familiar, only to find every room redecorated and filled with strangers. I finally reached the ground floor where I discovered a check-in desk. In my absence my house had been converted into a hotel.
It was disturbing, to say the least!
Especially since I sincerely think that these dreams are about my writer’s brain.
Which makes me wonder, why the sudden influx of interlopers?