Last night I dreamt, presumably consecutively, that I was trying on lingerie in a fancy European shop with Sandra Bullock and then standing on a balcony looking out at the view marveling that I could see Spain from where I stood. In the dream, strangeness had no name, as dreams tend to go. So to be standing in, what felt like London or Paris, gazing out at what, my dream sensibility thought of as the island or continent (ha) of Spain, was both awe-striking and yet totally acceptable. I spoke to my companion, now resembling more Penelope Cruz or Jennifer Lopez, I can’t seem to keep the celebrity faces straight as I presume they were morphing (again, as dreams go), marveling at how close we actually were to such an exotic, seemingly faraway land. Such adventure at the tips of our fingers. We could see it from where we stood, the wonder! At the end of this dream, my companion (onto whom I presume I was projecting my own identity – again as dreams go, for me at least) realized I was right and packed her bags. In a smart travel getup complete with a super chic sailor’s scarf, she climbed aboard a ship to traverse the small distance separating one country (island, continent, block of land, no definitions held any meaning in this dream) from the other and set off for her adventure.
The first dream is totally inconsequential (or is it?). Trying on fancy French lingerie with some girlfriends, one of whom just happened to be the super star Miss Bullock herself (oh, the crowd I run with…HA!), chatting about men and life. The latter holds far more weight, in my mind.
I just couldn’t get past the awe I felt, my eyes devouring the chunk of land that held on it such adventure, such newness.
As for the A-list cast, I simply attribute that to having watched the Oscars on my recent visit home. How did I remember this dream? Well, I frankly wouldn’t have, if not for my who-knows-what-A.M. scribbling on my whiteboard in the dark. I woke this morning to see a few words from each dream scrawled in light pink chicken scratch, diagonally across the whiteboard where I write out my to-do list and reminders. Funnily, even in my sleep-laced state, I had managed to scribble said chicken scratch diagonally just beside my neatly bullet-listed itinerary for the next day. Gave me a chuckle before diving in to translate what my dream walking Self had so pointedly wanted to remember.
I’ve been carrying this with me all day. Adventure lay at the tips of my fingers. Destinations and notions that, by default, seem so foreign, exotic and faraway…can actually be seen from right here. Right here where we stand. Who knew?
I find this dream to be very symbolic of life and the way I look at it, especially in the coming year. I feel on the brink of something, something I can’t quite name. There’s a lot of energy going full steam ahead with all I’m personally pursuing and building, and there’s lots under wraps. A lot in the works. It feels great, and at the same time it sometimes feels like a kettle about to boil. Steam just begging to burst through the spout. A volcano trembling, sending microscopic fragments of stone flying, hot magma bubbling just beneath the surface.
I’m standing at a precipice. The path behind me has been erased. It’s move forward and move upward. The only two directions to go. Sometimes, when fear and doubt set in, the view is foggy. It can be frightening. But what my dream has shown me is that whether or not I can see “Spain” off in the distance, illuminated by bright, sunshiny rays against a blue backdrop, my “Spain” is there. Spain symbolizes the journey, the next step, not even a destination. For me Spain symbolizes my dreams. Adventure. Even on those foggy days, I can walk on the clouds. I can step off the crag, leaving my precipice behind me as just another stop along my path, and walk barefoot on the soft, billowing sky cushions. Even if the ground is not solid, I know it will hold me. Be it hard or soft, I will make the journey. I will remember “my Spain.” I will leap, and I will be held.