Dream a Little Dream of Me
Random firings of neurons? More like, let’s fire only the neurons that explore Carrie Ann’s insecurities and self doubts.
For a couple of years, I was really good about writing down my dreams when I woke up. You know how some dreams leave you with a definite feeling? It’s strange that I can’t remember my dreams 99.9% of the time, but the ones I wrote down, when I read them I see the movie again in my head, exactly how it happened when I dreamed it, and I feel the exact same “dream-feeling.”
I love to dream. I used to lie in bed and while falling asleep remind myself to be conscious of my dreams, to be “awake” in my dreams. I swear it works. I couldn’t control my dreams, but I was much more likely to be aware that I was dreaming, and my dreams would have more of a narrative, a plot.
God uses dreams. I don’t think he’s ever used one on me, but it’s a nice medium. We are empty vessels for God to fill while we sleep. He could get a lot done that way, but that’s not how it works. He’s got his reasons on the why and when.
The purpose of my dreaming is sometimes to let me know how I’m feeling about something. Not every dream has a purpose for me, but as I keep track, I can see certain patterns. For instance: I often dream about being in some sort of performance or dance where I can’t remember my lines or the next step and I have to fake it. This is because I am a chronic procrastinator, and the anxiety of being unprepared comes out in my dreams.
Occasionally, I will dream about other people. I used to dream about celebrities a lot, especially Kurt Cobain. He was present but not front and center in my dreams for years. But mostly I will dream about people I “have issues with.” I may not know that I have issues with them until I dream about it.
But I am not big on your standard “dream interpretations.” Nothing you find on the internet is going to help you out much. Freud tried his hand at it, too. But I don’t take much stock in it.
Try interpreting this one; I had this dream in 1997:
I dreamed that a Shetland pony was in labor, and I had to deliver whatever was coming out…and what came out was a baby girl. She came with a Styrofoam hamburger box that has sausages in it, that’s how I knew it was a girl, although there was no actual baby. I tried to wrap her in something to keep her warm, she was all mucky. I went to bathe her. The tub was huge, like a stone baptismal font out in a Scottish field. I loved the baby, she was so sweet, but I was having a hard time keeping water in font. Then the pony delivered a boy; I knew this because the Styrofoam box contained hamburger pickles. Then I found out that the girl whose babies these where couldn’t be bothered to carry the babies so they had had them transferred to the pony. The dad showed up with his mom, and he was this young Scottish kid wearing jeans, a white Adidas top, and a gold chain. He said he “just wanted to see the bairns [kids]…” and that was that.