When I was a teenager, I had a recurring dream. It was not a long dream. It was not in depth. But it was always the same. There was a house at the top of a hill. It nestled at the end of a sloped, long, and curved driveway.
There would be ominous music playing.
I would see myself walking as if I was a bird flying low and behind myself.
I would walk. . . slowly. Up the driveway to the house.
I do not remember having any strong emotions despite the soundtrack of my movements.
I remember feeling like the music had some deep meaning that resonated inside of me . . . yet just out of reach to name the feeling with any specific emotion.
I would get to the top of the driveway, open the door.
I would pause for a moment on the threshold.
The me I was following from the sky would turn and look up at the me that might have been a bird.
The human self that I thought was me would have no face.
The human me without a face would then turn back towards the house.
I would wake up.
I have not dreamed this dream in at least 30 years. Yet, I still remember it vividly.
In retrospect. . . having lived almost five decades, the dream itself does not surprise me. I can garner some of its meaning. I can understand much of the turmoil I was going through within my inner self.
I’ve now raised three teenagers as well. I’ve done my best to nurture them through the angst that is the transition from child to adult.
It is no wonder that the dream me was faceless. I had no idea who I was. I was searching, seeking, yearning to figure myself out. To learn to like myself. To learn to love myself.
While I may still be striving to understand, I have learned how to walk across the threshold. I have learned how to look inside and dive deep.
I have learned that writing helps.
357 Days to go