The Dream

I can’t remember when I first started having the dreams. I think it was when I was a child of about 5 or 6. I was the only child of doting parents which can be a lonely existence really. The job of the only child is to keep their parents happy and be the child that they want them to be. This can be daunting especially since all of their attention is on you alone! Not that I could have been naughty or even wanted to be – just, well, there’s no room for mediocrity – I guess that’s really the way to put it. I was the princess. My mother would spend hours arranging curls on the top of my head as I sat on a stool facing a big dressing mirror. I was blond with green eyes – she was dark –black hair and brown eyes. She came from a family who all looked alike – and I was different. Because of my coloring – I looked like my dad’s side – it was like I had arrived from some mysterious place to her. Her hair was thick and beautiful. Mine was fine and floaty. It was so light that it floated in the air around my head – so annoying. But it was fascinating to her and I was glad.

As much as I adored my parents – who were in a perpetual love affair – the guilt of being a fraud (I wasn’t as good as they thought I was) was my terrible secret. What if they found out? And so I escaped into a wonderful world of my own. Lying on my bed during my afternoon nap, I would imagine fairies dancing in the breeze as it wafted through my window ruffling the curtains. And then there was John and Johnny. But wait, there’s more. I remember the hot, heavy, summer sun beating down on our big back yard with the buzzing sound of bees and waves of butterflies over the flower beds. Two – no three things were wonderful about that place – Josie, my curly black cocker spaniel, the massive weeping willow in the corner of the yard and my little wooden playhouse. Josie was unconditional love all wrapped up in a long pink tongue and a waggly tail. And best of all – she had a litter of little black curly adorable puppies! The willow was my one major achievement because I could climb it without fear (I was very timid). I could climb it better than the little girl across the street who would stand at the bottom and cry because I wouldn’t come down and she couldn’t come up. I was queen of the willow and when the tree was cut down in spite of begging my dad to save it, I didn’t go back out into the backyard ever again. The little white frame play house was just one small room with two windows and a door. This little house was so big deal – my dad was a builder – and he had made it especially for me. And yet, it was another one of those burdens – what on earth do you do with a small house with a table, chairs, cabinets and doll bed when it is buzzing with bees and so terribly hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter? Wonderful things in an impossible place. For me, I solved the dilemma by playing with my dolls in my doll house so as not to hurt daddy’s feelings, sang my songs and then when the bees and the heat became too much……I sat in the doorway and wished a friend would come my way. Josie lolled under the willow as afternoons wore on keeping one eye on me and one on her puppies. That is when my two imaginary friends, John and Johnny came on the scene. I can see them now – John – the mean one and Johnny – the nice one. We spent long days together for almost a year and then one day they were gone. My parents were amused at my endless chatter at the dinner table regaling them (or so I thought) about our adventures. John and Johnny went everywhere with me and even my afternoon naps. That was the ultimate in true friendship. Oh yes, my imagination was keen.

They, the dreams, always started in the same way. They would begin each night just as I laid my head upon my pillow and started to fall asleep. I was the storyteller of the dreams, the manager, the creator – I started the story where it had left off the night before and then I fell asleep and the story continued on as a dream. The next night I would start the next chapter and the story would take flight again. And so on it went on through the years – each night I lived another life while I stood watching in shadows.

But sometimes I, myself was in the dream – not just an observer. Sometimes when I was in a dream I was unaware that I was dreaming. It really seemed real. Once, while in a dream, I found myself as an adult sitting in an old school room on a child-sized chair. A friendly woman whose voice I could almost remember sat with me chatting. It was as though we were revisiting our school during summer break. We sat alone in an empty room. She turned to me and looking into my eyes, she asked me what had happened to all of my horses. Horses? (Remember, I didn’t know I was dreaming). And then I recalled the long forgotten dream stories of my youth and the ones about horses. In my real life I had always wanted a horse – not just any horse – a palomino like my cowboy hero. I knew nothing about horses and living in the city, there had never been a chance of this happening. At first I was startled by her question and then memories flooded in on me of long forgotten days on my dream horses, of the feel of the wind, and the joy of riding up the winding path to my home on a hillside amidst a waving field of sunflowers. My dream brothers and sisters hung off of the porch waving and calling to me.

Certainly I was aware of the fact that I had dream stories but I guess I hadn’t thought of them as a whole life of dream stories. The stories that I now recalled were pleasant to remember again like revisiting a familiar place where I rode horses and had brothers and sisters to play with. Her question ignited these wonderful memories of them all over again. Upon waking, I tried to recapture the face and voice of the woman who had spoken to me but it was gone. Still the dream lingered with me and it comes to me even now. I was surprised that I had forgotten the stories themselves – the early ones like the story of my dream life and still odder that I was actually reminded of them in a dream.

When I was 7, I got a little sister and she became the center of my life. John and Johnny faded back to where they came from. My dream stories abruptly stopped for awhile. Later, but not much, they returned. I was glad to start them again as I loved them as they put me to sleep each night. It was as though I planted the seeds of the story at bedtime and during the night, they sprouted. I found that I could have both – my real life with my parents, my little sister, friends, and school and on the other side – I could live in this world of dreams.

Well I grew up. I went to college. I got married. I had children of my own. It was a happy life. The dreams entwined my journey. They were actually ahead of me in time – I guess they always were. They seemed to be stories of what might happen on down the road or so I guessed. But that never was the case. For when I actually reached the age foretold by my dreams, my actual life was quite a bit different from my dream life. In my dreams, things stayed pretty much the same – I grew older, got married, had children – ordinary things and nice - but easier. Well, for example: My real life was more like climbing over a mountain of large boulders – exhilarating at times, but then a bad foothold and there it was – pain and starting all over again. Frustrating and awesome and sometimes horrifying but for some reason, the need to climb the mountain trumped everything else – that was my real life. It was a constant journey of lessons. My dream life on the other hand, moved along on a smoother journey with twists and turns but usually ending the segment on a wonderful note as if to smooth things out a bit – not exciting at all but pleasant none the less. If the dream story took a turn not to my liking, I would simply change it the next night and put it back on course. And then of course, as I grew older, my dream self grew older too.

My life finally reached a place where I had conquered the rocky mountain so to speak. Life was good – no, life was fabulous! Finally, things began to fit in such a way that those financial decisions of the past brought gold. My bank account grew. My career took flight. My books were published. My success became noticed by others to the point that my “expert” opinion was not only sought out but actually quoted in publications. A new love with a brilliant, handsome, and successful man engulfed me. My children proudly honored me. I reveled in the spotlight with only the slightest concern (was this another incidence of fraud on my part ? Was I really this good?) No matter. I had worked hard for this. I had sacrificed my life, past loves, my children’s companionship for this. I deserved it!

Oddly. I had forgotten to dream. But really, I reasoned, my life was so good that I really didn’t need the dream to smooth things out. I actually liked it this way. True, I felt guilty about it. There was the feeling that I was somehow neglecting my dream life and all of the people in it by this shutting them out. Sometimes, annoyingly I felt it calling to me like a whining dog but still I kept putting it off. My thoughts as I lay back on my soft pillow were all about my wonderful life bypassing any attention to the waiting dream. But came that night when sleeplessness kept me pacing the floor. Trying to read, the words of the book I was reading floated off of the page. Sinking into my soft bed and closing my eyes, my dream opened up. It seemed to start without me this time as though it was tired of waiting and had taken on a life of its own.

I found myself walking down a street in a broken down and trashy neighborhood. Windows in homes and buildings were boarded up with thin broken boards. Black soot clung to everything, camouflaging what looked to have been a thriving city street. The air hung heavy as though it had sucked the life out of all the inhabitants therein and was silently waiting for the next person to deflate. Down the street rolled a rowdy gang of kids, jeering and yelling at those they met. An old house sat back from the street wedged between two large buildings. Something about it struck me – and I stopped, turned back and stared hard. I recognized this place. This couldn’t be…but it was… my childhood home. The city must have grown out to our hill on the prairie and devoured it because here it stood, yellow paint peeling under layers of soot. Back then, It had been such a happy place , with neighbors sitting on the porch in the evening drinking lemonade and playing croquet in the yard, talking all about their day and us kids playing in the grass in the twilight. I could still hear their voices calling out in the dark, “Ally ally outs in freeee!” My dad had built this home with his own hands start to finish with great pride. And there it was standing with a tiny square of concrete in front – no roses now, no laughter, and no wind. All gone. I remembered as a little girl gazing at the ceiling from my big soft bed, wondering about the big wide world out there beyond my room and dreaming.

An old mail box on a leaning wooden pole stood out in front at the end of the walk by the curb. Instinctively, I reached my hand inside and pulled out a wad of mail. Looking down at the mail, I saw to my shock, that it was all addressed to me. It must have been accumulating in my absence because it was almost too large a pile to hold. The first letter that I opened was news from my son. He was in Europe and sorry to say, he wouldn’t be sending me anymore money. It caught me up. Jeff didn’t tell me he was leaving. Money? It had always been me sending him money. Something was very wrong here. Where had the dream gone in my absence? I opened a birthday card from my granddaughter (when was my birthday?) with a message that she had missed me at the cemetery on memorial day but that she had placed flowers on her mother’s grave – my mind whirled – who?…her mother? - my daughter? Couldn’t be - no! The eviction notice lay on the bottom of the pile dated weeks ago. The dream had taken the wrong path! It seemed to have gone on without me. I had not been there to change its course. But I was here now – not to worry. I would fix it!!!

And then I heard the creaking of a door on rusty hinges. Looking up, I saw an old woman, stooped and trembling emerging from inside the house. She paused, looked back over this house with its boarded windows and peeling paint and laid her hand upon the door frame as if saying good-by. I watched as she turned to face the street. Something about her was familiar. Her knarled fingers clutched a bag filled to the brim with stuff – probably her only possessions, I thought. She wiped her eyes with her coat sleeve as she stumbled down the broken steps. I thought I heard a low sob. What was it about her, I wondered? And then her hair caught my eye - thin and grey – floating in the air. As she neared me, I wondered if she could see me. Hoping not, I stood invisibly as always watching her slowly, slowly come. But when she got near, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “You finally came back, didn’t you?” Then it hit me. I felt sickness spread over me. I thought I would collapse. She put out her thin hand and steadied me. In terror, I realized that I was looking into my own eyes. They were pale green cloudy eyes that searched me out through sallow grey skin and an odor of age.

“ I am so sorry, “ I cried out. “I am going to wake up and change this dream. I promise! After all I am the one who created it and I will go back to the beginning,” my mind raced……” I will go back to my real life and ……..”

“But don’t you see?” She whispered. “That was the dream. We are still here.” Time swirled around me like a wind storm filled with illusions of summer days, curtains fluttering in the breeze, the sounds of laughter, new babies, goals to reach, and applause. The swirling air engulfed me and building up to a roar, there was a final pop and the whirling mass seemed to shatter into the air and was gone.

Silence. The cold air sliced through my thin coat. With a choke, a single tear coursed its way down my cheek.

Ah, dreams. Without them life is an empty shell. But… which ones are real? And which ones are…….not?