It’s been my impression that most people think dreams are a hot mess. My own experience is different. The unconscious speaks in symbols, but speak it does, especially if you’re dealing with an existential question. Symbols aren’t easy to handle, since what they denote isn’t necessarily as relevant as the roles they play, and you have to trust the mystery. This all occurs outside of time as well. Some dreams I had twenty years ago are only now as obvious as boulders falling on my head.
Here’s a segment of one I had last night. It’s the only part I still recall:
There was a wooden desk in front of me. One of those small tables with a drawer, actually. The wood was blonde, like pine. It wasn’t anything special. There was a present for someone—I don’t remember whom or what—in a shallow white cardboard box, the kind of container a store might put a scarf or sweater in. I’d placed it in the drawer some time ago. In the dream, I went back to the drawer to find it, but it wasn’t there. The drawer held only bits and pieces of what might have been the original box and scraps of wood. The rest of the dream was me running around looking for the gift, but of course I couldn’t find it.
I need the lesson very much, and look, it got delivered! (That’s the most important point.) It has to do with why I’m out here in New Mexico and what the years I have left mean to me and anyone who loves me. As parables go, it’s brutal. A glorious kick in the ass. Thank you, someone, God, whatever. This is how it works, and everyone is free to pay attention.