Do dreams really mean anything? Are they signals? Are they merely your subconscious desires coming to the surface? Are they omens? Should they be heeded in any way?
I know in the Bible, dreams meant something. They were interpreted and turned out to be commands from God about a particular situation, or a warning. I suppose that could be true today, as well, but how does one tell the difference between types of dreams? I've had plenty of dreams that weren't omens or warnings or any type of foreshadowing, though I certainly may have wished them to be.
Sometimes maybe it's not the dream itself, but the feeling it leaves you with, that you just can't shake. Maybe that's the important part. When a dream seems not necessarily real, but clear, and you carry it with you throughout the following day, perhaps that's when you should truly pay attention.
Maybe dreams are another kind of writing, an image that forces you to be honest with yourself, and there is no escaping during the dream itself. And if that feeling lingers, there is no escaping once you're awake, either. At that point, it seems futile to tell yourself that it was "just a dream." Because maybe there is no such thing as "just a dream." Even a nightmare can be some very real fears coming to fruition. And it makes you see yourself more clearly. Maybe it even helps you understand.
Whatever dreams are, they're not a waste.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Late
Baby Girl won't stop crying. The faucet is dripping, plopping into a bowl in the sink, already filled with water, probably filled to soak so that the food won't harden overnight. I'm too tired to empty the dishwasher tonight, and besides, I ought to be as quiet as possible so that if Baby Girl does decide to fall asleep, I won't disturb her. The muted tapping of this laptop keyboard is thankfully much quieter than the basic Dell keyboard for my desktop.
Charlotte, the cat, has made herself comfortable on the bottom rack of Baby Girl's elevated, reclined chair. Her seat, I call it. Every once in a while, Charlotte shifts, and I can see the seat move from the top, which was mysterious at first, until I realized where the cat was. And then, when the cat, unlike Baby Girl, tumbles into a deep sleep, she snores just a little bit. The bottom rack is meant for Baby Girl's toys and blankets, and they're there, but no space is ever too full for a cat to fit.
There's not much worse in this world than the feeling of helplessness, when even holding Baby Girl close to me, rocking, rocking, and singing in hushed tones, makes no difference. I can't possibly know what's wrong, and for a split second, it makes me feel like a failure. I know that she's not hungry, and it's late, so she must be tired. She must at least be half as tired as I am, and I could curl up and sleep to morning from this moment, but instead, I am just waiting for Baby Girl to fall asleep first. It's a race, and I am trying to let her win, but she is fighting.
I hate sitting here and listening to her cry, but what does it matter when holding her doesn't quiet her? It's the feeling of helplessness. Usually just picking her up is enough, but now... Whenever there's a moment not filled with her cries, a shard of hope glistens with the possibility that perhaps this time she has unwillingly given up the fight, that perhaps the darkness of her room has overwhelmed her, and the frustration of crying has drained her energy. And as a moment stretches out, longer and longer, the feeling of helplessness lessens a little. Maybe I did help. Maybe she does feel safe, after all. Maybe nothing's really wrong.
She is asleep. She won.
And so did I.
Charlotte, the cat, has made herself comfortable on the bottom rack of Baby Girl's elevated, reclined chair. Her seat, I call it. Every once in a while, Charlotte shifts, and I can see the seat move from the top, which was mysterious at first, until I realized where the cat was. And then, when the cat, unlike Baby Girl, tumbles into a deep sleep, she snores just a little bit. The bottom rack is meant for Baby Girl's toys and blankets, and they're there, but no space is ever too full for a cat to fit.
There's not much worse in this world than the feeling of helplessness, when even holding Baby Girl close to me, rocking, rocking, and singing in hushed tones, makes no difference. I can't possibly know what's wrong, and for a split second, it makes me feel like a failure. I know that she's not hungry, and it's late, so she must be tired. She must at least be half as tired as I am, and I could curl up and sleep to morning from this moment, but instead, I am just waiting for Baby Girl to fall asleep first. It's a race, and I am trying to let her win, but she is fighting.
I hate sitting here and listening to her cry, but what does it matter when holding her doesn't quiet her? It's the feeling of helplessness. Usually just picking her up is enough, but now... Whenever there's a moment not filled with her cries, a shard of hope glistens with the possibility that perhaps this time she has unwillingly given up the fight, that perhaps the darkness of her room has overwhelmed her, and the frustration of crying has drained her energy. And as a moment stretches out, longer and longer, the feeling of helplessness lessens a little. Maybe I did help. Maybe she does feel safe, after all. Maybe nothing's really wrong.
She is asleep. She won.
And so did I.
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