They swooped in, burlap clad people flying overhead like flying squirrels surveying the landscape below. Before they could surround our group on the ground, I ran to hide, finding shelter under a boat and praying I wasn’t seen by the evil ones rounding us up for their cult.
No, I’m not practicing my short fiction on my blog readers; I’m sharing my dream from last night. I have the strangest dreams, but then again, who doesn’t? This was the first flying dream I have had in ages, and I would have much preferred it to be me flying overhead.
I love remembering my dreams and there are those certain ones that remain with you throughout the day, reminding you of their content with little provocation. I know my dreams carry significance, especially when my subconscious is working out a particular problem weighing on my mind. My flying dream probably has some connection to the road trip I am soon to embark on; it’s going to be a long drive on my own. While I am looking forward to it and have confidence in the independence that inspired the trip, it’s the first time I’ll be taking such an extended drive with only dogs to talk to. The cult aspect of the dream was motivated by a comment made by someone in a recent documentary I watched; a son was lamenting his mother’s abandonment to join a cult when he was young. It’s amazing what the subconscious stores and allows to resurface!
There is one dream that reoccurs often and it has much to do with the abandonment I experienced in my early life.
I’m in a house with many rooms. Usually it’s my grandmother’s house or barn; sometimes it’s the wonderful house I lived in on North Street in Attica. I am trying to find a way out. I feel I am being pursued but the predator is never identified nor seen. Each room I come to is loaded with treasures (boxes, trunks, clothing, and furniture) but I am unable to take the time to explore as I’m in such a rush to escape. I never do find the exit. I wake up with a feeling of searching that stays with me throughout the day.
It’s not that I was left on the side of the road or in an orphanage or anything, but I have lived with a persistent feeling of not belonging – anywhere. I’m sure my love of the unknown and my past experiences of moving from place to place have added to my rootless feelings, but it goes deeper than that.
For eighteen years we lived in our first home in Las Vegas (well almost eighteen, we packed up and moved to Attica, NY for four of those years). After we first moved in it took me a few years before I would put photographs on the walls, decorate with knick knacks, or possess a feeling that I was settled. The same for the house I live in now; I vowed we would only live here for two years max; we are in our fourth year now. Yet, there are no pictures on the walls, I’ve never personalized the home with paint colors I like, nor does any room exhibit my personality in any real way, save for the constant disorganization of stuff in boxes awaiting storage in our shed. I often ask myself, when will I feel like I’m home?
Maybe I’ll have a dream soon that will provide those answers for me.