Dreams, and their meanings, have long been a fascination and the source of thousands of years of research and debate. Ancient dream theories focused on the belief in out-of-body experiences and the art of using dreams as a gateway to the path of enlightenment. In the 1600’s, theories involving the blurred lines between reality and our dream-state, suggested our reality isn’t actually ‘real’ at all. Because our senses during dreams can be so tangibly vivid, perhaps our waking senses are also creating a world that is simply an illusion.
Modern dream theories concentrate on what we see, experience, and feel during our slumberland escapades. Do we dream in color or black and white? Do we remember our dreams? Do we recognize we are dreaming and can we be self-aware while dreaming? What is the purpose of our dreams and why are so many dream themes shared across the population? Modern day research has been heavily influenced by Sigmund Freud, John Allan Hobson, Robert McCarley, Frederik van Eeden, and Celia Green. There are now entire academies, institutes, and universities solely dedicated to dream research.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a love/hate relationship with dreams. I’ve always been a very vivid dreamer, able to recall my dreams in striking detail. To this day, there are nights when my husband needs to shake me awake from some nightmarish scenario playing itself out in my subconscious.
Sometimes, the people and places I see are recognizable and can easily be attributed to a conversation I had recently or an article I read or a program I watched. Other times, the scene is much more Daliesque…walls turned topsy-turvy, faces distorted, background melting or labyrinth-like. I strongly believe dreams are a way for me to sort through things weighing heavily on my heart or mind. My spirit and THE Spirit take me to people and places that I need to see or experience to lighten my load and center my soul. Adventures and conversations I may not be able to physically take or make, are instead, brought to me for closure, renewal, or a fresh perspective.
And once in a while, a dream comes along that is so intense, so realistic, and so powerful, it stays with me; the details and emotions raw and lasting.
Three nights ago, one of these dreams was given to me; a gift I will not soon forget.
There I was, standing in front of my grandparents’ house on Wagner Road in West Milton, Ohio. White siding. Two-story. Small front porch next to the large picture window. Flowering bushes on either side of the front steps. A gangly older man with a shock of white hair peeking out of his straw hat was bent over tending to the flowers. He turned slowly, and with a wily grin, he waved us over.
Us. I suddenly realized my youngest son was standing next to me. He had never seen this old house. And he’d never seen my grandfather well. By the time he was born, my grandparents had been forced to move in with my aunt and uncle, due to the degenerative effects of MS that wracked my granddad’s body and stole his spirit way too soon.
But here he is! The granddad I knew—pruning his beloved gardens, with a sparkle in his eye and just a hint of mischief playing across his face. Healthy and happy, he stands tall and shakes the hand of the great-grandson he never got to know.
My son and I walk around the side of the house. Sitting on the cement stoop, is my grandma…wiry red hair and barefoot, she’s making her way through a bushel of beans, just the way I remember.
Stepping through the side door, the smells of the old house welcome us back. Damp basement. Old newspapers. Wood floors. Fresh fruit pies baking. We make our way downstairs first. The steps are steep and my son ducks to avoid hitting the ceiling as it angles downward. We get to the bottom and to our right is the room that always creeped me out as a little girl. This room is always dark and dank, filled with an old stand-up refrigerator, full-size freezer, furnace, and an area under the stairs grandpa used as a pseudo-greenhouse for his starter plants during the winter.
On the other side of the stairs is a large built-in drawing table, used by my aunt and uncles when they were growing up, for various forms of art, drafting, and wood-working. The tools all neatly arranged and just how they had last been left. Next to the drawing board is granddad’s “mancave”. A room with a cement floor, an exposed sump pump (which looked like a bottomless well to us kids, and into which I constantly threatened to throw my brother!), and all the accessories he needed for his homemade wine making. A small bricked wine cellar, reminiscent of a Hobbit hole, completes the scene.
The main room in the basement is highlighted by a full wall mural painted by my aunt and uncles. Across the length of the cinderblock wall, brightly painted cartoon college mascots play a heated game of basketball. The ping pong table is covered in a healthy layer of dust; paddles and ball waiting patiently for the game to resume.
Opposite the mural, is a long, wood-paneled wall. A built-in shelf at the top, holds grandpa’s prized collection of National Geographic magazines. Hundreds of volumes, catalogued and off-limits to little, destructive hands.
In the corner, a false-front fireplace...always a source of wonder and amusement. As kids, we would run down the stairs, pushing each other out of the way, to be the first to flip the switch which turned on the light bulb hidden behind the fake logs and the fan which would “crackle” the imitation flames. I can see my son’s eyes now roll at my storytelling and this marvelous backdrop!
As I turn the “fire” off, we are magically transported upstairs. We now stand in the kitchen and grandma is at the sink, watching grandpa in the garden through the kitchen window. The formica countertops and wooden cabinets show wear; years of kids and grandkids tearing through the room with various toys, slamming drawers and doors, pounding spoons and spatulas while “helping” to cook and clean. My son and I pull up stools at the counter while grandma grabs two jelly jars from the cabinet and fills them with sun tea. Fresh rhubarb pies are cooling on the stove top and will be ready by the time we finish our little tour.
After a quick sip, we move toward the living room. This is the room with the thick red shag rug, where we find grandma’s sewing or knitting needles when we least expect it. Where we play TiddlyWinks or Old Maid for hours on the floor. The free-standing book shelves are full of encyclopedias, travel manuals, Audubon field guides, and numerous collections of poetry, philosophy, and historical publications. Though an old console television sits in the corner, I never remember it being turned on. An old-style stand-up radio could often be heard broadcasting the Cincinnati Reds play-by-play, while grandpa and I worked on a puzzle. The holidays would find this room resonating with laughter, jokes, and story-telling, with the saddest, Charlie Brown-looking Christmas tree at the center of the festivities.
As we walk down the hall, I can’t wait to show my son the Narnia closet of my childhood! The floor-to-ceiling closet has upper and lower doors. The top door opens to shelves holding the linens and towels. But the lower door opens to a place where childhood dreams come true! Shelves full of games, marbles, play dough, coloring books, dolls, trucks, and all the trinkets and goodies a child could ever imagine! There was ALWAYS something new in there…something we had never found before, or a toy we feared we had lost forever. The piles of stuff seemed never ending and provided hours of unbridled fun! How I wish we could just sit in this hallway for hours now, letting the world fly by!
Beyond the hall are three bedrooms and the one and only bathroom. Growing up, my dad had three brothers and a sister. My aunt always had her own room while the boys shared; two boys in one of the rooms upstairs, and other two boys in the basement. All the bedrooms are about the same size; not large, but plenty big. The boys’ room became an office of sorts, while my aunt’s room was now the “guest room”. The third bedroom upstairs is my grandparents’ room and by far, the most interesting.
Modest and plain with oversized furniture; it is functional, not fancy. The room was ALWAYS clean and organized; never so much as a discarded piece of clothing or pair of shoes was visible. My grandma is the one who taught me how to make a bed so tight you could literally bounce a quarter off of it, and her bed set the standard!
But it is her dresser I remember most. On the top of her dresser lays an ornate hand-held mirror and a decorative tray which contains her favorite perfume dispenser, two small framed photos of her parents, and a string of pearls. As a little girl, she would sit me on her bed and let me play dress-up with her clip earrings and pearls; the heft of the mirror almost too much for a six year old to handle.
I glance into the mirror now, and see my son standing behind me. His eyes in a familiar twinkle I have seen in others before him. I lay the mirror back down on the dresser and turn to make my way back down the hall. My son follows though the kitchen, past the pies, and out the side door. Waiting for us in the driveway are my grandparents. Both of them. Sun-kissed and weathered. Arms around one another. Smiling with their lips and their eyes. Seen by my son, the way I remember them. Generations bridged and spirits bonded despite the boundaries of time and space.
Waking up with my heart full and my cheeks wet with the sweet tears that come from the knowledge that connections made during this nocturnal journey of my psyche are real and intentional. Somehow, someway, my granddad knows my manchild. And the magic of that old white farmhouse lives on as a catalyst for all things familiar, loving, nurturing, and wondrous in my conscious and unconscious.
Dreams…not nighttime visions to be dismissed as meaningless and hollow, but subconscious adventures to be embraced and celebrated as connections to those we cherish and hold dear; memories manifesting themselves as present-day conversations; souls brought together and bonded in ways science and technology will never be able to define.
I truly believe dreams are God’s portal; a gateway to our consciousness used for a variety of reasons and in a variety of ways. Perhaps we need to be reminded that those who have passed before us are still active in our lives. Perhaps we need to be comforted by a friendly face or kind words made so real, we can no longer deny them. Maybe, just maybe, we need to visit a place which we never realized held such significance, but now completely centers us.
Whatever the reason and however the delivery, I welcome these visits and journeys and interactions as they feed my soul and make my spirit soar!