What's the Title of Your Dream

A dear friend of mine took a dream interpretation class several years ago. I remember her trying to pick apart my dreams so that meaning could be distilled from the stories of slumber. She was convinced dreams are an extension of the subconscious mind; tools to enlighten that space where unconscious meets conscious. She even pursued the possibility for spiritual meanings in the world of REM, and I recall her first question every time she tried to interpret my dream. 

“What title would you give your dream?” 

From there she’d guide me through an exercise designed to help discern what dreams were trying to teach or enlighten me. I think about my friend these days as my dreams, lately, have been nothing short of wacko. Let me give you an example. 

I recently dreamt I was helping a pair of firefighters try to fit oxygen tanks into an underground bunker. I wasn’t actually a firefighter, but somehow ended up alongside the fully garbed, boot buckled fire experts. Let me be clear. In my dream, I was the consultant. Like, that would really happen?  For the record, I think the brave men and women who work as the first responders among us really don’t need my help. That morning, as recalled my dream, I tried to pick apart the story to find subtle meanings, but I couldn’t get past the fact that I was trying offer advice to firefighters about oxygen tanks. 

Even if I wanted to conjure a dream, how could I ever make this up? 

I’ve been paying attention to my dreams of late. I wish I could tell you I’m on a new medication that causes more intense dreams, but I’m not. I wish I could share with you some wisdom laced insight as to the workings of my mind or the state of my life, but I can’t. My dreams, these days, are perplexing. Dreaming about a neighbor when we lived in Texas 30 years ago, or how to turn on a new dishwasher? (I’m not kidding!) Where do these come from? Or dreaming of myself with grey hair? Well, maybe that was my subconscious trying to scare me into making an appointment with my hair stylist.

There are times when I dream about my parents or brothers when I wake feeling happy. I’d like to think dreams might be a pathway where love connects my heart with those I’ve lost. Dreams involving people I like are always a delightful way to start my day. I like happy dreams. When I bring such dreams into the first moments of morning awareness, I smile for a few minutes and will myself to remember them. But then, of course, I don’t. Then, there are those bad or disturbing dreams when, come daylight, I’m just glad they’re over. Those I wish to forget. 

I’m sure we all have dreams stories that pique our consciousness. How many times do we wake with furrowed brow anxious to share with someone the “crazy dream” we just had. I guess the takeaway is that our minds are a vast and fertile terrain where the unimaginable takes root. I’m certain my imagined tenure with the fire department is retired; even the vast terrain of my own mind knows I have no business trying to put oxygen tanks into a bunker. If nothing else, it’s an interesting exercise to give your dream a title. I imagine my dreaming firefighter friends entitling my dream scenario: “Anne, Why Don’t You Go Back to Sleep.” A relief for everyone.