I dream of houses. Everyone does, right? When I was very young, I had a scary reoccurring dream. I am in the basement of a large old house. The floor is a burial site, basically, of dirt with row upon row of open graves. My senses are alert in the dream. It smells of old people and it is damp and clammy. There is darkness and silence except for my footsteps. The goal is to walk around the maze of graves from one side of the basement to the other. My fears, with each dream, mutate from that of dead people coming out of the graves to get me to walking the maze and not falling into the graves of said dead people to the relief of crossing to the other side alive...my own kind of undead. When I finally made it, the dreams stopped. It would be years before I understood the significance ~ there is life after death ~ but to an 8 year old, it was just pretty freakin' scary.
Later, I would go on to dream of my childhood home. The dreams were also reoccurring. Each time the house is a little different. My mind creates extra rooms. Remodels like Martha Stewart. Sometimes, I am locked out and can only look through the windows. Because it was common to find scorpions in the basement, I dream of them at the doorway not allowing me to enter, yet, knowing everything I treasure is behind the door. In one dream, I create an attic that is straight out of Architectural Digest. In it is every possible item I can remember owning and loving. It's more like a museum. I am told to choose something. Too overwhelmed, I chose nothing. I can't surrender the words right now of what it's like to lose a home but I actually love these dreams. They are, ironically, memories my mind refuses to release framed in letting go.
Then there is the dream I have only dreamed once. I am on the steps of an old beautiful Victorian home. I sense that all of the rooms are a collection of various disciplines. There is science, art, music...there is even a hair salon...all things are housed here. As I walk up to the door, I hear her laughter. While walking all the hallways and peeking into all the rooms, her laughter grows louder and louder. As I climb upwards, I begin laughing, too. As I make it to the top room, she greets me with hugs and kisses and my tears just pour and pour to the point they've crossed over into the waking world and I'm forced to open my eyes...and there, smiling at me, is her namesake, my then 2 year old baby girl, who has been lavishing me with hugs and kisses while I sleep.