Recently I went on a silent retreat, at the beginning of which I dreamt my daughter was trying to open a locked door with a cleaver. “No!” I shouted. Not only was this dangerous, it would destroy the keyhole.
Then I experienced nine solid days of silence, intense meditation, and long walks in the mountains; difficult memories surfaced; I journaled extensively about life-long fears; I cried a lot. The night before our group began speaking again, I dreamt I was home, washing dishes at the kitchen sink, when the front door banged open. A passel of kids raced through the house and out the back door, laughing and flooding me with affection for my Minneapolis neighborhood. I woke filled with gratitude.
Silent retreats are profoundly interior. Once back in ordinary life, I find it difficult to value the subtle, hidden drama that has unfolded in my heart. What just happened? And why do I—why would anyone—care? I’ve embraced these two dreams as hard evidence: Before my retreat, part of me was locked up; afterward, the doors were open. I’m freer now, safer, and more joyful. Thank goodness for these images, which communicate a truth I could never generate and which I implicitly trust.
Dreams communicate with symbols and associations. They speak an archetypal language while tapping each individual’s unique experiences for images with meaning. A teacher of mine once said dreams whisper in our ear a sacred scripture written just for us; five decades of dreaming have taught me never to interpret dreams but rather read them like scripture. I reinhabit their stories, meditate on moments that strike me, sink into their resonance, and move into silence. Dreams reliably surprise me, describing or predicting my life in ways sometimes unfathomable and always fresh. They stretch me. They keep me puzzling.
Because dreams “revise” my assumed version of events, helping me see with new eyes, I’ve come to understand them as excellent teachers for both life and writing. Isn’t it amazing that sleep gives us alternative perspectives on our days in a language rich with wisdom, metaphor, and mystery?! We’re already blessed with what we need to leap from a literal, locked up interpretation of creation to a joyous, playful, free-flowing relationship—to lead lives resonant with meaning—to trust the significance already resonant in our creations. And the tools we need to learn from these teachers are simple: intention, attention, time, pen and paper. Each dream becomes a small retreat from which we can emerge changed, and with which we unlock the precise creative energy our world so needs. Dream on, dear friends!
–Elizabeth
Photo by Javardh on Unsplash