The dream

I had a dream last night that my mother was alive and she said to me, “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to keep the house? You can keep the house,” and then she disappeared.

So I kept the house and I mentally removed all the furniture. Then it was empty in my mind, and I started fixing it up the way I wanted and filling it with my own things. I was happy and wanted to live there forever.

OK, I’m not a big believer in the deep meanings of dreams, but this one did mean something to me. The house in question is the one in the photo here, the one my sister, my mother, my father for awhile, and I lived in when I was growing up out in the countryside in Newtown, Connecticut.

The dream wasn’t realistic, because we didn’t even own the house. It was rented from a benevolent, wealthy couple who lived beyond the fields across our road. When I grew up and moved away, and my mother died first and then my stepfather, I didn’t really miss the house, or at least I thought I didn’t.

But I sometimes catch myself thinking rather wistfully about being in a place were there’s green grass right outside the door, a big barn,  flowers in the summer and a pond across the road. A place where you can walk for at least a mile without seeing another house. Where you can get lost in the woods and just sit on a rock and listen to a brook rushing by. Where you can dig in the dirt in your own yard and plant things.

So what was the real meaning of this dream? Did it mean I’d really like to drop everything and move to a house out in the boonies somewhere? No, I don’t think so. I think it was just a reminder that all things can become new and beautiful and truly ours if we’ll just open our thought to it.



Filed under my history, the book

16 responses to “The dream

  1. Libby Unwin

    Wow! Talk about memories. We only just need Sam sitting somewhere!! Thanks for the picture.

  2. Hey Amy…these days I am retreating a bit, into the space of deep silence, but I still have to go onto FB, to answer private FB messages…and I caught a glimpse of this post at the top my newsfeed. I clicked on the linked and started to read…and then, without warning, started to cry…this is lovely…much love, k.

    • I’m in that space myself, actually, and have been for some time, even though I do visit FB…I’m really touched by your reaction to this blog post! Love & hugs,

  3. Ditto, Amy and Kate. I think it isn’t just the space and quietness and nature that speak to me (and, yes, move me to tears). It’s that sense of the innocent readiness of childhood, that comfort and freedom all rolled into one neat and natural experience. I yearn for it, and yet, I know it isn’t a time or a place at all, but simply an awareness. Thank you for reminding me of that “home”, Amy, and to moving me in such lovely ways as you always do. Can’t wait to buy the book. 🙂

  4. Thanks, Laura…it makes me so happy when we can all “resonate” together about something. 🙂

  5. Oh those childhood homes, how they remain in our dreams. I still go back to western New York to our rented farm house and countryside. It was a lovely way to grow up, as you know. Thanks for evoking some strong feelings from the past. Beautiful writing as usual. My mother once said to me in a dream: “A house on a hill will wear you down and break your heart” First I did a poem about it and later a painting. Such strong ties to our childhood. Thanks for sharing your memory and dream

    • Thanks, Jeanie…these memories are still so vivid to me. I love the idea of turning a poem into a painting…it’s no wonder your paintings are so evocative!

  6. Gosh, some folks say “dreams” are everything. I think interpretation and a correct view of life is EVERYTHING! You are “practical” and amazing.

  7. Muriel Vasconcellos

    It’s such an important step to realize that just because we like something doesn’t mean that we have to *have* it. What we own is the enjoyment of the thought, the image, the idea–and we get to keep that forever.

  8. You have such a lovely way of interpreting your dream. Life. Good or bad? It’s mainly a matter of how you look at it and how you deal with it. You choose the good. I’m with you.

  9. Thanks, Merrilee! How cool that you picked up on that!

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