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.