“A passage through a cave to somewhere well-stocked and safe and open, a passage through my body—a huge chamber with glass walls. Fish swim goggle eyed. Twilight. Everything washed in somber color since I got here.” [dream journal 9.2.14]
I elect to remember my dreams—often to the detriment of my restedness—because my sleeping mind pulls no punches.
My dreamscapes draw their momentum from my emotional life, which is generally pretty eventful. I feel a lot of feelings. So for me the primary challenge of an active dream practice is one of steel, of guts. To lay my memory at the mercy of my subconscious is to give up my control and pretense. And while I cherish my control and pretense, to allow them to reign my experience unchecked feels wimpy. So I meet myself each night in sleep—touch into whatever of me is spliced into a phenotypic network deeper than my own decision-making. Continue reading