It is frequently said that among our more boring experiences is to be told of someone else’s dreams. On the other hand, to the dreamer, his dreams may be helpful. I am neither a Biblical scholar nor a mind doctor but I do know that there are examples in religion and psychiatry to support that view. I have learned not to ignore my dreams but I have also learned over decades to beware of paranoia when reflecting on them – or, indeed, euphoria.
On fears, omens and anxieties, a Jungian therapist I once knew said sanely: ‘Look back. How many actually came true?’ Maybe none. For me dreams, sometimes, cast light from the unconscious on to waking events. And commentary as well. More often they are likely to deliver a kaleidoscope of trivia.
They can even be funny, which is very cheering.
I was writing something along these lines last night when my computer seized up and I lost all the copy. I decided to abandon the piece, taking the event as a possible ‘sign’ that I should let these thoughts be. Pretension and presumption are my great enemies when writing anything other than straightforward journalism and I feared giving access to both those foes.
This morning, however, I received the comment from Churchmouse, shown in full below under my post headed ‘Blogger’s Dilemma’ (December 26). He mentioned ‘dreamlike’ evocations of England. What he said was encouraging and relevant to my recent thoughts, to which, because of that message, I decided to return here.
Two nights ago Mrs Llew and I were hurrying on foot along a path which followed a broad and winding river. To our left, across the shining water were fields and hills, corn coloured and green. We were not lost but we were trying to find our way home. I waded through a marshy dip as I sheltered her along its muddy edge. We went up hill and down, in the sun. It reminds me somewhat of the Pembrokeshire coastal path and the banks of the Teign estuary. To our right I saw a lane, bordered by greenery which half hid a series of ancient buildings, not ruined but very old: the kind you would find in a Cathedral Close or within the gates of an Oxford college. A few people looked up from brown, library desks to see us pass.
A fork in our path appeared. One way led into a town and, maybe, home. The other followed the river. I could keep my bearings that way, even though the broad river wound about. That was the way I chose. The sun still shone on the water. The opposite hills and fields were still green and gold under the wide sky.
We walked on, still travelling and still together.
If this dream was a commentary on us there was no darkness by the river. May its blessing include all those we love and for whom we pray.