Tag Archives: dreams



Undone am I

On the brink of finality

Holding hands

With the sandman


Unraveled am I

Asleep in my feet

Walking yet heavy

Adrift little boats


Unable am I

For looking beyond

Darking lids

Twitchingly sleepish


Unbound am I

In my dreams

Flying softly

On freedom wings


Unafraid am I

For at second star

You wait

And your dreams


Dreams: a Post by Two Authors


Everything happens for a reason.

Even dreams.

Sometimes even nightmares.

Even being better at something than you thought you were.

Even falling down.

Even stargazing and discovering something discovered eons ago.

Even bonfires.

Even friendships.

Even adventures.

Alright. Especially friends, and especially adventures, when put together.

So here’s to friends on adventures. Here’s to falling down and getting up. Here’s to stargazing.

Here’s to dreams. 

They Dream Their Sleep


Most of us are lucky enough to dream on a regular basis. Our brains don’t get as tired as we think they do—they’re up all night playing while we’re sound asleep in bed.

“Playing” is perhaps the best word. Very little in a dream ever makes sense. Of course, while you’re dreaming, everything makes sense, and only once you wake up do you realize just how strange your dream was.

We tend to have recurring dreams, or at least recurring elements in our dreams. There are the standards, of course: the falling dream, the lucid dream (the delightful kind where you know you’re dreaming), the dream about going through your whole day when you haven’t even woken up yet. Whether we remember them or not, most of us dream. No one is really sure why we dream, but we do, and they make for some interesting dinner conversations.

Dreams, as odd as they are, rarely cross the line into being an extraordinary dream. More often than not, we wake up quietly relieved that whatever happened in your dream didn’t or couldn’t possibly come true. Dreams tend to be the blooper real of what could happen in a typical day, if all social norms and laws of physics were suspended. Every face we see in our dreams are faces we’ve seen at some point in our lives, which is what makes dreams so confusingly “real.” They fall into a pattern of recurring symbols: the late-term-paper dream, the failed-the-final-exam dream, the where-am-I-and-what’s-going-on kind of dreams that we forget on the moment of waking.

But every once in a while, we’ll get a dream that is absolutely, breathtakingly wonderful.

I’ve had dreams that told complete stories, full of adventure and quick plot turns (andalittleromancebutwe’lloverlookthatmovingonnow). I’ve had dreams in which I am in some completely safe and peaceful place where all of my friends are sitting around and laughing. I’ve had dreams where a long-held wish comes true, or I have a conversation with a departed relative. The best dreams are the dreams you can control—where you’re fully aware that you’re dreaming and can make yourself fly, change the environment, alter the atmosphere, and go wherever you want with whoever you want to go with. I’ve had a handful of those, and let me tell you, they’re my favorites.

Those are the kind of dreams that even when you’re sort of awake, you squeeze your eyes tighter because you’re dying for the dream to continue.

Sadly, most of us get nightmares more often than we get dreams like that. If we had sweet dreams all the time, though, we’d get used to them. They wouldn’t be as special. An excellent dream is like a holiday for your brain—a kind of psychological Christmas. Our brains make dreams like that when they’ve had enough of the humdrummery and want something really, really special. Those are the dreams we’ll remember. Those are the dreams that lapse into waking and make the rest of the day a trifle brighter.

Regardless of what you dreamed last night or the day or the week before, may your dreams tonight, dear reader, be worth remembering.   

I’ll Fly Away


Please tell me someone’s done a study on the correlation between stress and daydreams. Surely there’s some survey out there somewhere that shows that the more stressed out people get, the more elaborate and escapist their daydreams become. Someone please tell me I’m not alone in this.

Because I know that if my major were “Professional Daydreaming,” I’d be set for life. It’s as if my life has resorted to a kind of reverse osmosis where the less time I have to do things, the more my mind forces itself to dream things. I get easily distracted. Hey, look, a squirrel.

I praise the Lord that this semester isn’t nearly as stressful as others have been in the past. My course load is just as heavy, and I’m working just as many hours, and I’m involved in way more than I used to be, but other stresses have been trimmed away so that now my soul has room to breathe. God is allowing me to do the things I love—all of them. At once.

Yet every night I look forward to letting my head hit the pillow, so I can let my mind fly over the mountains of deadlines to a green land where I rest in a hammock surrounded by friends, even friends I haven’t met yet, land laughing the afternoon away. I reassure myself that God knows what He’s doing, even when life is confusing, and that one day “the term will be over” and the holidays will begin. I dream of dances and of music fit for angels, and I dream of all of the things that could be, or might be, or should have been, and I drift off to sleep knowing, for a moment at least, what heaven must be like.

Perhaps it is these moments of quiet, but bright possibility that make the rest of harsh reality just that much more bearable.


A Writer’s Vacation


Come. Take a trip with me.

Imagine yourself in your favorite environment. This is the place where you go in your mind when you are most at ease or the most wistful. It may be a secluded wood, a deserted island, the Scottish moors, your home town, or a bustling city crackling with electric lights and human energy. Go to your imagination’s happy place. Park there. Look around. Leave whatever it was that was worrying you locked in the car. You’re at an artist’s retreat.

You’ve parked in front of a building that is just as ideal as its setting. A mountain lodge. A bungalow. A massive tent. A penthouse. This is your imagination we’re talking about here. Wherever and whatever it is, the sole requirement is that it be somewhat secluded, or the building may have the singular power of blocking the outside world. Step inside this building.

Inside there are a few, but a very few, people like yourself. Similar goals similar dreams. Similar tastes. Vastly different writing styles. Positive attitudes. A desire, at least for now, for peace and quiet. People there for the purpose of improving themselves and helping each other improve their writing—or whatever it is that you like to do best.

In every room there are squashy armchairs and couches. Massive mushroom chairs strewn with pillows, or perhaps hammock strung from the wall or the ceiling. There are desks here and there for working. Every room has a coffee maker or a kettle for tea; something to provide either the inspirational beverage or just the inspirational smell. There are musical instruments available for use in a few select rooms: pianos, guitars, violins, here and there a recorder or a penny whistle.

There are pens, pencils, and paper everywhere. There’s a huge central library crammed with every book you could possibly need for research purposes. In this building, there is no such thing as the internet, television, or even cell phone service. No distractions save for those that contribute to productivity, like taking breaks to draw or paint or go for a walk or play a song or a game. Taking a break to let the stories or essays or poems or just strands of words float through your head until they form themselves into something brilliant.

Imagine spending a week there. Just you and your ideas and doing that thing you love.

There. Wasn’t that a lovely thought?

Unfortunately, we must return to reality. Reality, where our schedules, our jobs, our classwork, and our favorite people keep us active and engaged in the beautiful lives God gave us to live. While life is often far from relaxing, the busyness lends itself to ideas, ideas to thinking, thinking to new possibilities. Reality is the stuff that dreams are made of.

Still, it helps to take a mental break every now and then.

Wonder of Wonders, Miracle of Miracles


Something utterly miraculous happened this morning just as I was waking up.

Most mornings I wake up tired. You know the feeling—somewhere between “brain dead” and “hit by a truck.” The alarm rings—or all three of them ring—and we shut them off one by one. Some of us don’t even remember turning the alarm off; our bodies knew better than we did how much sleep we needed. Or what’s worse, we turn off the alarm and then close our eyes for a minute, which turns into two minutes, then ten. During those minutes we’ve dreamt about getting dressed, brushing our teeth, heading to class, and making it to lunch before we realize we’re still in bed. Yes. Usually, that is what my mornings are like.

What’s worse, I used to wake up with an added feeling of weight in my chest. A feeling of foreboding—like depression, but closer to an undefinable anxiety. I know, The Rambler in all her risibility doesn’t seem like the person to struggle with that sort of thing. But I did there, for a while. By the grace of God, and His grace alone, that cloud seems to have passed. But imagine, waking up exhausted and burdened every day for the past few months. Not fun.

Not this morning, though. Not this morning.

The alarm chirped out its little beeping sound, and I was awake. I shut it off and sat up immediately. I bounced—yes bounced—out of bed. Awake. Alive. Enthusiastic. Energized. Rested. I got my coffee. I read the Bible. I prayed. I got dressed, got breakfast—and even when I arrived at my creative writing class, I was still awake. I didn’t feel like I had been hit by a truck. I felt like I had slept for a thousand years and had just seen the first rays of sunshine. I was…I was…


That, my friends, made for a happy day.

Now, this feeling of euphoria will probably die out by tomorrow morning. Who can say. But I will hold on to the memory of this one little happy day. Maybe, just maybe, it will make the rest of the week a little brighter.



Life can be pretty surreal. From moments of déjà vu to looking in the mirror and noticing that first grey hair, life occasionally decides to throw us a cosmic curveball and toy with our senses of time and space.

Take dreams, for instance. While you’re in a dream, it makes perfect sense. You’re immersed in that REM world, and things like flying and running in slow motion and showing up to work in your tighty-whities and nothing else are completely normal. Then you wake up and realize that what you lived for the past few hours made no sense at all.

Every once in a while I feel like I’m living a dream. Not in a déjà vu kind of way, nor a MLK , inspirational kind of way. I’m awake, I’m conscious, but my circumstances are just too dreamlike to make any sense.

I remember being in a play rehearsal last year, sitting in the dressing room with my fellow cast members, when a woman in a formal opened the back door and asked if we knew where the coffee pot was. I had seen said coffee pot on a shelf in a back room, so I promptly leaped up and exclaimed that I knew where it was and trotted from the room to fetch it. I handed her the coffee pot and she thanked me and scooted back out of the door from whence she came.

Random, I know.

Then there was tonight. I and my librarian buddies were walking around bustling downtown Anytown when we encountered a rabbit the size of a small bobcat munching happily at a patch of grass alongside Main Street. We all surrounded it, reaching out our hands to pet it, and it didn’t run away—if anything, it welcomed all of our attention. We wondered where it had come from, how one earth did it get there, and why was this massive rabbit so entirely unperturbed by its noisy surroundings. Someone scooped it up and was about to take it to the nearest animal shelter when a man sitting at a nearby table (who had been watching this entire ordeal take place) took his cigarette out of his mouth long enough to say, “Hey, now, that’s my rabbit!”

Bunzilla, whose name was actually Thumper, was promptly returned to her doting daddy, who apparently doesn’t mind leaving his bunny unleashed and unattended on the streets of Anytown.

Like I said, life likes to throw curve balls at you, laughing all the way.