I’ve read much on the subject of dreams . The theories of Sigmond and the like, which usually focus on disturbing conjecture about parent and child relationships. They don’t address those of us who have no issues of that type and yet dream . Then there are the interpretive manuals. Maybe I’m just not smart enough to get what they are trying to explain, for I find most of these to be confusing and sometimes contradicting. So being one who dreams frequently and whose dreams cover the gambit from scary nightmares, silly nonsense, pure entertainment ( like watching some inner DVD as there is no one I know in them), classic (like flying), happy ones that I hate waking from, sad ones when I wake with a damp pillow. I’ve even had some that I’ve thought, umm that was pointless and boring.
With some dreams it is clear what caused it , where it came from. Others not so much. If these are very riviting I may wrestle with trying to find a deeper meaning behind them. However as of late I have come to think of my dreams as a not fully conscience artist endeavor. They are the impressionist paintings of my reality, and can be enjoyed (maybe not the scary ones) without dissecting each brush stroke. I do not have to know how Degas captured the movement of the ballerinas or that special light on a young rounded cheek to know the paintings are beautiful enough to make me weep with wonder. So I dream of having a dozen or so kittens that I must keep safe and under control; of a charming Irishman that asks me to dance and when I hesitate tells me I must because it’s on my bucket list, (bucket list comes up quite often in my dreams, I just may complete it the lazy way while napping ) walking paths through a jungle with strangers, or watching my husband and mom sort out trophies and award plaques while telling me they are to busy to talk to me just now, and I know the meaning of “sweet dreams”.