What Dreams May Come

Lots of crazy energy out there lately. This leads to lots of crazy dreams. But are these dreams really that crazy, or is there a deeper meaning trying to make itself known through the maze of our subconscious?

I believe that dreams have a deeper meaning -- a lesson for you to learn or a message to be received. Maybe you have been ignoring some things in your waking life that need attention. Maybe you are overthinking a situation. Dreams allow the messages to bypass your rational, thinking mind and get straight to the soul of the matter. Well... until you wake up that is, when those beautiful, divinely inspired messages must then pass through your real world filter system.

As you transition from the dream world back into your waking consciousness, this filter system (the ego) reaches out with a big, old fishing net and grabs the messages you received while you were dreaming. The fishing net has holes in it that allow the stream of consciousness you experienced in your dreams to slip through to your rational mind, but it captures the substance of the dream (the fish). The rational mind (the fisherman who really needs the fish) inspects the stream of consciousness, sees that it's just a bunch of useless water with some sticks and leaves and other things that make absolutely no sense and throws it back into the ocean (the Higher Consciousness).

That's where I come in. I analyze and interpret your dreams using many of the traditionally accepted symbols, along with a healthy dose of intuition. I go back in and find the substance, changing the essential elements of those dreams into a form that you can make sense of in your waking life.. You can call me a Dream Alchemist.

From Merriam-Webster:

 Definition of alchemy                         

1. 1 :  a medieval chemical science and speculative philosophy aiming to achieve the transmutation of the base metals into gold, the discovery of a universal cure for disease, and the discovery of a means of indefinitely prolonging life
2. 2 :  a power or process that changes or transforms something in a mysterious or impressive way … the practitioners of financial alchemy that transformed the world of money in the 1980's … — Gordon Williams
3. 3 :  an inexplicable or mysterious transmuting 

"Alchemy and alchemist are in fact older words than chemistry and chemist in English. Alchemists believed that lead could be “perfected” into gold, that diseases could be cured, and that life could be prolonged through transmutation, or a change of some essential element into a superior form."

My process for a full dream analysis and interpretation is unique. When someone shares a dream with me, instead of simply picking out individual symbols within the dream and offering the traditional meanings behind them, I analyze the dream as a whole allowing intuition to be my guide to the messages that need to be delivered. No detail is too small or insignificant. If it was important enough for you to remember and bring back with you into your waking life, it's important enough to include when you share the dream. Things like colors, quantities, and sizes are often the keys that unlock the entire dream.

I think it's probably easier and more interesting to give you an example. The dream interpretation below is shared with permission. Notice the disturbing images in the dream, and how differently the messages come through. Bad dreams are sometimes just a way to get, and hold, your attention.

The Dream

(Related word for word as I received it from the dreamer)

"Just woke from a weird dream. In my dream i awoke in the guest room.... A teddy bear had been shredded to pieces... By the dog (i guess) but no dog was present. My son was there though. I picked up my son and left the room which has a railing overlooking the downstairs living room. I looked over the rail and saw my son downstairs playing with his toys.... I looked in the face of the baby i was holding and though it looked like my son... It was scowling at me....and started gripping me tighter.... I started to panic and asked," Who are you?!? Who are you?!??? Who are you!!!????" And started slamming it against the wall to make it release its grip on me and the wall paint chipped and fell as i slammed it over and over and over.... Then i woke. Whats it mean?"

The Symbols  

(Traditional meanings vary and often contradict themselves for each symbol. I use my intuition in conjunction with my thinking mind to find the common thread. Then I just follow it.)

 

Guest room - temporary situation, a particular aspect of yourself.

Teddy bear - lost security, comfort (the fact that it was destroyed just highlights that further)

Son - your ideals, hopes, potential

Holding - trying to control

Railing - in need of support

Balcony - feeling undecided, trying to get the big picture

Living room - your beliefs about yourself, who you think you are

Baby/toddler - new beginnings, acknowledging hidden potential

Scowling - how you feel about the baby

Gripping - control

Paint - inner emotions, feelings you need to express

Slammed - anger, tendency to keep negative emotions inside

The Interpretation  

(Now I re-write the dream substituting the interpretation of the symbols for the symbols themselves. This is when I let go and intuition takes over completely. I often have to read what has been written before sending it to the dreamer because I don't even know what I typed.)

 You are totally stressed about retirement and all of the changes associated with that. In your mind, you are not just losing your security, it is literally being shredded. Seeing your son in your dream signifies your hopes and your potential for the future, which at first seem very normal, exactly as you expect things to be. You look over your current life and it feels very comforting, although you might be in need of some support as you start to look to the future. But then you look closer, and you realize that all of those hopes and dreams and that potential that you are holding on to, are actually quite terrifying and unfamiliar. And even worse, you are not in control of the future, it is in control of you. It literally has a death grip on you. So you start to try to fight against those new beginnings. But they won't let go, no matter how hard you slam them into the wall. By the way, that wall? Those are your emotions that are beginning to chip away because you are keeping them inside. You are trying to remain in control of the situation and remain calm. Something I'm sure you are very good at doing. But a little voice inside is telling you that, in this case, you need to let people in on how you're feeling. Talk to a friend. Talk to many friends. But you need to let that fear and uncertainty out. It won't necessarily make it better immediately, but it will lighten your load, so you don't crack under all the pressure.

The Conclusion

This person was getting ready to retire from a job he had done for more than 20 years. He knew he was stressed about it, but didn't realize to what extent because he had been ignoring it and shoving it away. After listening to the messages from this dream, he successfully found an outlet for his stress, and continued into the next phase of his life with a greater awareness of his emotions.

So, there you go. Did you learn something from this? Do you like the idea of having me share more dreams and their interpretations from time to time (always anonymously and with permission, of course)? Let me know in the comments below or on Facebook, if that's how you found this blog.

If you're interested in a dream interpretation for yourself, please send me an email at FeelTheEnergy1111@gmail.com.

Dream on!

The Chance I Almost Didn't Take

Several years ago, I had just moved to Estes Park, Colorado -- home of the legendary, and reportedly haunted, Stanley Hotel. Because of my love for the history of the hotel and my interest in the paranormal in general, I decided it would be a good idea to apply for a seasonal Ghosts & History tour guide position.

There was just one REALLY BIG problem.

I was terrified of public speaking.

How exactly does someone who "can't" speak in front of people take a job that requires standing up in front of 20-25 people, several times a day, and speaking in front of them? But in spite of my second thoughts, I showed up for my first day of work to begin the training process. This included learning the detailed history of the hotel and following an experienced tour guide on her tours for a week or two. Then I would begin to take over slowly, giving short segments of the 90-minute tour, until I had learned it completely and was comfortable enough to go off on my own.

The day soon arrived when I was to give my first portion of the tour. By then, I knew the history inside and out. I knew the ghost stories that had occurred at each of the stops throughout the hotel. I had this down, I could do this! I gathered the group of guests together, confidently leading them to the first stop on the tour at the bottom of the basement stairs. I stepped up a couple of stairs, so everyone could see and hear me, turned to face the expectant crowd and froze.

I couldn't remember anything I was supposed to say. I had forgotten all the important dates and interesting facts. I don't think I even remembered the last name of the original owners. (For the record, it was Stanley. You know, just like the name of the hotel.) I stumbled and fumbled as best I could. It was awful. I'm not just saying that. It really was. Luckily, the experienced tour guide was ready to take over for the rest of the tour, while I held back my tears and quietly exited stage left for the safety, security, and solitude of the women's restroom.

Once in the bathroom stall, I let the tears flow. All of the frustration and the embarrassment poured down my cheeks. Mostly I was mad at myself for even thinking I could be a tour guide. I wanted to do the job. I just couldn't. At that moment, I realized I had two choices. I could figure it out, or I could quit. There was no shame in quitting if I truly wasn't cut out to be a tour guide, but if there was even the slimmest chance that I was, I would always regret the chance I didn't take.

With a renewed sense of determination and a passion for the job I wanted to do, I left the safety and security of my hiding place and I figured it out. I did the job so well, in fact, that before long I was representing the hotel on the radio, on television, and at conferences across the country, standing up in front of hundreds of people sharing my passion. I took the chance and I succeeded. I learned that "can't" is just an excuse to allow fear to take control.

So, why did I choose to tell you this story? Well, it's because I am once again hiding in that bathroom stall, trying to decide if I should figure it out or quit. There's no shame in quitting if I'm truly not cut out for this new path I've chosen. But if there is even the slimmest chance that I am, I will always regret the chance I didn't take. I think I know how this ends.

Passion and the Perfect Pear-Filled Pasta

Writing, for me, is the key to everything. For the past year and a half, this key has been missing. Every now and then, over the past few months, I have picked the lock and entered the secret room in my soul where creativity resides, but I have felt more like an intruder than a welcome guest. There is so much I want to say and so much I want to do to make a difference in this world. My refusal to even try to find the missing key has blocked me. But there are stories to be told and experiences to be shared, so once again I have picked the lock and let myself in. I'm still feeling like an intruder, but I'm hoping that if I share some stories, with no other motive than to create a connection, perhaps I'll find that the key has been waiting for me, all along, inside the locked door.

If you follow me on Facebook, some of the stories I'll share over the next few weeks may already be familiar to you, especially this one, but maybe in the re-telling I will add something new. Today for some reason, I am being asked -- no, urged -- to re-tell this story. I know it's the one I am supposed to share because there are a lot of tears coming with it. I'm going to just go with the flow and not try to figure out why it's this one and not another, but I have an inkling that it might have something to do with passion, a feeling that has been severely lacking in my life for quite awhile, with one notable exception. So here we go. Let's see where this leads.

It was my first night alone in Florence, a beautiful September evening. The front desk clerk at my hotel had recommended a restaurant and had made a reservation for me at 9:00 p.m., a very Italian time to dine. When I arrived, I noticed there were several tables on the patio, so when I checked in for my reservation, I asked if I could sit outside.

"Signora, we do not have a table available outside at this time, but if you will wait a few minutes, we will seat you on the patio."

I didn't mind waiting for the perfect table, so I agreed and stepped off to the side, out of the way.

"Signora, please come, you must sit at this table inside. We will serve you wine and appetizers until your table outside is ready."

I sat down at the table, feeling a little guilty because it was a fine table, with a view through the open patio doors to the piazza beyond. When the very handsome, very young, waiter came to take my wine order, I told him that I was happy to eat dinner where I was. It was almost what I wanted, and it was good enough. I didn't need to be moved outside.

"No, signora, you will sit outside as soon as your table is ready."

I tend to try to make things easier on others, even if it means compromising my own desires, so I'm not sure if I had ever before experienced having someone insist that I have exactly what I wanted. He wouldn't allow me to settle for just good enough. It felt nice. A few minutes after my first glass of wine had been poured, the handsome waiter came by, scooped up my wine bottle and escorted me to the best table on the patio.

I ordered pasta filled with finely chopped pears and gorgonzola cheese, topped with a parmesan sauce and pine nuts. As I sat there with the slight breeze blowing through my hair, the sights and smells of Florence all around me, and the taste of the most unbelievable pasta in my mouth, I felt a couple of teardrops slip down my face. For once, I didn't feel the need to wipe them away. They simply added to the sheer perfection of that moment. The waiter arrived at my table, and I turned to him with tears in my eyes.

"Signora, why do you cry?"

"Because I have never experienced anything more perfect in my life!"

I left the restaurant that night with the phone number of that incredibly handsome, incredibly young, waiter in my hand, a huge smile on my face, and the beginning of a love affair with the city of Florence in my heart. I returned in May to continue that love affair for another nine days. Florence is passion. For the first time in my life, I consciously know what that feels like and I want more. I no longer want to compromise my true desires to almost get what I want, or to settle for something that is only good enough.

Whenever I think back on that moment at a table in Florence on a beautiful September evening, it immediately opens the door to that secret room in my soul where perfection resides. Come to think of it, that's probably the same secret room where creativity resides as well, isn't it? Well, damn. There's that key.

What Will You Choose?

A friend recently asked in a post on Facebook, "Are you standing against what you don't believe in, or are you standing for what you do believe in?" While she wasn't speaking to me directly, it felt as if she had grabbed a big, bright spotlight and aimed it right at me.

It's so easy these days to get sucked into the powerful flow of negativity. At first, it's almost a relief to be there, just floating along with the crowd. You may even feel that, if you don't participate in the anti-whatever-you-don't-believe-in movement, you are sticking your head in the sand -- that you will personally be responsible if something horrible happens and you haven't been out there making your opinions heard. But here's the thing. Something horrible is already happening, and its being fed by this rampant negativity. It has nothing to do with presidents or policies. It has nothing to do with walls or immigration or religion.

We are losing our ability to see each other as the unique, beautiful, spiritual creatures who are simply here to have a human experience. We are so wrapped up in our humanness that we are losing sight of that which is eternal inside of every single one of us. That is more of a tragedy, with more far-reaching and long-lasting consequences than any temporarily "bad" situation we could ever be faced with.

At this moment in history, we are being presented with an opportunity like no other. Will we stand like a dam against all of the perceived wrongs in the world, attempting to hold back the insurmountable flow of negativity? Or will we choose to let go of our need to resist that which does not serve us and instead create an escape route, allowing the raging river of negativity to pass, in the process finding our way back to calmer, deeper waters. Each time you post a mean meme directed at a group of people who think differently than you, whenever you get into a right-fighting argument and insult another person, you are no longer the dam holding back the negativity. You ARE the negativity.

Neither choice is easy. Whether you choose to be the dam, or whether you choose to create an escape route. Each comes with its own set of challenges. For that reason, it's important to do the work that calls to you -- there is a lot to be done -- but for me, the calmer, deeper waters are much more inviting. That's the path I choose. If anyone wants to follow me, you're welcome to come along.

A Ripple of Positive Energy

Where do I begin? More importantly, how do I begin? I guess I'll take my own advice and stop worrying about the how and just get started on the what. I hope you read this, regardless of your politics. I hope you read this, even if it pisses you off and makes you uncomfortable. But if you don't read any further, I understand.

I am not an activist. I am not a feminist. I am not a protestor. In spite of that, this past weekend, I attended the Women's March on Washington in Washington, D.C. These are some of my thoughts and experiences.

(I didn't expect this to be such a struggle to write. I seem to have lost the ability to channel the right words from that Higher Place inside of myself. But, it is what it is, and this is the best I have to give.)

Once I decided to go to Washington, D.C., I immediately began to experience resistance from several people close to me and from many who had rarely interacted with me at all on social media. Some were surprising, some not so much. The deafening silence from a few was possibly the hardest to take. No one seemed to understand why I was going. What did I hope to accomplish? To be perfectly honest, I wasn't exactly sure why it was so important to me. All I knew was that I felt the call, and I answered it. For me, it wasn't about protesting against Donald Trump, it was about tossing my pebble and creating a ripple of hope in the river of despair we all seem to be drowning in lately. I wanted to do something rather than sit back and complain about it.

I am proud of myself for getting involved. I am proud of the millions who joined with me in solidarity that day. I am overwhelmed by the positive energy that surrounded us all. I could feel the shift in energy as we each moved in the same direction, with differing but similar intentions, redirecting the current that has carried us for way too long. If you put enough pebbles in a river, eventually the direction must change. There is no other way. I am honored to be one of those pebbles.

Many were quick to make judgments regarding the intentions of the millions, by focusing on the actions of a few, and that makes me sad. Hurtful, negative and downright mean things have been said about those of us who made history that day. Whether you attended the march in Washington, D.C, or a sister march in another city; whether you simply offered support or sent good energy and prayers to those of us in the streets, just know you were a part of what we all did. That is what will make the history books, not the negativity that arose from the discomfort of those who resented feeling our disruption in their flow. We made a difference, and we are not done.

And now, I'll finish with a couple of stories, showcasing the many random acts of kindness we experienced that day. These are just two.

Robert

When we arrived at the train station, excited and ready to head to the march, we were met by thousands of others all waiting for the same thing. We expected to experience large crowds when we arrived in Washington, D.C., but apparently we were a bit naïve about what public transportation would be like. I am claustrophobic in crowds. I am also an introvert who can feel everyone's energy. Crowds terrify me and often cause a panic attack, especially when I am in the middle of a sea of people with nowhere to go. I knew I would just have to suck it up and remember to breathe. I hoped that would be enough. By the time, we had stood for an hour and a half, moving only a few feet, we knew we needed to explore other options if we were going to make it for any part of the march.

We contacted Uber and requested a ride. Surprisingly, we were told to be at the meeting spot in just 8 short minutes! We walked towards the GPS dot which showed us where to find our driver, but he was nowhere to be found. Despite talking to him on the phone, trying to explain where we were standing, we were unable to locate each other. He finally gave up and cancelled on us. Four or five drivers later, all with the same results, we finally met Robert. Robert was an Uber driver waiting patiently to be dispatched with a ride. He was kind enough to get on the phone with our most current driver who was driving around unable to locate us. The frustration was mounting. Finally, Robert was able to determine the problem. The drivers were arriving on the other side of the train station, which we couldn't get to because of the sea of people.

He said, "Get in! I'm taking you to your driver." He wouldn't take no for an answer. So we climbed in and he took us on a high speed drive, more than a couple of miles around in a big circle, to the other side of the train tracks. Meanwhile, we were on the phone with our other driver begging him not to leave us as the others had done. Finally! We located Mauricio, and were on our way, thanks to the random kindness of Robert who took time out of his day to do us an unexpected favor.

Mauricio

Mauricio drove us to the march. I sat in the front seat, while Page and Anne sat in the back. That left me responsible to be the one to make small talk with this person I didn't know. That, right there folks, is my kryptonite.  But for some reason, I began asking him all kinds of questions about his life. Possibly, too many questions, because he missed our exit and got us hopelessly lost for a short time. It turns out Mauricio was an immigrant from El Salvador. He had come to this country because of the opportunities that did not exist in his country: the opportunity to have a job - any job, the opportunity to raise his family in a safe environment, and the opportunity to vote for a president. All of these things do not exist in his country. It put some things in perspective. America is already great, and in spite of the current situation, we should all remain grateful. He asked why we did not support Donald Trump. I told him there were several reasons, but the first was that he did not seem to have the best interest of women at heart. And another was that he didn't support the rights of immigrants to be in our country.

Mauricio said, "He wants to send us all home."

I responded, "We will march for you."

He smiled, and said, "I will pray for you."

Thank you, Mauricio. Your prayers worked. I hope we have done the same for you.

Build a Bridge

If you are a bridge-maker, there is much work to be done.

The ravine-makers have been working overtime to ensure that we all recognize and honor the separation that exists between us.

Man vs. woman, Millennials vs. GenXers, Liberal vs. Conservative. Race, religion, sexual orientation. The haves and the have-nots. Protestors, protectors, law enforcement, and corporations. Safety pin wearers and non-safety pin wearers. The American flag, the Confederate flag, the National Anthem. All of these things have created distinct and visible boundaries, a comfort zone if you will, a way to define who we are in this world and what we stand for, or won't stand for, as the case may be.

Eventually there comes a time when the ravine-makers have created so many things that separate us from our neighbors, friends and families that one day we look around and notice that we are each stranded on our own island, alone and fearful of those who are separated from us by those deep and impassable boundaries originally created to give us comfort. The comfort zone is now a fear zone. Even if we wanted to reach out to our neighbor, we can't, because those ravine-makers have been too successful at their jobs. The fear has become so deeply entrenched, we can't possibly leap across the divide.

That is, until the bridge-makers come along.

The bridge-makers recognize and honor the separation that exists between us just as the ravine-makers hoped they would. They see that it is much too big of a job to fill in the ravines. They applaud the ravine-makers for a job well done.

And then the bridge-makers set about the work they came here to do. They begin to span those immense divides with whatever materials they can find. Love and hope, smiles and laughter. Dreams, goals, aspirations. Similarities and commonalities.  Serendipities and synchronicities. When they are done building, they fearlessly cross those bridges, reaching out to those along the way, bringing people together while dispelling the fear that blankets each individual island.

The bridge-makers rescue us from the solitary life created by the "us vs. them" philosophy of the ravine-makers.

Now, if you think the ravine-makers and the bridge-makers are just another form of separation, think again. You are both a ravine-maker and a bridge-maker. Where do you want to put your energy?

The Prisoner (Ode to Michelangelo)

While in Florence this past September, I visited the Galleria dell'Accademia, well-known for the statue of David prominently on display. He is hard to miss. As soon as you enter the door to the first gallery, there he is, in all his glory, at the end of a long hallway. It's easy to see why visitors are immediately summoned to stand in his presence and to witness the enduring talent of his sculptor, the master, Michelangelo. He is beautiful. He is immense. He is powerful.

He is, after all, a finished masterpiece.

But if you pause, and take a moment to notice the unfinished sculptures that line the hallway leading up to David, you will find yourself witness to the process of creation itself, cut short by the very thing that enduring works of art attempt to cheat. Death.

The Prisoners, as they are known, are the pieces Michelangelo was working on at the time of his death. Their power lies in their lack of completion. When you view any one of them, you begin to notice that Michelangelo wasn't simply carving a figure from the stone, he was releasing the beauty that had always been there, patiently waiting for the sculptor to come along and free it from its prison of marble. If you could just move that little bit of stone, you would find the hand that wished to touch the face of a loved one, or the foot that longed to embark on a journey. Michelangelo wasn't sculpting the hand from his own imagination, or the foot from the vision within his artist's eye, he was simply setting them free to be whatever they were already meant to be. Ironically, when he died, he himself was set free from the bonds of a physical existence, but his death left the beloved unfinished pieces doomed to an eternity trapped in stone.

I can relate much more closely with The Prisoners than I can with David. I am nowhere near a finished masterpiece. I am a work in progress, waiting for my true beauty to be released. For the past several years, I have felt the work my sculptor was doing to release me. Bit by bit, and piece by piece, I could sense the beginning of my freedom as I emerged from the block of stone. Sometimes it was painful, often it was uncomfortable, but my sculptor worked patiently, with love and with care, continuously chipping away.

Setting me free to be whatever I was already meant to be.

Recently, however, I have found myself feeling trapped much like The Prisoners. Doomed to live out the rest of my life, just free enough to notice that I am not free at all. I haven't felt the loving hand of my sculptor for quite some time.

Which leads me to wonder...

What if my sculptor is dead?