Wednesday, September 30, 2009

A Lovely Dream

There are nights when my dreams become crowded. A fairly extravagant dreamer in quiet times, when I am under too much stress, or a bit overworked, my dreams can resemble a painting by Breugel, one in which all his tiny characters not only have dramatic back stories but a multitude of voices with which to share them. Clamouring to be heard, they chatter away in a myriad of accents, each story as imperative as the next, a rowdy, chaotic cacophony. They scurry and scatter, up trees and down avenues, working, cleaning, cooking, running, walking - never sleeping.
I wake up exhausted.
On the other hand, when my days are placid and my mind is calm, my dreams are a serene reflection. They are airier, breezier, more like a Monet. I lazily float on a glassy pond with my fingers brushing past water lilies. I drift like a rose petal along a sweetly scented garden pathway. I wander Westminster in a soft London rain.
I wake up refreshed.
I used to have a recurring dream. It was during a period of time when I was extremely busy, working with several clients at once, all in addition to a variety of other extracurricular activities, time-eaters all. In this dream I was dozing in a bower bed draped with white flowers. Warm zephyrs gently blew the curtains and sounds of the sea could be heard through the open windows. In another part of the house I heard a knock on the door. The door was then answered by director, Steven Spielberg. Outside there was a line of people stretching down the drive and off into the distance; clients, friends, family, far as the eye could see, all wishing to speak with me. Mr. Spielberg (who for some reason was wearing a heather grey fisherman’s sweater) simply said to them all, “
I am very sorry, but Mrs. Terry is seeing no one at present.”. Then he closed the door.
Ah, now that was a lovely dream.