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, neighbors....as 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.
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, neighbors....as 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.
