Thank you so much for your analyses. I'm trying to get in the habit of journaling my dreams and have a better understanding of what they mean. I am at a place in my life where I'm rediscovering myself, overcoming trauma, evaluating relationships, etc. so it could very much be symbolic of that. For several years now, I've been researching my family history. Sometimes I have dreams related to family that I have been fortunate to meet before they passed away. And I have often wondered about my ancestors who died long before I was born– their personalities, challenges, hobbies, etc. At the time I had the aforementioned dream, I hadn't been focusing much on genealogy, so I wasn't sure how to process it. The realness of the dream, the warm, family feeling and especially the age and time period. ☺️
Hi again. I encourage you not to let the "silly" idea of journaling stop you (reject any notion that it is corny). Its true purpose is training, helping you focus thoroughly on the dream and then figure out concise communicative ways to translate it (even if just for yourself). This has an additive benefit of making you more aware of details, more sensitive to meanings, and therefore more open minded to possibilities--and one of the amazing things this does is train you to be both a better participant in dreams and also a better analyst (who can gain more benefit from them without being hurt
by them, or rather, hurt by your lack of understanding/acceptance of them)--again, this is an additive process and I have found that dreams will likewise open up and deepen for you so that you
can get more value from them. It is, in effect, the sweetest teamwork between little ol' you, and the mighty, mighty dream realm.
This is why I wrote a fictionalized novel about the subject, and as bonus encouragement, I offer a highly polished dream-excerpt from it, an exceeding rare form where I began as an observer,
became part of the drama, before drifting away (or being "cast out"). It was disturbing, sure, but also
highly informative and meaningful to me.
---
Smells of rich earth and the hum of grand expectations. Not a single straight line on huts or walk paths, but the village seems functional, a true home built from hard labor rather than skill, and fierce love. Despite the situation.
Shabby clothes, unkempt hair and smudges, yet bright smiles. The rains had been perfect and the harvest a success. And now, two of the village’s finest youngsters, beautiful lovers of matching hearts and minds, pledge themselves to each other for all time. A celebration to be remembered with fondness on even the coldest of nights.
Soon, there will be plenty of mead and loud laughter, and even the transient carpenters who toil ceaselessly for the nobility in the land will pause to enjoy this custom and soak in the moment. The lounging nobles and their guards are like a dark cloud threatening to block the warmth of the sun, but the villagers are determined to let nothing spoil this special time. And the lovers have eyes for only each other.
Their love is pure, unspoiled, and a testament to what all people desire, even if that longing is buried deep. Many in the crowd yearn for it, or smile fondly at their own lover while remembering their first time together. But, there is one who feels unbearable envy.
“I will
not bless this,” the fancy young man stands and calls amid muted gasps. The father, the lord, scowls and says nothing, so his son continues. “We were playmates when we were young, before we felt the duty and burden of class.” Feeling his father’s considering stare, the young man turns to him. “There is none more beautiful, more perfect for
me, in all the lands. Had we not been separated, she would be up here with me now.”
The uncomfortable rustle among the nobility is drowned out by the outrage of the peasants; loudest among them is a blind-sided groom. The girl is a frozen statue, the very image of mortification. “How
dare you!” the father of the bride bellows, while the mother and groom close ranks to protect their cherished one. “We do not toil for you so you can make fun of the sacred.”
“
Peace, peace,” the lord commands, rising to his full height. Only the son dares press his advantage.
“Look at her, Father. See the perfection—there’s no way her blood is merely peasant, despite what we thought. I claim nobility runs through her, and so this…” Having moved as close as he dared to the defensive knot, he gestures in disdain to the quivering, red-faced groom. “This…union cannot be right.”
The crowd erupts again, buying me a precious moment.
I realize I’ve been hovering, watching this scene unfold like a drama that has me clenching my teeth. I also know the wounded groom is about to explode and cross a very dangerous line. So I
ghost into him, settle into the tornado of violent emotions, and bring calm and confidence. Just enough to prevent the cry for blood.
I bite my tongue, draw a deep breath, and say, “Let us be. You have no right.”
“I have
every right,” the grossly spoiled boy counters. Pinning the girl with his challenge, he asks, “Would you rather be a dirty farmhand’s woman, or mother to future rulers,
decision-makers? Possibly kings?”
I wave dismissively at him. “Your very question proves you know nothing of our love. Leave. Us. Be.” My sudden change in manner and speech catches notice, especially from the lord who is now eyeing both boys warily. The token guards are also alert.
“
I cannot accept this strife,” the lord mutters, shaking his head. “This must resolve. We
must find resolution.”
“We all believe and trust in God,” the lord’s son declares and holds aloft something that glints in the sunlight. “Let Him decide through this toss of a coin, for He will not choose wrong.” Capitalizing on his moment of opportunity, he glares around. “Does anyone dare say otherwise?”
The father quickly holds out his palm for the coin. “Let God decide, then, as the highest authority, who she will marry.”
With a tiny smirk, the noble boy adds: “Heads and I leave them in peace with my blessing; tails, I get
her tail.”
This twist unfolds quicker than my shock can handle. I witness the exchange of nods, the coin pass, the drop of the arm, bend of the knees, and
plink…the metallic pop as the coin flips skyward.
I feel sick.
Time slows the coin’s trajectory until it is doing slow-motion summersaults into the air. I know something is wrong; I know
right or
choice has nothing to do with this moment. And I know what will show on the coin, even as I strain to see each side when it flashes into view. I feel the boy already straining against the injustice, so he knows it, too.
“Wait,
wait!” The girl shrieks, popping time like a bubble. The coin falls and is caught in the lord’s fist, and he stares at her with raised eyebrow. “Please,” she adds belatedly in a voice that trembles so much I’m surprised she is still able to stand, but now I know that the girl also perceives her fate.
No, I silently scream, but I am helpless to stop her. “I will give your son my wedding night and
only my wedding night if he leaves us alone after that.”
The crowd remembers it has a voice, and the uproar drives me skyward like the scoundrel’s coin. “I want to see that mark,” the boy yells to be heard. The lord scowls and tucks it into his vest, and I’m now positive. “It was rigged,” the boy screams and is drowned out by others. “They tricked her!”
Again, I am the sickened observer, knowing without a doubt that if the girl goes with them she will be forever changed, the joyful, innocent part of her love forever broken. A spoiling incapable of being undone. The boy will get a broken love and be forever trapped by his hatred of the deed. I float further away, and wish they would run for it, flee. That surely the fate of an outlaw is preferable, but I am drifting out of range, unable to tell what is happening.
---
