I have a recurring dream from time to time. I always thought these type of dreams were mythical. A story device or figurative theme. I didn’t know anyone who had recurring dreams, except for the old “I’m naked in a department store or at high school” dream.
It’s not the same dream exactly, but very similar.
I dream about houses. Dreamt about houses last night. Houses I’ve never lived in, but somehow they are my house. Or my mother’s house. Or my grandmother’s house. They are always large. Full of forgotten rooms that don’t get used. Always in need of work, valuable, but nobody wants them. So how valuable can they be?
The house is always in a place that I miss. Rolling hills in the country with winter-dead grass and usually on a hill. Stately. Ancient. Sopping wet from rain on the outside. Inside–some rooms are warm/cozy; some rooms hold ghosts. Some rooms are sliding off into oblivion and I have an insane need to save them. Physical pull to push them back from destruction.
What does it mean? Not sure. Not sure why I have the dream, what precedes it. Or what it might portend.
I reckon it’s a longing. That I miss my family. That I mourn our collective loss. That I can’t go home again. That I never had one, really. That I want to rebuild our foundation, but it’s crumbling with time.
I miss Mom, KC, rolling hills and soggy leaves. But I never really lived there. I survived.