Truth in Dreaming
On the edge of sleep this morning, I had a dream in which I began consciously interacting and interpreting the dream as it occurred. I was dreaming of painting the most glorious work of art with amazing colors. These colors were pure and unearthly, not mixed at all to create the glorious tones I was using. As I painted, a masterpiece unfolded before my very eyes.
It was a stunning piece and I realized people were watching me paint, waiting in anticipation of what I would do next. Then, I felt myself think, “What if I put this on top of it?”
I don’t recall now what the “this” was, but I do know that, by doing so, “this” changed the value of the beautiful paint. As I went about changing the value here and there, people began reacting. Numbers appeared within the paint to show the level of change that had occurred – a sort of paint by numbers, in reverse.
At first there were only twos scattered around the painting and the change was so subtle it was easy to miss. Only a few people reacted at me, but react they did. I felt my tension growing as they murmured and whispered – some speaking about me and the horrible thing I had done and that I should be “done in” and others who were scheming on how they could save the painting and the artist, fix it and make it right.
In desperation, I added more “this” to the painting in another area. Threes showed up and the reaction got louder. I pushed harder. More “this” here and more “this” there until there were numbers all over the painting. The cacophony had grown to unbearable heights. I was sweating and crying and cowering beneath my easel, hoping it would protect me from those who tormented me and those who continually strived to liberate me from them and myself.
Staring up at the painting from the vantage point of the floor, I saw a muddy mess. There was none of the original, pure color showing through. There was only mud and numbers and the screeching of the crowd. As I sat there, tears running down my face and looking at the raging faces of the people – I couldn’t tell who was the lynch mob and who was salvation because they all wore the same exaggerated expressions. The energy of their intention was perfectly matched, no matter at which angle they were approaching me.
I shrank further into my shell, realizing I had become the ultimate victim and that I had destroyed my creation by trying to appease those who had been waiting for me to do something that would make them react. By letting go of the truth with which I had been painting and resorting to adding “this” for their benefit, I had created a huge mess.
My conscious brain had been watching all along and piped up as I began to climb out of the mists of dream world, “Angie, take note… the drama began the moment you veered from the true paint. The more you deviated, the bigger the drama grew until you were fully entangled and whipped. And, in that drama, there is a lot of attention, tension and wasted energy.”
I awoke slowly and found myself curled up under the blankets, crying.