Picture this scene. Empty nest Mama tooling down the highway in her vehicle in Chapter Two, Page 18, of her Opportunity book.
Bright sunshine-filled day. White fluffy clouds in the sky. Temperature hovering near the 60 degree mark.
The snowy landscape that has greeted her for the last three months vanished. It’s so warm inside the car, she cracks open her window and smells the delightful fresh air.
“Spring is coming!” she happily thinks.
And then she realizes she’s been humming the tune, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas!”
Whoa. Back up the truck. Whaat?? This actually happened to me yesterday when I drove to my hair stylist’s salon for a much needed hair cut on a very spring-like day. I realized I had been singing a Christmas song in my head for much of the trip, which made absolutely no sense to me whatsoever.
And then the proverbial light bulb came on. At one point along my way, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a scene that must have prompted the Christmas music CD in my brain to switch on.
Way back at Christmas time, a house not far from mine exhibited a massive Christmas display of lights and a horde of those gigantic blow up decorations, probably at least a dozen or so. Yesterday for some reason, every one of those gargantuan yuletide greetings was blown up and I caught a glimpse of them as I passed by.
I guess I can chalk it up to subliminal messages – you know those images your conscious brain ignores but your subconscious supposedly perceives since your conscious mind doesn’t have time to rationalize or analyze the message.
Makes sense. Evidently, my brain couldn’t rationalize a fleeting image of Christmas decorations inflated and ablaze in the middle of a warm, spring-like February day, so my subconscious latched onto the visual image and voilà , cue the Christmas music!
My subconscious mind is a crazy place, I’ve decided. I am a dreamer. By that, I mean I dream voraciously at night while I sleep. I know this because I remember my dreams often and vividly. And let me tell you, some of my dreams are whoppers!
I once met someone who credited dreams with vast spiritual meaning, so much so that she often consulted with a dream interpreter. No kidding, this person would call her dream guide, long-distance no less, to ask what her dreams meant. She must have programmed the interpreter on her phone’s speed dial because she consulted with her all the time.
My dreams are often wacky, disjointed tales, but if I think long enough and hard enough, I can usually decipher why my subconscious mind spews a bunch of strange ideas out and links them into a bizarrely woven dream tapestry. For example, one night my dream entailed an extremely realistic image of two dogs really going after one another, engaged in a terrible fight.
Before I went to bed, I was engulfed in a book, while hubby watched a World War II movie on TV. One particular scene portrayed an air battle – you guessed it – which was called a “dog fight.” Even though I wasn’t watching the movie, my subconscious picked up the words “dog fight” and literally turned it into an image of two dogs attacking each other in my dream.
To further illustrate my point, I used to dream about having a house full of empty rooms. I would be distressed in the dream and would wander from room to room trying to decide how to fill the void. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist or a dream interpreter, for that matter, to figure out that my brain was trying to help me deal with my soon to be empty nest.
So honestly, I don’t put too much stock into someone who “interprets” dreams for other people, (unless your name is Joseph and your story is told in Genesis in the Bible) which brings me back to my story of the person who employed such a “consultant.” Once I casually mentioned to this person that I had a strange dream the previous night.
This lady perked up when I mentioned the word “dream.” (First red flag.) She asked me to tell her my dream and was extremely interested in the details. (Second red flag.) Later that day, she actually called me to ask me if she could relate my dream to her “dream consultant.” (Third red flag.)
And rather than giving a polite no thank you, I was so caught off-guard that I think I said, “Um…sure…I guess so.” In no time at all, this woman called me back to inform me that the dream weaver, who had never met me, (can I just say thank goodness here?) had indeed interpreted my dream.
I listened. I managed a polite “Thanks for telling me.” Then I hung up the phone and laughed. Out loud. For a long time.
For every image that appeared in my dream, the dream lady had a deep spiritual meaning to impart to me. “Okay, whatever,” I thought. After all, God does give people dreams, just check out the Bible.
But the part that cracked me up was when she attributed the most spiritual significance to one part of my dream, which was going down to my basement and retrieving a container full of old flatware that my dad gave me. Today, I don’t even remember what all she said about this part of my dream, something about the “silver your heavenly Father has for you, which you must dig down deep into your soul to find.”
Now I am all about the fact that our good and gracious God can and does bestow gifts upon us. Truly I believe that, but the reason why I guffawed so loudly is because at the time I dreamed this dream, guess what really existed in my basement? An old tin container of eating utensils from my parents’ camp, left behind items my earthly Dad had given to me when he sold the camp after my mom passed away.
An actual old beat-up bunch of flatware gathering dust crept into my dreams because I was puzzling over whether to keep it or give it away to Goodwill. Of course, the dream weaver had no way of knowing that, but she sure spun a good yarn.
She and my subconscious mind would probably get along just fine.