Does this dream sound familiar? It seems to be a pretty common one. As is the one where you’re standing at the pulpit, about to give a talk in sacrament meeting, when you look down and realize you’re in your underwear—or worse, you’re naked. Or the one, common among RMs, where you get called on another mission, but hello, you now have a husband and four children and how are you going to leave them for eighteen whole months? Then there’s the one where you realize you and your husband never actually got married but you’ve been living together all this time and you have four children and how are you ever going to explain this to the bishop? (Or am I the only one who has this dream?)

Studies show that we dream, on average, four to six times per night. My husband has exciting dreams that involve speeding car chases and hijacked airplanes, espionage and karate fights and saving the world from alien invasions. My dreams—at least, the ones I remember—aren’t nearly as fun. What does it say about me that a lot of my dreams lately leave me with clammy palms and a pounding chest?

Take this one, for example: My family and I are trying to make it to the airport, but I can’t seem to get everything packed, and no one is cooperating or helping. I’m running around, gathering clothes, stuffing them in suitcases, but I just can’t get it all done, and then I look at the clock and realize with a sinking feeling that the flight is leaving in ten minutes and there’s no way we’re going to make it. Or there’s this variation of the dream, which has popped up in the last couple of years since we’ve been having financial challenges: We’re about to leave for a trip when I look up and notice our ceiling is leaking. At first it’s just a drip, but then the water starts seeping through the ceiling, running in rivulets to the corners and down the walls, and then the ceiling starts to crack and water pours into the room. I’m trying to find my husband to tell him about the leaking roof—and remind him that we’re late for our plane—but he’s nowhere to be found. I finally find him in the yard, chopping wood (a man who has never chopped wood in his life) and when I tell him the roof is leaking and we have to FIX IT RIGHT NOW and WE’RE GOING TO MISS OUR PLANE he tells me not to worry, that everything will be okay, and goes back to chopping wood. Meanwhile, the house is filling with water and the plane is taking off—and then I wake up in a cold sweat.

I’ve found that most of my vivid or recurring dreams seem to reflect current stresses, worries, problems, or life stages. If we pay attention to them, dreams can help us work through our fears, pinpoint our stresses, identify and resolve tensions in our relationships, and maybe even help us shift directions or make a life change. When I told my husband about the leaking ceiling/missed flight dream, we both realized that I felt he wasn’t paying attention to my concerns, so we had a discussion about that, and I stopped having that dream. Several years ago, when my four children were younger and the only writing I did was compiling grocery lists, I dreamed I was standing on the shore of a wide river, and I saw two friends who graduated with me from the master’s program at BYU—both of whom went on to get their PhDs, while I got married and had a baby—floating down the river in a big raft, laughing and sunning themselves, and I watched as they passed me by. It didn’t take a dream specialist to decipher that one. I knew I needed to find some time to devote to intellectual pursuits, and that started me on a path that, among other things, landed me here at Segullah.

In her memoir, Traveling with Pomegranates, Sue Monk Kidd says, “I think of [dreams] as snapshots floating up from a mysterious vat, offering metaphoric pictures of what’s going on inside. Sometimes the images suggest where my soul wants to lead me and sometimes where it does not, giving me input and guidance about choices I might make.” Kidd keeps a dream journal, a notebook in which she records her dreams and studies them, watching for significant patterns.

So I’ve decided to keep a dream journal too. It takes time and practice to decipher dreams, and writing them down is the first step. And maybe, with enough analysis and some shifts in my thinking and behavior, I’ll finally remember to go to that college class.

And now it’s your turn. What are your recurring dreams? Do your dreams shed light on your struggles and concerns? Do you keep a dream journal? Do you like to analyze dreams? (If so, what does it mean if you’re chewing a huge wad of gum in your dream and you can’t spit it out? Just curious.)

*For a fascinating look at dreams as spiritual gifts, see Barbara Bishop’s essay, “Dreams as Gifts of the Spirit,” in the Summer 2009 issue of Segullah.

Related posts:

1. To sleep, perchance to dream
2. Buried
3. Dreams as Spiritual Gifts: An Interview with Barbara Bishop

I wanted to be a poet. Well, a poet and a mother. And one of those things had finally come to fruition: I had a baby.

Now this baby left me blindsided and sputtering, a swimming-type gasp for air, as I realized the impossibility of doing anything by myself or for myself (first and foremost) ever again. Eventually, this was a wholehearted blessing—a real gift. The sort of thing that was good for me in the way vitamins were good for me and joyful to me in a way I had never understood joy before.

Ten years (and four kids) later I’m all about my present circumstances and not so much interested in my possibility. I’m often troubled by my seeming lack of drive and feel blessed but worried by my utter contentment with motherhood. What will I do when my kids are grown and gone? Will I finally be that poet? Or will I be a new something else?

And what happened to my dreams? To lofty goals?  I have to be convinced that they’re still there, somewhere. Like the full moon or the stars in a night full of cloud cover: I see light enough to know they exist beyond, but the actual contours of a milk-saucer circle and pinpoints of light are invisible to me. Am I without celestial navigation? And should this worry me? Because rather, I’m pleasantly adrift on sublime waters and want for no destination.

Still, I know eventually I will shore up on something. Eventually things will change. Eventually I will be empty-nested and face to face with a 24-year-old girl, pre-children, and she and I will have to reconcile ourselves to each other and figure it out. Will we?

How did you? How have you set and achieved goals for yourself? Do these goals feel exclusive from motherhood? How have you balanced writing careers and books and college and other pursuits with raising a family?

And, if you could achieve one dream without failure, what would it be?

Related posts:

1. Resolved
2. Stars Bright
3. The Privilege of Being a Mormon Woman

We’re happy to tell you that we’ve managed to sneak in one last UP CLOSE motherhood post by Eliana Osborn.  Eliana worships the sun in the desert southwest.  She spends her days teaching her two young Jedi masters to only use the force for good, as well as at Arizona Western College.  She has published in Budget Travel magazine and Literary Mama, with upcoming work in The Friend and San Diego Family Magazine.

“Right this way folks, circle around the Picasso on the left.”

 I’m surrounded by a group of tourists holding museum brochures and looking anxiously up at the large painting of a blue man mournfully playing his guitar. The cold Chicago wind is far away from our entourage deep inside the Art Institute.

“As you can see, this is from the Blue period. Can anyone tell me how this is different from his later works?”

A sudden crash brings me back to the family room, where I’m building the world’s largest two-car garage out of nothing more than wooden blocks.

“The dinosaur got it, Mommy! Do it again!”

The hours of the day spread before me, endless repetitions of songs and books and ball throwing. I start to stack blocks again, this time with a plan: I’ll only use the triangle ones. My son is enchanted by patterns and it’s as though I have invented a whole new style of architecture.

The sand is blowing, scorching my face. I wipe a slow moving drop of sweat from between my breasts and try to focus on what is before me. Something is coming into focus after hours of careful excavation. I’m just using my horsehair brush now, sweeping the last bits of dirt away. The hieroglyphics are carved into the top of the casket. I take a quick photo before trying to decipher the message. We’ve been searching the area for months, looking for more than a few pottery shards. I call for my assistant, who scurries over, loudly popping gum. When she sees the massive find in front of me, her mouth drops open and stays that way. Though most of the color has faded, bits of lapis and ochre stand out in contrast to the beige everything.

  Feeling the engraved text with my finger, I begin to translate each glyph aloud.

“Mama! You didn’t say it right. You skipped a page.” Cole’s entreaties bring me back to the family room, where we’re sitting on the couch, reading about a monkey with endless curiosity. It is hot; the air conditioning hasn’t turned on. Or maybe I’m sweating because this little person is less than an inch away from me. 

We start the book again. George begins his adventure on a ship while we’re stuck here looking at the pictures of it. I glance at my son’s face while turning the page—he’s gleefully unaware of my boredom, caught up wondering what will come next for his furry little friend. With a deep breath I smile and make a suitably serious voice for The Man in the Yellow Hat.

 Cole’s down for his nap without a fuss and I pop some taquitos into the toaster oven. I flip through the latest Newsweek at the dining room table while I wait.

“Up next, women’s uneven bars.”

My hands are moist as I rub chalk on them and try to ignore the flashing cameras all around the stadium. Coach slaps me on the back with a last, “Be sure to stick your landing,” and then it is my turn. In my red, white, and blue leotard I throw my shoulders back, run, and leap up to grab the high bar. The crowd goes wild–if I do well, Team America will snatch the gold medal from the Chinese.

Spinning and snapping, I am back and forth, legs and arms switching places in an endless series of twists and turns. This is it! I nailed it! Not a single mistake. I spin around one last time before dismounting, and leap.

Smack, my butt hits the floor. The oven timer sounds and I look around confused. This is not a stadium. This is my dining room. I did not botch my landing; I just fell off my chair. 

It’s not every day I fantasize about alternate lives. Some days it is constant, especially when my toddler is feeling needy. Apparently, growing up is harsher than it looks and he needs periodic comfort. As we sit, endlessly sit, with him on my lap and nothing but soothing sounds needed from me, my mind wanders. Not to laundry or groceries or even my unfinished library books. 

 
In the quiet moments of sameness I transcend everything I actually know. I don’t imagine different selves, I become them. Better than a movie or book, my daydreams encompass me, however briefly. Perhaps I have an overactive imagination or am struggling with the change of pace that being a stay-at-home mom entails. But I think my active dream world is a bit more. It is the way I balance the many sides of myself. And for now, at least, it’s working.

Related posts:

1. You Are Welcome
2. Olympic love
3. The Witching Hour

Barbara Bishop has an undergraduate degree in English from the University of Utah, a PhD in English from UCLA, and a master’s in counseling psychology from Pacifica Graduate Institute. She taught English, using a curriculum that combined dreams and literature, for seven years at Marymount College in Palos Verdes, California. In addition to her work as a therapist, she is also writing a book about addiction dreams. She is married to Brent Pace and has three beautiful boys, about whom she dreams regularly.

As research for her book on addiction dreams, Barbara is seeking dreams from addicts and recovered addicts. If you have a family member who is an addict, she is interested in your dreams as well. Please email me –emilymilner at byu dot net–if you have an addiction-related dream you would like to share with her.

When did you first begin to pay attention to your dreams and what they might mean?
I first became interested in dreams while I was writing my dissertation for my PhD in English. I had a nagging thought, which I tried to ignore, that writing literary criticism wasn’t quite my bliss. I loved literature and I loved teaching literature, but I didn’t enjoy the lit crit industry. It seemed like literary critics wrote to other literary critics, and argued with and against their particular readings, and it seemed rather pointless. I had been writing down my dreams, trying to figure out why I was having these second thoughts now, when I was nearly finished with my dissertation. My sister invited me to attend a weekend workshop on dreams, and I immediately saw that studying dreams and writing about dreams had more relevance to the general population than writing literary criticism. Dream interpretation uses some of the same skills as literary interpretation, and dreams are as intriguing as literature. But everyone dreams, and each person’s dreams are tailor-made metaphorical stories about the dreamer’s life. I loved how the dreams could show my life in a symbolic way.

Also, I had interviewed for a teaching job which my friend, who worked at that school had assured me I would get. The interviews went well. I gave a presentation that went well. And I left fairly confident that I would receive a job offer. My dreams, however, basically told me that I would not get the job, long before the notice came. That intrigued me. How did my dreams know? The dreams prepared me, so that I was not as devastated as I might have been.

What led you to using dreams in your writing classes and therapy sessions?
I used dreams when I worked as a therapist because I found it easier to diagnose and figure out what was really going on with clients. Clients typically won’t tell a therapist everything; they don’t consciously conceal; but they wait to see if they can trust the person before spilling all of the “dirty laundry.” Dreams will get to the truth sooner than a usual therapy session. Especially when clients only have a limited number of sessions because of managed care, sometimes getting to the real reasons for needing therapy quickly are important. I found I could diagnose and formulate a treatment plan for clients after listening to a dream or two. Not all clients wanted to discuss dreams.

After I had worked as a therapist for a number of years, I missed teaching and decided to return to academia. I wanted to see if I could incorporate dreams into writing classes. I was interested in bringing information about dreams to a larger population than those who seek therapy. Everyone dreams every night, but more people do not take advantage of the information they receive from their dreams, usually because they do not know what to do with them. Universities typically do not teach classes on dreams, and this is a terrible mistake, in my opinion. Paying attention to one’s dreams could help students with everything from career decisions to problems with roommates and substance abuse. I thought that teaching a dream course could show students several methodologies to make their dreams work for them. In addition, I thought writing about dreams would be a way to make a writing course fun and not simply one of those required courses that students hate.

One of the things that frustrated me when I taught writing at UCLA was that the writing texts, which typically had contemporary essays, did not focus around a core subject. They had several. Typically the texts were organized around themes–education in America, race relations, feminism, the American dream, etc. When I became interested in dreams, I thought it would be fun (finally) to teach a writing class focused on one subject rather than several. And it was. I began teaching part-time at a private Catholic school, and eventually full-time.

I experimented with different texts and essay questions. I had joined the International Association for the Study of Dreams, and at their annual conferences they always have workshops on teaching dreams in the classroom. I incorporated many of the ideas from the annual conferences into my classes. I also had one of my favorite dream researchers, Kelly Bulkeley, come and speak at the college. One year we had a “Dream Club” where students who weren’t in my classes could come and discuss their dreams over lunch. I gave presentations on dreams after I attended conferences, and we even held a regional dream conference at the college in 2008. After teaching dreams in the classroom for several years, I am more than ever convinced that education about dreams should be a core subject in every university.

What is your favorite dream reference guide or website and why? Or what do you recommend to people interested in understanding dreams and dream symbolism better?
I have several favorite dream reference books. I like all of Kelly Bulkeley‘s books. The text I used in my writing class, “An Introduction to the Study of Dreams,” by Kelly Bulkeley is a good introduction for people who want basic information. The International Association for the Study of Dreams has a website with several links. That’s also a good place to find everything from introductory to more specialized information about dreams. I also like Jeremy Taylor‘s books on dreams. I have attended several of his workshops, which also provide good introductory information on dreams. Robert Hoss (another IASD member) has a methodology for working with one’s dreams alone, and I always taught my students his interpretive method. It is simple to learn, and good for people to know who do not feel comfortable sharing dreams with others. However, my bias is that dreams should be shared!

When someone has a memorable or unsettling dream, what is the best way to understand it better?
The best way to understand an unsettling dream is to tell three best friends, a spouse, a neighbor, your mother or father–people whom you trust. One student told me she would call her parents and tell them her dreams before she started writing her paper. Her parents didn’t know anything about dream interpretation, but they knew their daughter very well, and were therefore able to understand the metaphors in their daughter’s dreams. People who know you well will often intuitively understand your dreams. And just talking about them out loud will help you better hear what the dream is trying to tell you.

Anything else you would like our readers to understand about dreams that you have not already mentioned?
The more you pay attention to your dreams, the more your dreams will pay attention to you! If you show that you are interested in your dreams by writing them down, and by discussing them with a trusted friend or two, you dreams will gradually provide personal spiritual revelation. They can aid you in your creative endeavors, in your church chores, your career and family relationships.
***
Thank you, Barbara, for taking the time to answer! In the comments, I would love to hear your response to Barbara’s fabulous article. What have you learned as you pay attention to your dreams?

Related posts:

1. To sleep, perchance to dream
2. Segullah: Gifts of the Spirit
3. Sam and Sally go to the Bishop

And the ultrasounds:
I. Seven weeks
Only because I’m spotting, the doctor sends me to have an ultrasound. I climb onto the table and shift my jeans down to my C-section scar, the line that says I have done this before. She squirts warm jelly on me and moves her wand to find the baby. “See the flashing there?” she says. “That’s the heartbeat. Looks good.” She measures it, pronounces it normal, and types “B-A-B-Y” on the screen. She prints me out a picture.

I tuck the picture into my planner. The picture makes the two pink lines on my stick into an actual baby. I am starting to believe in this pregnancy, and it feels good.

II. Eleven weeks
I’m back. More spotting, and no heartbeat. “No heartbeat at eleven weeks?” the technician says. “Don’t worry. That’s early enough they don’t always hear a heartbeat. We’ll find it.”

I tuck my jeans down. My belly hasn’t stretched out into the circle of a full baby yet. It’s jiggly and slack from three pregnancies. I’m looking forward to having it taut and round.

She finds my uterus and asks “How far along are you?” She is trying to be casual. I look on the monitor to see what she sees, the ultrasound’s dark and coded world of shadows. And there it is, a small circle in the middle of another. It should have winked at me, that shadow. Its heart should be the brightest light on the screen, flashing and alive.

The weight of the darkened circle hits me in my empty gut. I try to think of all the people I knew who had seen the same thing. Other women have been here before. Or maybe they found out a different way: not from losing the expected heartbeat, but from a sudden rush of blood. It could be worse. I could have woken up at three in the morning cramping, and felt all the life slip out from me. Is it worse to see death on the screen, or to be surprised by it in the night? Does it matter which one is worse? Both of them are real.

III. Post D&C
One more time, I’m staring at the screen. There is a long wedge where a baby ought to be growing, and a fuzzy line at the top, from my C-section scar. My hollow body. The technician is embarrassed that she didn’t notice me crying sooner. She hands me a box of tissues and I wipe the tears, and look at the wedge.
***

I wrote a poem called Ultrasound when I was pregnant with my youngest child. There’s a line that says “We both await release/ the pain and freedom of an empty womb.” I have had that line rolling in my heart ever since I saw my own empty womb. There is freedom in the emptiness: I’m free of nausea, free of heartburn, free to sleep through the night, free of high blood pressure and gestational diabetes and the need to rearrange my house and my life. But I have never understood, until now, how much the pain swallows up the freedom.

What dissipates the pain is the line of women bringing me gifts. Gifts of prayers, gifts of tears, gifts of understanding. Sometimes the gift of letting me talk, sometimes letting me not talk. When my friends remember their pain so that they can ease mine, that is a gift. When they mourn with me, whether or not they’ve been through this particular loss, that is a gift.

At my door and now in my soul, there is a line of merciful women, practicing the healer’s art.

Related posts:

1. Weak Words Made Strong
2. Going For Goals (without the annoying drone of the vuvuzela)
3. The Case for Shopping

Shepherds–Darlene Young’s poem about the beautiful realness of the shepherd who were present at the Savior’s birth.

Nauvoo–Michelle Lehnardt talks about something we all wrestle with: feeling like we are inadequate spiritually, as compared to all the righteous people who surround us. But you don’t need to have pioneer ancestors to connect with the past, or with your present self as Latter-day Saint.

This Cup–Michelle Linford describes a single moment of grace she experiences when taking the Sacrament at a difficult time. It has made me look differently at the Sacrament ever since.

My Season for Manna–Tarasine Buck learns from the children of Israel to find sustaining manna during her mothering.

And Shelah Miner interviews the amazing Marilyn Brown, champion and defender of LDS artists.

If you are not a print subscriber, you can subscribe here to receive our next issue, Becoming, and our 2010 five year anniversary issue. And if you haven’t already, you should also check out Leslie Graff’s art, because it ties the whole issue together beautifully.

There’s much more–please read and enjoy (and tell me in the comments what your favorites were).

We’ll only be publishing one issue of Segullah next year: a double issue, including both writing on the theme of dating, courtship, and marriage, and the winners of our essay and poetry contests. If you want to enter our contest, start writing now! Please be sure to read all the entries in our blog under the category heading “writing workshop.” That will give you a sense for what we’re looking for as we judge contest entries. And if you have any specific questions about what we’re looking for in our contest or other submissions, you can put those in the comment section too.

Related posts:

1. Segullah’s 5th Anniversary Issue
2. Jackpot!
3. Share Your Story

I participated in a focus group and received a million dollars as a gratuity.

I am running up some stairs to get to a class and run into an estranged family member.

I take my lawn clippings to the green waste yard, which has turned into a frozen tundra by the time I arrive, and then rollerblade home in the cold.

I’m sleeping in a room I’ve never seen before, with all white linens, when a terrific storm blows in and takes off one of the window screens. I chase it, the wind and rain whipping my face, down a grassy hill.

Those are just a few of the dreams I’ve had this month.

I first read Barbara Bishop’s “Dreams as Gifts of the Spirit” (from the summer issue that will be posted online soon!) when it was submitted for editing. Her ideas impressed me, and I decided to start keeping a dream journal.

Dreams are slippery things. Sometimes they can be bizarre and embarrassing, but I’ve also had beautiful, comforting dreams that have wrapped around me like a favorite blanket. Many times I wake up with just a whisper of memory remaining. Trying to recall any concrete images is like grasping at smoke. Only a few dreams leave any lasting impression, but I’m intrigued with trying to remember and record.

I’ve never felt as though the Spirit was speaking to me through dreams, though I’ve known other people who have had dreams of divine origin. I wonder if I’ve not felt the Spirit through my dreams because I’ve not been listening.

So that’s what I’m doing now–listening. I’m not delving deep into dream symbolism or trying to understand what these scraps of my subconcious may mean. For now, I’m just writing it down and waiting to see if there’s a possibility that God will speak to me while I’m sleeping.

Related posts:

1. The Threads Still Whisper Her Love
2. Dream On
3. Dreams as Spiritual Gifts: An Interview with Barbara Bishop