Sometimes I dream. I did last night, although how my mind can keep a dream steady and linear whilst my body tosses and turns as if at the mercy of a powerful element, is a puzzle. On waking, I and my dream, or the whisps that remain, fleeting as mist at sunrise, descend the stairs and head for coffee. It is light, albeit an early light, the half moon waning above me and I nod towards her. She will balloon again, as she always does, a constant, a consistent. Without her no tides would ebb nor flow and that would scupper many an expected result. I consider what is left of my dream and wonder, as if from nowhere, if it was my dream at all. I recognised nothing, not even the storyline. Is it possible that this dream was not mine at all, but someone else’s, a dream that came to me instead? I know that dream analysis can alert many so-called ‘gurus’ who can (so they say) interpret them, bringing them into the reality of a person’s day. Portents, predictions, prophesies. I am, I confess, cynical, but my own dreams, the ones I recognise and identify with, I can accept without any external explanation. My own dreams, when going through a tough time, have always involved my children, or some children anyway, and I know, in this dream, that they are in danger and I am the only one to save them. But my feet are stuck and my mouth empty of sound never mind words. I don’t have those anymore, thankfully. I sip my coffee and let the whisps dissipate with the sunrise. It doesn’t matter whether or not I hold on, whether or not I can piece together the as yet unwhisped images, nor the linear. It was just a dream after all and in my sensible chair with my hot coffee and the gift of another day ahead, I have ironing to do, a cake to bake, tsaziki to prepare and a perfectly ordinary day stretching out before me just full of reality.
But, it is important to me that I engage with the spirit world. I believe it is perfectly right to walk with my feet on the ground and my head in the clouds. I have done it for all time. Yes, it can unbalance me, confound me, send me reeling. It has, it does and it will because this is who I am, but age is a wise old bird and she reminds me of both of my Roots and my connection to Otherness and there is no disparity between those old friends. The confusion is in the me in between. However, to accept that I do live between the two (actually we all do but many run from one or the other) is key. It might mean I stumble at times, get lost in the dream, but I am old enough now to know that whatever I fight against will only grow stronger. So I don’t. I chuckle. I welcome. There is tea and cake at my table for the ones I can see and the ones I cannot. Otherness is invisible, messages come from Otherness, dreams too, sudden understandings, bizarre knowings, intuitive perceptions. Without these guides, I would just be a someone who believes that if I can’t see it, it doesn’t exist and that laughs me a lot. I have learned to be very thankful for my connection to Otherness although she, like the moon, can also disrupt days and nights. No matter. I need her. We all do. It is grand to be grounded, to be fully engaged with who we need to be in order to live well on the ground, but we forget the fairies, the angels, the whispers from Otherness at our peril.