I had one of those “duh” dreams last night. I’ve had variations of it before, but this time, the details stuck.
In the dream, my husband and I live in a house that’s much larger than our real one. It feels empty and new. It’s raining outside, a real tadpole-pounding, gully-washing, finish-up-the-ark sort of flood.
The ceiling starts to melt. The drywall becomes wetwall, then a mudslide.
Within what feels like seconds, a chunk of roof falls into the house. The rain ends. Light pours into the hole where the roof used to be.
Most people say that houses in dreams represent the self–or to extend the idea, that any “character” in a dream is an aspect of one’s self. This dream is embarrassingly clear.
My shelter is over. Light can’t get in if I’m tucked away: safe, dry, and in a rather dull and predictable box. My shelter is my job.
I’ve been working on a novel for years – it’s going well. I’ve found my legs as a writer and shed my poetry training (although I intend to return to the form with renewed eyes and abilities). My job both easy and hard. I work with good people. I work in a good place. The money is decent and lay-offs unlikely. Why leave, especially in this economy?
Light. It’s all about the light. Although it’s not much fun to watch the ceiling melt away.
Pecking at the novel – not to mention my art – is becoming increasingly hard. My scenes can be clunky partly because I’m shoving the writing into the nooks and crannies of the day. Words need breathing room. I need to be able to pace and talk to myself with only the cats watching. The drawing and painting is even worse – once I get going, I want to keep going. There’s a rhythm to a picture. It’s hard to come and go.
The worse thing that could happen is that I lose money for a few years and fail to finish or publish anything. It’s better than staying in the big empty house. At least I’ll find out what it looks like “out there,” even if it’s scary.
The box is a creative coffin.
The light wants in.
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