Winter brings the return of the dream state, or maybe it’s too much or not enough or my broken-up sleep that explains the day to day watery-immersion of otherworldliness.
Last week, I dreamt of a womb-like container, belonging to another. She placed it on the shelf beside my single bed and then she turned to leave the dormitory-like space as it began to fill with others claiming beds and counters.
I never saw her face, but I continued to marvel at what she left behind–a multi-colored, beautifully-beaded container which served as a water bottle.
Each time I left my bed, however, I was consumed with frustration, because yet another new arrival made claims on the bed that was already mine.
One man, in fact, went so far as to lift my mattress off the frame and take it to the other side of the room–the men’s side, I suppose.
I crossed the space between us and protested. “This isn’t how it works,” I explained. “My things were already there.”
Apparently, the unspoken rules of the Kripalu assistant dormitory (of which I was readily practiced) didn’t apply here.
But where was here anyway? I looked around at rows and rows of beds that I hadn’t noticed before as the space approached full occupancy.
Were we some type of refugee?
I retrieved my mattress, but then wondered if perhaps others needed it more, and then I caught sight of the beautiful container again and smiled, making a mental note to find one for myself.
Days later, that beaded womb bled through my waking hours, speaking a language that I couldn’t quite understand.
Waking between the worlds like this, especially in the dark, wintry months, is welcome, even while it is disorienting (or perhaps because it is), leaving me bobbing in a soupy sea–reality flooded with dreams—where the constellation upon which I’ve relied no longer directs the course, forcing me to find new markers, inside and in other realms, obscured from reality’s view.