DREAM LOG

1.

I am outside. There is a tree with long boughs that touch the earth. The buds have broken open. Purple petals, yellow fruits, and small wrinkled cherries decorate the branches. The tree is heavy. I collect the fruit in my hands. My fingertips are sticky as I fill my mouth with the sweetness.

A little girl is asleep in a wide white bed. She has blond hair and is dressed in a pale blue romper.

The sink is full of water. I don’t know how to unclog it, so I leave it. I wash my hands, and the petals float to the surface. The home smells like warm wood and metal. I sit on the couch and look out the window. I am awaiting a phone call. I rest with my feet on a wicker stool. There is a dog sprawled out on the rug. Shaggy and long, the tongue hangs out. Its fur is spotted with several shades of brown. It looks soft.

A woman arrives at the home. She has the same short, fair hair as the little girl. She tells me I can go; her husband will be home soon, and they will unclog the sink. She will prepare a snack. ‘You must eat to ease the transition,’ she says, ‘it fuels your body.’ She fills my palms with more gold and red fruit. I want a walnut, something fatty and dense.

As I leave, I see a man in a brown suit. He has a briefcase and speaks slowly on the phone to someone. ‘It’s for you,’ he says when he looks up. My phone call finally arrived. ‘Hello?’ I say, ‘who is it?’ I hear breathing on the line. No words. The man looks at me. He is tired. He wants to go inside. And I have his phone.

‘Do you know where you are going?’ a voice finally says. I shake my head. ‘No one ever does,’ the voice replies. ‘You must keep moving, no matter what. Do you understand the direction?’ I nod. ‘The map has letters on it; only you can read it,’ the voice says. ‘Goodbye.’

I give the man back his phone. It is sticky, but he places it in his pocket anyway. He walks away without looking at me.

I walk to the beach, where the wind whistles over the water. Several volleyball nets are set up, and people take off their shoes to play. An orange-haired boy is watching me as I walk. He has a silver watch on his wrist and a white outfit. As I move to walk past his group, he grabs my wrist. ‘You need to go that way,’ he hisses and spins me around.

I walk in the opposite direction, and each step gets colder and darker. I squeeze the edges of my shorts. My hands are clammy. I am alone; no one is on this side of the water. I keep walking until I see a cement wall with a map sprayed onto it. The paint is black. It looks very worn. The paint traces the continents, and on the eastern side, underneath Spain, there is writing. Someone wrote with pink chalk on one little piece of the map.

This is where your heart belongs, the words say.

I place my palm over the print and breathe deeply. I press my hand on the cement and my feet into the sand. I feel good - I feel grounded.

When I remove my hand from the wall, it is doused with pink. The words have rubbed off on my skin, and there is a pink blob on the wall where the writing used to be.

‘That’s where Morocco is,’ a voice says behind me. It’s a girl with short dark hair. She’s wearing all black. She has running shoes on and muscular legs. ‘Have you been there?’

‘Yes,’ I say, rubbing my hands together. ‘One time.’

2.

I am with my daughter. She has curly dark hair and big brown eyes. She is very soft and quiet. I dress her in a black sweater and leggings. She sleeps with her fist cupped at her petal mouth. We lay in a cream-colored bed encircled by candles. There are shadows on the walls. I am married. I am a wife. I am a mother. I sit on the floor and watch my daughter sleep. I am content like this.

There is a long mirror in one corner of the room. I position pillows around my daughter to protect her should she roll. I go to stand in front of the mirror. I am wearing an outfit to match my daughter: a black sweater and tight leggings. My hair is long and dark and pulled back in a ponytail. I am small and wiry. My cheeks are flush. I feel grounded as I stand on the hardwood floor.

People speak in low tones beyond the door. I peep through the crack and see my family in the living room. They are drinking coffee and playing cards. My husband is with them. There are six people in total. I do not see my sister, and this makes me sad. I want her to be with me. I want her to see my daughter.

I go back to the bed and lay down. Memories swell within me, and I see myself swimming at a waterfall, driving a red car through the desert, wearing enormous boots, lifting my knees high, and walking through muddy woods. I remember wanting to write down all my adventures, thoughts, and feelings. Those things do not matter now.

The sensation is the truth; it is the things we identify at the moment through our sense perceptions. Sight, sound, taste, touch, and feel.

The feeling is what we directly experience; it is the observation of sensation.

Mind is how we analyze and connect events and what we sense and feel.

Intuition gathers our past and brings it to the present moment. It expands our awareness of what is, identifying the truth through the body.

I feel it, I consider it, I release it. Intuition is not an impulse but a skill that must be cultivated, practiced, and integrated.

I have this dream of my daughter and know it is a dream. It is not me, though I recognize it is a piece of me. I wanted this life at one point in time. That moment has passed. My daughter is beautiful. I am soothed by this lifestyle I've created.

I have love. I belong. I possess things.

Emotional maturation is all about refinement. I cannot have those things and the other things that I desire. I can hold both, though I can not have both. I can exist in both patterns. I must choose, and I have.

What symbols will I draw out from this dream world?

• shadows, cream, black

• a sleeping child, a serene mother

• whispers, clinking glasses, candles, wood

• a mirror

I look like myself in the dream. Unaged. I appear more youthful than I am, perhaps. I am trapped in this moment. My child will transform; I will not. I do not feed her. I do not caress her. I do not touch her. She is too alive. I am not; I am dead already. The black I wear is for mourning. I dress my daughter as a symbol of sadness. She grieves with me; she grieves so that I can give. I pass everything along to her and she is unaware of the transaction.

She inhales and exhales as I watch: the actor and the observer. I do not eat, drink, or breathe. I watch my daughter inspire life within and all around her. I sit still or stand tall. I watch myself watch her process through the reflection in the mirror.

A part of me has given in, given up. My husband is a faceless man; there are no pictures on the walls or on the dresser. The room is spare: blond wood and cream-colored sheets. Bland.

I allow time to pass, like the cobwebs gathering in the corners. With one flick of a finger, the whole thing comes down.

What is my daughter's name?

I do not know.

What is my name?

I do not have one.