Dream: Powerball Stress, Scary Swim, Strange Turtle and The Lizard Room

(this will move to “Unopened Letters” later on)

Note: I just submitted this dream to dreamschool.org which I found through the “School of Metaphysics” website.

dreamschool.com

I first heard about this site when someone commented about my dreams here.  I checked it out, and found the dreamschool site.  If they respond with an analysis of the following dream, I will let you know what they say…even if they say they’re concerned about me

THE DREAM

The first part of this dream was set in various gas stations.  I had been purchasing lottery tickets at the request of my husband but kept losing them or getting the wrong ones.  The last station I purchased the tickets from was Holiday – I knew I had the right tickets this time and was bound and determined to get them to Dave.  I asked the attendant for a stapler and stapled them all together.  HA!  Problem solved.

Then the dream moved suddenly to the water.  I was in a lake with a swampy channel.  Another girl and I were in the water – our task was to pull two boats from where they were stalled (I think) to the place where they needed to be.  I was talking with the girl while we towed our boats; while I was pulling and talking, I turned around to look at her.  She suddenly asked if I had seen the dark figure that swam between the boat and my kicking legs and then ducked beneath the water.  I told her I noticed it but didn’t think about it at first.  Then, I was sort of concerned, wondering if I was safe or would be bitten or worse. 

Suddenly the dream moved indoors.  I was entering a house, talking with the owners.  I saw a creature that first reminded me of a turtle – very cute – and, because I wanted to give them a compliment, mentioned how cute it was, and “what is it?”  They told me it was a turtle, but as we walked into the room where it was, it didn’t look like a turtle at all.  It was more sloth-like, but had the head of a human, wore a pink shirt and was climbing slowly up the side of the couch.  I didn’t want to contradict the owners, so I just took it in. 

After a while, we moved to the basement.  The owners of the house then changed – they were still the owners but they looked and acted completely differently.  The woman had been blond, thin and very stuffy-proper; now she had long, thin, brown, slightly curly hair pulled back in the front,  was a bit overweight and was very down-to-earth.  The husband was previously in a gray suit and tie, with a haircut straight out of Leave it to Beaver and a clean-shaven face; now he was one of our friends (don’t want to mention his name) who has a short beard/mustache and was now wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.  The basement wasn’t finished, but had furniture and accessories like is was. 

The couple began telling the story about their “Lizard Room” which was to my right; I faced the woman who sat on the 1980s (I think??) plaid, ruffled couch in front of me and began to tell the story as her husband went to the doorway of the lizard room to check on them & make sure everything was okay.  There was no door on the room he knelt next to.  At first glance, I saw a couple of lizards (all small like geckos) fall/crawl over the threshold of the door.  The man wasn’t concerned at all, and for good reason – the lizards stopped immediately and re-entered the room.  He talked to them all like they were children, but there were literally hundreds or thousands in the room, covering the walls and ceiling in addition to the floor of what was probably an 11 x 11 bedroom. 

Back to the story – the woman was talking about how her husband wooed her even when they didn’t have money, and moved to the time when he was again professing his love for her in a unique way.  He had taken a poster with pre-printed circles and squares for featuring different bits of information, but which was a “second” because when it was printed there was a problem, and gibberish was covering the poster here and there.  She proceeded to read his notes to her, moving from how they met and when he knew he loved her, and how happy he was to be with her in good times and in bad, etc.  That moved to the “bad” times, when they didn’t know how they would pay the bills.  Then came mention of the lizards, specifically, “then I made the decision to get into lizards.”  This was his love note to her as well as a note to tell her that they would no longer need to worry about money.  She reminisced about the time he gave her this strange, life-sized love note, refolding it as she read the last lines from memory: all the numbers in the amount of money they had suddenly made because they decided to “get into lizards” – the number began with 34 and was followed with many, many other numbers that I can’t remember.  I remember there were 2s, but that’s about it.

Note about the “love note”: like I said, it was the size of a poster.  Her husband had folded it in intricate sections that, when combined, all also folded together in a sort of large “card.”  The folds reminded me of that children’s book about Papa getting the moon, but the entire poster-note was folded in this way and that and all came together perfectly.

That’s all I remember.

Analyze this: The Brady Bunch brings down the house!

(this will move to Unopened Letters later on)

Last night’s dream – where do I start?  I’ll skip the boring part about painting the front of a department store that suddenly turned into my family room wall.  Here’s the second part:

I was suddenly at a club with 2 rows of stadium seating complete with ample space for short tables and a half-wall that separated the risers from the dance floor.  There were openings to the dance floor that reminded me of the ones where skaters enter the rink, but wider.  We were sitting at the tables talking when I noticed that men & women were nonchalantly bringing equipment to the stage, little by little – a microphone here, stand there, amps, guitars, drums, etc.  We didn’t know who these people were, but were intrigued.  Once they had set up, a man came out and announced the arrival of the Brady Bunch boys and their band – “Minnesota, please welcome a surprise performance from the boys from the Brady Bunch!”  Once we heard this, everyone in the club cheered loudly – there were celebrities present after all, and we wanted to show our appreciation for this surprise performance, don’cha know!  As the MC introduced them, I noticed the look on two of the “boys’” faces.  Greg from the show, who was still adjusting the lights at the edge of the stage, shot a pleasantly surprised look to another brother on the stage in response to our cheers.  The brother he looked at was actually Jason Bateman – he shot back the same look.  I remember wondering if they thought Minnesotans were desperate now because everyone cheered so emphatically for the Brady Bunch has-beens.

So the band began.  There were many musicians – probably 8-10 of them.  Jason Bateman was the lead singer and didn’t play an instrument – he just flirted with the ladies.  A couple times they faked a break, even walking away from the stage.  I noticed that one of the members still held a tambourine in her hand, and looked closer at the other members.  They had small items in their hands, too.  Before they reached the edge of the dance floor they crescendoed into another song and started  really putting on a show.  It seemed like every song was better, more upbeat and louder.  The kicker happened the third time they faked a break – they knew we were onto them, so they just half-heartedly played along.  When they reached the edge of the dance floor they picked up one of the members – a studious-looking guy – and held him like he was lounging on the beach.  Everyone but the drummer held him with one hand and held some sort of noise-maker in their other, surrounding him like the petals on a flower.  The drummer – tall, sort of teddy-bear guy with curly, disheveled, honey-blond-highlighted hair, round glasses and a bright green T-shirt, rushed over and did an awesome drum solo by hitting the instruments around him, his shoes, his hat and even the noisemakers he held himself.  It was really cool!

I noticed that the solo was coming to an end, singing needed to start soon, and the drummer wasn’t going to make it back to his set in time to keep the beat.  WRONG!  He began playing the drums from the front and continued to play as he rounded the corner to take his seat.  It was all planned.  Honestly, I woke up feeling very entertained!

So – don’t know what this means, but I tell you what – I’m sure I would have had to pay a cover to see this band.  Thanks to my brain’s unique personality, I got to sneak in the back!

For those of you who read my previous post (written a short time before this one today) the Vicodin isn’t kicking my butt as much as I thought it might.  But the pain is still there…guess that means it’s not working yet?

I wonder what dreams are like on Vicodin…

Missing my first baby, Rex

I had a HORRIBLE dream the other night (full of stress and pain) that involved our best buddy, Rex, whom we miss terribly.  Rex was an English Springer that we were fortunate to spend 12 years of our lives with.  He was our “first child”.  Our “Old Man” went through God’s other door on September 29, 2008.  Everyone who knows him misses him.

Why I have the dreams I do is a mystery – they’re very often all over the map and don’t seem to make any sense.  This dream was no different, but I woke up in pain – my heart was “hurting” for lack of a better word.

So I decided to share this story about our special dog, sort of as an antidote?  Even thinking about the dream still creeps me out, so I guess I’m doing this not only to share the story, but to make myself feel better.

My moms & dad have all read this, but I haven’t shared it with anyone else, if memory serves.  Here goes:

Our Companion

By Stacey Geist

2008

“Are you okay, Sweetie?” she asks me.  I’ve been crying in my sleep again.  She’s so sad, and is crying.  She’s thinking about how she was so lucky to have spent the past 12 years with such a wonderful dog, and how so very human I am.  She’s remembering her darkest days, when I would meet her at the door and spend time looking into her eyes and she into mine, and how we would lie on the couch together for a while.  She would hold me tight and I would tuck in and snuggle her neck while she cried.  After she got through that difficult time she told me over and over through the years how much she loved me and thanked me for saving her life.  She often thanked God for sending me to her.  Now, in my last days with her and the rest of the family, she is feeling guilty.  She wonders if, after the children were born, I got left by the wayside too much.  She worries that she wasn’t good enough to me once our lives changed so much.  She doesn’t know how grateful I was to have been adopted by such a loving family, and how even though the first toddler was pretty tough on me I looked forward to each of their arrivals.  Even amid the chaos, I still felt loved and included.

 

He is so torn.  He doesn’t want his long-time hunting buddy to suffer, but he can’t let go.  Not today.  Not right now.  He’s thinking back to the first day we met.  “You were the perfect little pup,” he tells me again.  “Still are,” he adds.  He remembers me with 4 big floppy paws and matching ears.  He recalls how he watched me grow into those paws and become a great hunter.  He laughs  with me as he thinks about the funny things we’ve been through, like the time I kicked up a deer while pheasant hunting in South Dakota, and how I was so determined to catch up to that buck that I just kept on running.  He doesn’t cry much, my owner.  Right now, he’s trying hard to focus on those funny stories.  Trying to make it through okay.  He’s going to miss me, and I him.

 

We’re nose to nose.  He’s only 7 years old, and old enough to know what this all means.  He is such a good little soul – so capable of empathy it would break your heart.  I’m sorry you’re hurting, Rex,” he tells me.  “God will help you soon, though.  Don’t be scared.”  He looks into my eyes, scratches me behind the ears and thinks about stories he’s been told about times, as a toddler, when he used me for everything from a ladder to a trampoline.  There’s sadness, and maybe a little bit of guilt in his eyes.  I look at him and see the first little one, whom I welcomed home with a kiss and looked out for with no regrets.  I kiss him goodbye.

 

She’s a sweet little girl.  Good down to the core, and very caring.  She’s only five years old.  She knows I’m in pain, but doesn’t understand everything that’s going on.  She doesn’t know I’ll be gone soon.  She wants to dress me up again in her red sequined had and purple fur princess wrap to make me feel better.  She’s a Godsend.  She puts her hands around my neck and leans in for a snuggle, her lips quivering.  She feels lucky when she thinks about what a tolerant, loving dog I’ve been.  I hope she knows that I am lucky to have known her.  To be sure, I gently kiss the tear off the end of her tiny, beautiful nose.

 

The smallest child is the fifth member of my family.  She’s not quite 3, and probably won’t remember me without pictures and stories living on, but I know she has learned to care for and respect animals by loving me.  “Good boy, Rex,” she says softly, to match her sister’s mood.  She very softly strokes the soft fur on my back, and then gives my old paw a little shake.  She’s been smiling at me, but now seems confused and worried as she looks at her sister.  She joins the snuggle and pats her big sister on the back.  I push in a little bit more.

 

My family is worried.  They’re sad and scared and confused.  I understand this, of course.  They wonder if they did enough, played enough, were enough.  What they need to understand is that they did just fine, and exactly as was planned for my life by God.  If I could speak, I would tell them I love them.  I would make them see that I am not afraid, and that I am tired now, and need to go home.  I would reassure them that I am at peace, and that I am thankful to God.  He gave me a good life with people who loved me and cared for me.  I wish I could tell them these things.  Instead, I do what I’ve always done – I speak my heart through my eyes.  They listen, and know.  I can see their understanding as they look back into mine. 

 

Now, as I begin to travel home, I hope they can feel peace knowing I had a good life with them, and that I will see them – my family – again.

Unopened Letters

An unanalyzed dream is like an unopened letter from a friend.”  Edgar Cayce, modern day prophet.

I added a new page today.  I named it “Unopened Letters.”  I dream in full color & lots of detail.  I’m calling this new page my diary.

If you visit the page, please know that I’m actually pretty normal.  Pretty much.  And I’ve never taken scary mind-altering drugs.  I’ve just always been a person who dreams in color most nights and is able to remember my dreams. 

They don’t always make sense to me, but supposedly there’s a message in there somewhere!