How do we capture a dream? An animated thought that tiptoes into the midst of slumber. A confusing, nonsensical flash of what can or cannot be. A desire, a fear, a dread, a regret, an adventure that belongs to you exclusively.
Is there meaning or purpose buried in a dream? Or is it a gaggle of castaway thoughts that steps into the spotlight just long enough to matter?
Just recently, I dreamed that I was on the stage before a modest audience gathered at the Caribou Performing Arts Center. I stood at the podium, unshaken and unrattled, speaking of my loyalty to the city of Caribou and paying homage to those individuals who have propelled into notoriety, putting Caribou, Maine on the map. As in most of my dreams, I do not recall every word spoken, but I do know that I received several standing ovations, which I acknowledged with a wave of my hand, much like the pivotal wrist of an honest-to-God beauty queen, which I assure you I am not. Someone I love deeply ushered me from the stage, his hand guiding me toward my seat. I recall thanking him and he replied with a fleeting kiss on my cheek and an “I love you” in my ear as smooth and as cool as a satin ribbon.
I must have exited both the Caribou Performing Arts Center and the dream rather quickly, for my next recollection was awaking to the sound of a snow plow just beyond my bedroom window.
We often dream of loved ones who have passed, brandishing knowledge and wisdom that surpasses mine. At one time, I had a recurring dream of my father, a dream I find myself longing to experience again — a dream I have captured and placed within my heart. My dad and I are seated at a lunch counter; comparable to the luncheonettes we enjoyed once upon a time at Newberry’s and Woolworth’s on Sweden Street in Caribou. Dad and I are leaning toward each other, our shoulders nearly touching. He asks me how Mom is doing now that he is no longer with us. I assure him that she is getting along quite well, though she misses him desperately, as we all do. He says nothing in response and I find myself drifting slowly out of the dream with gentle reluctance.
The dream has not recurred since my mother’s death. I am convinced Dad no longer has the need to ask me how my mother is doing, for she has taken my place at the lunch counter, leaning toward her husband, her hand tucked securely within his.
My mother always yearned for a large house; one ornately furnished and complete with a sensational heart-of-the home kitchen. As a child, I recall we moved frequently from one home to another, perhaps done in an effort to fulfill my mom’s desire for that spacious, lovely home she constructed in her mind. Shortly after her death, I dreamed of knocking on a massive door that my mother swung open. She was dressed in a cloud of snowy white, her familiar hands reaching out to.draw me close. I followed her into a grand foyer, my voice lost in the vast chambers of what appeared to be her mansion. As my mom walked in front of me, I glanced downward admiring her flowing robe, which was the color of alabaster. Just below the bottom edge of this garment, golden feathers swept along the surface of the majestic, tiled floor. I recognized them as the tips of angel wings — wings that belonged to my mother.
My friends, these are but a few of the dreams I have experienced in the course of my life thus far. I am quite positive you, too, have been the recipient of similar images that emerge in the midst of slumber. I am sure the science of dreams is an intricate study of the human brain; a detailed attempt to explain what I consider to be a product of the soul, a phenomenon that I believe needs no complicated dissection.
Some things deserve to remain in that mystical realm that lingers just beyond our reach and I am soothed in knowing that dreams are one of them.
Please stay safe and remember to be kind.
Belinda Ouellette lives in Caribou with her Goldendoodle, Barney. You may email her at belindaouellette9@gmail.com.
