Posts Tagged ‘lucid dreaming’


Sorry that I haven’t been writing more: working 40 hours a week and doing allotment gardening on the weekends has really eaten up my time and energy. I’m happy, though. I like work, I love the gardening and the subsequent exercise (I welcome the sore muscles and blisters!), and Francis is as sweet as ever. We also are continuing to experiment with cooking: this week we made a mackerel chowder that is to die for. (Look for the recipe on my food blog soon, but we’ll need to try it again before posting a finalised recipe.) Pizza night is going strong on Fridays. Last night’s toppings were mushrooms satueed in garlic and red wine, mozzarella, homemade sauce, and blue cheese; the other pie was finely sliced leeks with goat’s cheese and fresh garlic.

Right now we are tired and grubby from an afternoon on the allotment (I’ll be posting lots about that soon, I just need to get the photos off my camera), and Francis is in the kitchen, making pasta with salmon, smoked haddock, some sort of white fish, and a white sauce with tarragon. I have cheap red wine and a slice of Parmesan to prime my palate.

Anyhow, I just wanted to write about a dream I had a few nights ago. It was one of those rare dreams where I realise fully that I’m not awake, and can have fun in my dreamworld. This has only happened to me a few times, and I adore it. I understand there are techniques to encourage lucid dreaming but I’ve never really tried to make it occur…

I was with a man I didn’t know (an airline pilot, I think) and we were sitting at an outdoor cafe. I looked at my hands, I was holding a wine glass with water and a slice of lemon in it, and was admiring my long, manicured nails. Then I thought “Wait a second, I just cut all my nails very short, for gardening! I must be dreaming!” I said to the guy, “Hey, I think I’m dreaming. Where are we?” I looked around, and saw that we were in a sort of warped version of Tunbridge Wells. All old English brick buildings and English ivy (here they just call it ivy, heh) and a rustic town square. I can’t remember what he said, but I told him that I saw a version of the town I lived in. “I live in Kent with my husband,” I explained. “I think this is my brain interpreting the town in a dream sort of way.”

He seemed nonplussed. I said, “I think you’re part of my dream, is what I’m saying. Do you think that’s possible? Does it bother you that you may simply be a figment of my imagination?” He seemed distracted but didn’t seem to mind terribly. Then, a very cute, fluffy puppy bounded up to me. “A puppy!” I exclaimed. “Could this dream get any better?”

A mish-mash of scenes ensued, but I’m still ticked by my reaction to the appearance of the puppy.


Read Full Post »