Interpreting dreams is a risky prospect. At the very least, one risks lapsing into Much Ado About Nothing; at the most, crazymaking.
Nevertheless. I love trying to figure out just what my dreams are telling me, because I actually do believe there is meaning in them.
For instance (Yes, I’m going to share). I was relieved to wake up this morning, with an easier reality dawning on me than the uncomfortable one I’d been dreaming in. It was an embarrassing naked dream, especially embarrassing because the setting was church. Especially embarrassing because I had (in my dream) none of the usual excuses for my nakedness, such as theft (I often dream my sister has taken my clothes), forgetfulness, or excessive gravity. No, in my dream I had actually chosen to disrobe, the idea of gradual bareness seeming (in the initial microseconds of my dream event) comfortable and convenient and inconsequential. (Don’t you love the rationality of the subconscious brain?). But I wasn’t so lucky. Once I realized (thanks to an incensed member of the congregation) that nakedness really wasn’t convenient nor was it comfortable, I discovered that there were no good places to hide my naked self in a church full of people (this conflict comprised the bulk of my dream). I woke up just after I’d made my way to the parking lot, sorrowing that I would never be able (or allowed) to show my face (forget any other part of me) in my congregation again. Well, maybe I could, in future, arrive late and leave early?
Why would I dream such nonsense? Well, there were obvious prompts in the events of the night before…
Frank and I couldn’t decide what to watch. We started with “Much Ado About Nothing” with Emma Thompson quoting “hey nonny nonny” in slow, slow motion whilst she and her Italianate cohorts nibbled grapes and showed cleavage. We switched to Nicole Kidman’s portrayal of mental breakdown in “Stepford Wives” when Frank tired of Shakespeare’s abstruse language and I tired of his ribaldry (otherwise I could have listened to Emma going on about nothing ad infinitum). We hadn’t watched “Stepford Wives” for long before it was time to get the kids to bed; we turned it off just as Glenn Close was demonstrating a washing machine workout to a gaggle of June Cleaver clones. In both instances of our abandoned entertainment, there was plenty to provoke wild tangents of imagination. Plus there was no closure, which I think is an invitation the subconscious simply cannot resist.
But why was it important for my brain to tell any story at all? With abundant prompts, symbols, and images to sift through (certainly), why this particular naked in church construct?
In asking the question, I assume–again—that there is importance in subconscious storytelling. We’ll go with that.
I love the idea that in the division between conscious and subconscious, we are beside our selves, in the best sense of the phrase.
It’s always nice to have a friend. Our conscious self is efficient and clever, keeping time, making rules, covering great distances, holding labels tightly in place as she accomplishes items on her list. And she stubbornly refuses to accept feelings that don’t fit, feelings that are inconvenient to her schedule. While our subconscious, like a child, is naively oblivious—of time, rules, the propriety of labels. But wonderfully aware of the truths about our feelings–what they are, and from whence they came, she advocates for our hearts. Like a poet, she communicates truth to the conscious self in stories layered with her own childlike system of symbols, imagery, shadows, hints, bursts of feeling. Her stories, like poetry, look like nonsense. Which sometimes they are…except…not, because the feelings behind the garbled details, though misplaced or misinformed, are always real. And when we’re beside ourselves, it is good to have at least one of us telling the truth.
It is interesting to me (my conscious self) that in my dream, I really wasn’t uncomfortable with my naked body so much as I was uncomfortable to find myself in a socially unacceptable position. I didn’t fear nakedness; I feared disapproval and rejection of my nakedness, which (nakedness) is easily translated into vulnerability. And honestly, vulnerability is something I”m grappling with. I believe, as Brene Brown puts it, in leaning into vulnerability (like leaning into whitewater when you’re rafting in it). Allowing myself to be real, to live whole heartedly, to put myself out there. I believe in it, but rejection and disapproval are still definitely scary to me. Nevertheless. I like that in my dream, I was willing–at least initially–to be (symbolically) naked. To bare myself, to be real. And I can’t blame myself for sorrowing when I was rejected. Kind of cute that my subconscious deferred to conscious management in coming up with ways to cope…As if arriving late and leaving early might actually ease the pain of rejection.
(I illustrated this much ado about nothing post with a forgotten painting. I painted it a couple of years ago, loving the idea of vulnerability, choice, and courage. I like it…a lot actually…even though I am well aware of its flaws.)
Here is Brene Brown’s talk (TedTalk) on vulnerability…fifteen minutes or so long but well worth it:
