Reocurring Dreams

When I was a child my recurring dreams were of me screaming at the top of my lungs, no sound coming out of my mouth, as my parents fought downstairs. The banisters I held on to as I silently yelled were like prison bars. Invariably in the dream my grandparents would show up but I would be invisible. These dreams went away when my parents divorced! They get on well now, thank goodness.

In my early twenties I dreamt about climbing up mountains, or cliffs, but I would either get stuck or the mountain side would be covered in shale and scree and I would slide back further than I was getting onward. These dreams returned in my late thirties working in corporate America as I tried to further my career. I am sure you can imagine what happened. They stopped when I left corporate America!

There were ways I could get out of these positions which usually meant throwing myself down the stairs or jumping off the precipice, or trying to wake up, but since becoming a storyteller my dreams have changed - no screams, no sliding back down mountain sides, but early on there was the one of appearing in front of an audience, well, you know the one. As time moved on, that went away (I think because I usually found my drum to hide behind) or I would return immediately backstage. I have been lucky that I can lucid dream, changing what was happening, or at least having some ability to add bits, like finding something to hide behind.

The dream that I really don’t like that I get, is the one where I forget the story I am telling. I usually get these before big festivals, or a really busy period of time is fast approaching. There’s a festival this weekend, in fact I am between festivals right now having come back from Timpanogos a week and a half ago.

Last night I dreamt I was at this cozy festival, people sitting in what looked like overly large living rooms filled with comfy chairs and sofas, some unnecessary microphones, speakers, and stands. There were a number of spaces where others were also performing. There were families there, some I knew and some I didn’t. There were a lot of kids there, some really young children, grandparents, and grown-ups there to hear stories on their own. Not all the stories were for little kids. When, in the dream, I bumped into other storytellers we would chat in ‘green rooms,’ between sets passing each other, or when a storyteller went slightly over and we were switching spaces, like when I entered that comfortable room. I had my drum, my bodhrán, and was playing it and I began a story. We were all excited, if a little tired. It had been a long day, and it was mid-late afternoon. There were a few disruptions from the kids, and I tried, as one does, to reel it in, and get the kids back on track, but when I went back to the story, it wouldn’t come back to mind. The story vanished from my mind and no matter how hard I tried it wouldn’t come back. I could not think of any story. I would look for my book with the list of over a hundred stories I tell but it was gone - no doubt my subconscious knowing that that would be the first thing I would do. I played the drum some more, and used it as a way to hide from the fact that I couldn’t remember the story.

The kids were falling asleep, the adults listening were beginning to doze. It was a hot, late afternoon and people had been listening to stories all day, and the previous day too. One kid I knew came up and snuggled next to me to fall asleep, so I had the mother come and get him for the two to snuggle on the couch. Then I had a sly idea, and tried not to alert my subconscious.

I thought that instead of stopping that story and trying to start another, I would begin to weave away from that story to another, and make it a frame story.

In case you are not sure what a frame story is, it is a story within a story. The Panchatantra from India, and The Thousand and One Nights are good examples of that. During a tale, in the Panchatantra, one of the animals would say, “Oh, this reminds me of the story of when the…” and then we would go into that story. In the Arabian Nights, Scheherazade, Persian daughter of the Sultan’s vizier, does similar things, or extends the story until first light when stories have to stop. Some stories have three or four other stories within them and then they would slowly come back out. In Scheherazade’s case it saves her life to tell another story another day.

So I didn’t try to call up a story, I just carefully thought if there were any stories that might want to be woven into this one, and a tale slid to mind. I began a story within a story and the audience came around and began to listen. I am not sure I could do this in real life, but I will take it for my dreams. It’s way better than having to hide behind something, that’s for sure, and I kept the drum close by, just in case!

Do you have recurring dreams? How do you get out of them, other than trying to wake up from them?

The festival is in Jackson, New Hampshire and you can learn about it hear: https://whitneyccprograms.com/storytelling-festival/, yes, that “hear” was intentional!