An ex-boyfriend once gave me a book on dream interpretation. It was a thick, colorful book with explanations for many scenarios and themes one may encounter while sleeping. It covered everything from colors, to animals, to weather, to textiles. While I was intrigued by the subject matter, I noticed a disturbing trend with the book’s rationale.
The color orange? Well, that means you’re sexually repressed. Zebras? Sexually repressed. Rainstorm? Sexually repressed. Corduroy? Sexually repressed. Wait a second…I’m starting to notice a trend. Perhaps this was wishful thinking on his part. Either way, I’ve never given much credit to dream interpretation until today.
I had time to linger over my thoughts on the open stretch of highway between Kingman and Wichita today, and my mind was mulling over this career change I recently made. I’m thoroughly enjoying the extra time I have with my girls, and I’m excited about the freelance projects I have coming up on the horizon.
The anticipation I felt about the projects gave me such strong feelings of déjà vu that I had to get to the bottom of why I was feeling this way. And then it hit me. Ever since I could remember, I’ve had a recurring dream that goes something like this:
I’m wandering through a familiar house, though usually not my own, and I stumble upon a room that I didn’t know existed. It’s usually an attic or a cellar, and always dusty. I pull a string to light up the room with a single bulb, and begin to explore. There are antique riches and interesting paintings, old furniture and costume jewelry. I find treasure after treasure, and my heart races with anticipation at what I’ll find next.
Only today did I realize that this represents the creative process for me. I was born to create, and delight in discovering the treasures that exist right under my nose. There are stories and ideas just waiting to be extracted from the dusty recesses of my mind. And even if I can’t make much of a living from this “creative picking,” I’ll enjoy the process all the same.