In the dream I was in a room - they're always interesting these rooms, bear no relation to any dwelling I've ever lived in or been in, though sometimes there's a faint familiarity.
At the outset I tell you I don't believe in any form of afterlife and have written extensively about my god-free life so I don't attach any kind of hereafter messages to any dreams I have about dead people.
So this dream: I was housekeeping in this large white room, surrounded by cleaning utensils. I don't housekeep in real life. I keep things sanitary and hygienic but heavy cleaning is Emma's job. So here I am sitting on the floor in this room staring at a vacuum cleaner, wondering about nozzles and power cords when I hear a cough. And I look up and at the doorway is my mother and she has a doll, infant sized, over her shoulder and she's patting it and pointing at it with her other hand. She's silent but insistent I look at it. I get up off the floor, away from the furniture polish and bottles of cleaner and start to walk over to her very slowly, puzzled, saying "Mum, Mum?" over and over. She's smiling but her hands keep moving in the same pattern.
And I wake up suddenly and I'm crying so hard in my loss and grief that it takes me about five minutes to stop and I, the dream expert, breathe in some calm and analyze.
Everyone appearing in a dream is just another aspect of ourselves. And for once, this one's clear as a bell
I can fooster my way round, distracted by the baubles of life and neglect my doll, my creative spirit which needs stroking and care and attention.
And all the promises I made to myself a few months ago about entering more competitions, writing new material, were sucked away by other distractions, some major like the writing workshops I'm giving, others minor like projects in my town and, lawd, editing, editing and editing an anthology (don't ask, unpaid work more's the pity, I was sucked in, my own fault).
So yeah, time to clean house for sure and concentrate on, well, my bliss.
