I dream of houses. Wandering around an old one, moving into a new one. When I dream about an actual building I have spent time in, I know it as that building but it different from real life. Like in high school, the layout of the buildings is the same but the appearance is different.
For years, I dreamed of an old Victorian house I loved roaming around in. It was neglected and dusty and dark and there were a couple of aunts living in the basement. I was the only one going upstairs. About a week after I got married, I dreamed about the house again only this time it was bright, refreshed, clean and bright. That’s when I realized the house was a dream metaphor for my life.
I have had a couple of dreams recently about the house I grew up in. I could be alone there and not feel lonely. I could retreat from the world into books.
Last night I dreamed I was part of a big family and we moved into a new house. It came furnished and didn’t look like much from the front. Inside it was at least 4 stories high, overfilled with furniture that was dark and heavy. But there were large windows opening on to a large open garden space. The view was great, once you removed the heavy curtains and heavy wooden furniture. As we wandered the rooms, I could see the basic structure and it was good and looking forward to clearing it out and enjoying the open space.
I move Brian into memory care today. My life is going to change drastically again. Time to clear out the house and get some light in.
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