When I was a child, I believed dreams moved on a circuit. From my home to the next and round and round until it had traveled again back to me. I believed dreams were connected to physical space—that when I was done experiencing a dream it would then make a jump to the little boy’s home next door. I’m still fascinated by the idea that dreams might be intertwined with the places we live and the places we have them. What is home if not a dream (our dream job, the wo/man of our dreams, our dream-self) and a house in which to build these dreams?

 

I had one recirculating dream that I could fly. I remember the feeling of weightlessness as I lifted off from the sandpaper carpet of my elementary school cafeteria. I felt at peace—yet empowered. However, no matter how hard I tried I felt like I was treading water. I barely moved forward or up despite a lot of impatient effort. In the end, I would—frustrated—conclude that it was a lot easier to walk.

 

I became more aware in my dreams as they continued to circulate. I dreamt that I could fly, but it was more like hovering in the gelatinous air of my dream-space. My dream-self realized I was being stupid. I imagined myself flying with the school cafeteria, my house, Arlington far below me. Fostering awareness was mom’s cure for nightmares—just tell yourself you’re in a dream. You’re in control of it. For the most part, this strategy didn’t work very well. It became a dream within a dream—my dream-self dreamt that we could fly. 

 

At this point neither the dream nor the house are for me very defined, but perhaps home is not about stability at all, as I once thought, but about refining and revising my dreams of home as I grow and learn to share them.