Somewhere in my draft posts is a bit about the last few days. The Lewes Expo I went to on Thursday is what caused the delay because I wanted to outline all the new people I'd made contact with and all the useful information I'd come away with. Too much info. I can't even wrap my own head around it all, yet.
Then yesterday I saw a client on recommendation. An absolutely lovely lady, and the first time an ex-client has brought me one of their contacts. Its very honouring to know people think highly of my quality of work.
This morning I had a dream. Two dreams, actually. In recent months I've often had dreams about having to leave this or that situation, only to find that the 'leaving' involved waking up. Anyway I'd come to understand them as something more than my imagination because they were the wrong way around. Imagination dreams make you dream of running or fighting because you are double wrapped in duvet and fast overheating - they take a physical sensation and make use of it, or explain it away, within the setting of the dream. How can I explain away waking up, before I wake? Each dream would be of an excellent conversation, or a crucial lesson, or a hug with a long-lost somebody, and then something would happen or be said to mean I had to leave, even if I didn't want to. Then I would stand up to go, or open the door, or turn away, before waking up.
The otherness of this morning's first dream was even more strange. I was sat at a dinner table with a white cloth, eating with friends (people I've never met in real life). I told one of them I was jealous that they knew what their purpose and special talent was, and said I wished I knew mine, too.
She answered with a question: "What is the colour of meditation?"
"Oh no wait, its turquoise on the outside, when you look at it. Inside its deep purple."
"Right" she said, perking up and pointing to the space between her place setting and mine,
"so look here on the table and imagine a casket with purple pillars."
That sounded a bit weird to me but I imagined an oblong wooden box, sort of oak or walnut, good solid 1930s build to it, and then I kind of stuck four purple pillars sticking up slightly taller, around it. I couldn't really see it, only imagine it, badly I thought, but she was pleased. I still couldn't 'see' it when she leaned in, opened it, and told me to take a little envelope from inside. I didn't want to, and the child opposite me took the box instead, reached in, removed the envelope, wiggled it around and passed it to someone else on my right. They smiled and wiped it and handed it to me, but by now it was tangible. The envelope was a flimsy paper, around a piece of card. It was even fraying at one end, begging to be torn open as easily as the paper wrap on a MacDonalds straw. I was so tempted, and yet I didn't want to look. I tore the whole thing into quarters and hardly had time to apologise to the people at the table, because as I stood up, I woke up also.
Then I tried to go back to sleep and get back in to that room so I could look again at their reactions, second guess myself, but instead I vividly remembered when the landlord's decorators moved in on us straight after my stay in hospital and filled the bungalow with paint fumes when we had five or six week old kittens in the house. We caught them licking a newly painted door frame. One by one they died and we boxed and buried them, but not deep enough. The mother cat dug them back up, dragged their corpses back indoors and tried to lick them and nurse them. Twice over. The only image I could get was one riddled with guilt, of finding her mothering the corpses on the living room carpet and having to wrest them from her until Gary could get home to bury them better.
Why would I remember that?
Retrospectively it does seem as though a door was closed, whether the door to the decision or the door to sleep, I couldn't tell.
And then this morning a dear friend who I laughed with on FB long before meeting once, briefly, earlier this year, messaged me out of the blue and asked to connect by skype, because my name had come to her, so how would I feel about helping with writing a book. A book on a topic I love, for the people I love, with the research and main points already set out. All I have to do is translate it, present it, package it; write it.
Oh wow. I already have a working title, but as far as journaling goes, that little brainwave is going down on paper.
Oh wow. Did I say that already? Ok then; squeeee!