This morning I woke up with the light of the setting full moon splashing over my pillow. It woke me from a dream about an old house I used to live in. In my dream I was looking for the house, but I couldn’t find it. Where it had been was now a strip mall and light industries. But it was just a dream.
In my real life—that is to say, my waking life—that house wasn’t just any old house. It was the place I fixed up for eight years. I glazed windows, sawed floorboards, painted walls, split wood, learned to farm, and grew most of my own food. It was a time of self-reliance and it taught me, that if I put my mind to it, I could do anything. So to dream that it was all gone, lost under a tide of human activity unconscious to the deeper forces that connect us to the earth and to each other—what did that mean? I also dreamt, within that dream, that my two best friends from high school were with me; even though one of them had committed suicide more than thirty years earlier and the other I haven’t had any contact with.
This dream could have easily been a nightmare, but it wasn’t. In the dream I felt some frustration and a little sadness that I couldn’t find my old house again, but I was not much distressed. I think the dream was telling me that even profound experiences and the memories they create have a limited shelf life within our psyches. It was time to let them—the old house and my friends—go. Whatever purpose their existence had had in my life was fulfilled. The memory was neutralized, no longer active. The pattern was completed.
Full moon dreams stir the depths, bringing them to light. And this full moon was showing me it’s time to stride ahead, confident and unencumbered.