Author: Denise

(Wednesday, November 24, 2021) waning gibbous moon Cancer, three of cups tarot

I dream of traveling, related to my job. My route follows a calm, winding river in Europe, but I am “on the road,” not in a boat. It’s like visiting an outdoor art gallery. There are giant wooden sculptures, particularly on the river bends. I love to see them, I am inspired by their beauty and complexity, sometimes with a bit of a positive shock. Masterpieces. Between the bends stand elaborately-carved, historical wooden houses that climb the forested bluffs.

Later, on a village street, I meet my Amsterdam coworker Kleopatra. We are happy to see each other in person, which is rare. In waking life, she gave birth to her first child this summer, a son. In the dream she has a pouch on her tummy. I ask, “How is your baby?” She pulls out a tiny newborn girl and hands her to me. I am pleased to be offered such an amazing gift. I slowly support baby’s head and body with both of my hands, then pull her close. A male coworker is standing behind my right shoulder, peering delightedly at baby girl. I hand him the little infant so he can experience the pleasure of gently embracing her, sensing her distinctive energy.

In a third element of the dream, I am viewing charming, hand-painted signs of the names of small European towns. A voice from the white ether, the upper level, tells me the story of the woman artist who created them all. The lettering style is distinctive to her work, made during the era of Impressionism. Her colors are tropical. The signs are often standing below generous, mature trees. I see her creations from very far away, but am able to view them close-up within my mind’s eye. The pleasant artist greets me from the other side, beyond the veil.

Day notes:

I’ve been asking for dreams about my creative “mission” and this seems to be one of them. Sculpture. Words. My current design job has been inspired by typography for decades. I’m good at it, but I don’t design fonts. I am trying to figure out if my love for writing and sculpture will be related as I find more time in retirement.

This also seems to have past life elements. Perhaps. Or a story of some of my European ancestry.

Baby girl must be Oona. Hillary and Kleopatra have the same job titles.

As a child I was captivated by a talented sign painter in the Winona and Wabasha area. Back then all signs were painted by hand, and this painter was particularly gifted with lettering and color. His signs were everywhere. I later found out that he taught at Winona State. He bought a two-story house in Minneiska, overlooking the river, and painted a huge mural of himself at his drawing table, surrounded by elves. Beautiful and charming. That is my memory, anyway. I can’t find anything about him online.

I hear a man talking so loudly it wakes me up. I head downstairs and ask Chris what he was talking about and he says he had been quiet, not said a word. In this house I sometimes hear a distinctive male voice. This seems like an alert to remember my dream, which was about Commons Park in Fridley, where I grew up. Today (Monday, November 22, 2021) Chris mentions it in an article he is reading about the Washburn Tower and metro water systems. One of the wells in Commons Park was closed after I grew up because the water was contaminated. Cancer is common in Fridley, people say. I haven’t dreamt of Commons Park in many years.

(Sunday, November 21, 2021)

The exact “ding” sound I hear when someone texts me woke me up early Sunday morning. I picked up my phone, checked it, but no one had sent me a text. I realized the bell-ring was intended to alert me to the dream I just had: “This dream is important!”

In the dream, two older women are lying asleep in single beds in a shared hospice room or nursing home. Lights are on and I have stepped in as an observer. The woman closest to me has wavy, jet-black hair. The other woman, who is lying on her side and facing away from me, has soft white-grey hair. Each of the two beds are holding large, square, white wooden boxes that touch the women’s feet. Their knees are bent to make room for the boxes. The boxes are sealed except for square openings on one side of each box. I leave the room to avoid disturbing the stillness.

After I walk out of the hospice room, into a hallway, my consciousness becomes aware of a man with a handgun who is entering the room. He is angrily responding to the social media posts of these women. He shoots and kills them both, and is able to sneak out of the room without anyone seeing him.

I also see and hear nothing, except for within my intuition. I dash into the women’s room and find them cruelly discarded into the square wooden boxes, the oddly-shaped coffins. There is an emergency communication device on the far wall, near the grey-haired woman’s bed. I slam the buttons, crying for help.

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Because of the “ding,” I spend a long time lying in bed, going over the dream details. I eventually fall asleep and the dream continues.

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I am at work. The two women in charge of communications have asked me to write a blog post, so I slowly sift through all of the elements and publish one based on the dream that woke me up. Dinged me. When I let them know that the blog subject is based on a dream, they are anxious and horrified. But their emotions don’t affect me in the least. I tell them: “Well, you can just delete it from the web if you don’t like it.” And I walk away, perfectly happy.

The dream shifts to a huge Victorian house. I comment that hundreds of people could live here, which is important in these times of tremendous poverty and homelessness. A logical, organized contractor has been in charge of clearing, repairing and updating the house. He shows me the clean, white sheets and comforters in every bedroom. All of the rooms now feel spacious and calm, beautiful and livable.

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Day notes:

Before this dream I had listened to Al Franken’s podcast about Facebook and the sociopathic business practice of Mark Zuckerberg.

Today I received a Facebook post from the IASD about Dr. Patricia Garfield. She is now in hospice. She has been suffering from cancer for many years.

The acquittal of Kyle Rittenhouse has been devastating news. A nightmare. Social media is inspiring violence and murder.

On my way home from getting my booster shot, a truck drove past me from White Crane, a company I have been interested in for some remodel projects. This dream confirms for me that White Crane would be a good choice.