More Protected Than Necessary

The Dream: I'm in a foreign land. A Chinese woman is in charge: she's the dictator. A group of us sit in an informal semicircle on the ground in front of her. I see that others are expected to show ID cards in the shape of credit cards when she calls on them. They are dispatched according to her wishes. When my turn comes I have my identity card in my hand. I'm ready. I feel proud of myself for this preparedness. When she sees from my card that I'm an American I'm dealt with lightly. She suggests a couple of museums I “should” see.

I have a large bag. I open it and see the two raincoats I had bought earlier for a very good price, this being China. The coats come out, and so does a brown liquid. One of the coats was supposed to be the traditional raincoat tan, and the other, brown. The attempt to dye one brown has not been successful, but neither has it damaged either coat. “What,” I wonder, “am I supposed to do with two identical coats?” I decide to give one to Barbara. It occurs to me that Barbara might not want one of these, she can be very particular at times. Then what? I'm not sure. I go I search of the museums the authority recommended, but there are so many that I don't think I'll be able to locate these particular two. I would like to see them.

Interpretation: Dreams are usually triggered by something from the day or two before the dream, and it's sometimes helpful to figure out what. In this dream, the search for the museums was sparked by a television news segment on Burma that showed very large, deserted public buildings. Getting a pass for being an American echoed a story I'd heard the night before from a Jeopardy contestant who was traveling in a foreign country when he missed the last train of the day and the waiting room closed. He resorted to sleeping in the hallway.  A cop came along and said, “Oh, I thought you were a bum; but I see you're an American.”

For its own reasons, the dream generator put these things together. Why? An inner authority figure (the Chinese dictator) who knows who I am (she's seen my ID card) tells me to look at some old stuff (go to some museums). My protective gear (raincoats) is not what I expected, and I find I have more than I need. It protects me from water signaling that it's there to shield me from emotion--tears, grief. My inner artist (Barbara) is likely to spurn this protection, and that makes me uneasy. I haven't yet brought to consciousness the particular old stuff I'm meant to see—unless it my dawning realization of how many people were good to me, and how irretrievably lost to me they are.

No Light at the End of the Tunnel

The Dream: Dettie and I are at the underground entrance to a NYC subway. She has a token and goes through the turnstile and down the escalator to the platform. I realize I have no money. I set down my large purse, at the same time noticing a lost-and-found-box containing cash and other items that people have left on the train, open to all with no oversight. I think, after a little ethical quavering, that it's probably okay if I “borrow” some of the money to buy a token. I feel a little guilty, but climb up to the box—it's a bit of a stretch—and help myself to a small amount of cash. In some part of my mind I am surprised that the money hasn't all disappeared.

I take the money to the ticket booths; the one to the left is closed, and the agent in the middle booth ignores me. I'm getting anxious about finding Dettie with all this delay. Then I notice an available agent to the right: I had 't been aware of him. He is a very affable black man and while I don't have enough money for a return, he sells me a one-way token.

As I approach the turnstile I realize my bag is missing. I feel very uneasy about this, thinking about my credit cards and how I should have made a list of them. I try to remember which membership cards were in my purse. This will be a mess to sort out; I hope Clark can help me.

I descend the escalator and my surroundings become darker and darker. When I reach the platform I look for Dettie, but she's nowhere to be seen. I had been counting on her to loan me money for the return trip. The platform is deserted, very dark, and no trains appear to be running. After a while I decide to try a different level, thinking I must be on the wrong track. I turn to go, and things become even darker until it's pitch black. I become frightened and decide to go back up.

I climb a long flight of stairs. At the top is a closed door with a window. The door is locked. I bang and bang on it, yelling “Help!” until I'm afraid my voice will go. A man appears—I see his face silhouetted against the door's window. He has a mustache and looks creepy, like something out of a surrealist's work. I think that if he opens the door it will be to rape me, not to help. I awaken in terror.

Interpretation: Jung warns us that encountering the unconscious is a fearsome project, and this dream verifies it. My friend's name is the key to this dream: “Dettie” evokes both death and debt. As I begin my descent into the underworld of the unconscious I grapple with feeling inadequate: I have no money (worth), but I might be able to retrieve some if I'm willing to take a chance and reach higher. It's interesting that I have an ethical difficulty in giving myself what I need: I don't feel entitled to take it. But even when I do my problems are not over. I have enough money to embark on my journey, but not enough to return. I lose my purse with its membership and credit cards (I'm totally alone; I'll get no credit in the future). I call on my animus to save the situation, but the male figure who appears is another threat, not a savior. I go lower and lower, facing my darkest fears: my vulnerability, my worthlessness and my mortality. My vision is so narrow (tunnel like) that I can't see a way out.

Your Money or Your Life

Many who are interested in dreams are artists. If you are, I think you’ll find this dream relevant to the age-old artist’s conundrum: make art or make money.

The Dream: I go to an art supply outlet. It is an old-fashioned office in an industrial firm. The room is not at all glamorous, with beige file cabinets, clutter and a utilitarian wooden desk. Behind this desk sits a younger middle-aged woman (about 40). She is thick-set, has dark brown hair and wears horn-rimmed glasses. She is a little chubby, with a round face and in a very dull dark blue dress.

I give her a list of pigments and other art supplies that I would like to purchase. I realize I don’t have the money to pay for my supplies, which have amounted to $200.00. I ask if it is okay if I write her a check, and then ask my mother if the money is in the account: she might have to transfer some money.

I can see the woman is disapproving. She is wondering why I don’t earn my own money. I arrange that I will call her after I get my mother’s approval, and then she will send me the supplies. Since I have been a long-time customer I am annoyed that she didn’t trust me enough to let me take the art supplies home with me.

Interpretation: The short one: I’m not getting any credit! To elaborate: Some part of me is unsure if I have the right to color (the pigments). In this dream color represents an expressive outlet. My color is controlled by the rigid forces of practicality: industry, busy-ness, clutter (old unresolved stuff lying about). I can’t give myself any credit for the choice I’ve made or the work I do. As Oscar Wilde said, “All art is utterly useless.” I am dependent on my internalized “mother” for approval. Another part of me is disgusted with this dependence and thinks I should “earn my own money;” in other words, be my own source of affirmation.

The Visitation

This very long dream has an unusual ending, especially since I’m not religious.

Dream: I am going to a party in a big city, in a car with several other women. We are going over an old-fashioned bridge. Although the road is strewn with logs and other hazards we manage to avoid them.

The party is set in someone’s apartment, a railroad flat with one room leading to the next. There are a lot of people, but I don’t seem to connect with anyone. The lights are turned off in the front room, and only small, dim bulbs are throwing an oblique light from some corridors off the main rooms. An older Asian man, the janitor, lives in one of these corridors. Through a mirror in the front room, before it’s completely dark, I see a reflection of the other side of the apartment which looks out onto an upward space, a rising hill. At this point I realize I am in Berkeley, saying to myself “Isn’t it interesting that there can be such a natural setting, so much open space, in an urbanized place?”

I am wandering about in the very dark front room not having a particularly good time, when one of the people I’ve come with whispers to me that she is leaving. I feel a surge of relief as I realize that I too can leave. I go to find my purse, which had been left in a pile with the purses and jackets of other party-goers in the dark front room. My search is hampered by the fact that it is so dark that I can’t see anything. I feel around, at times thinking I have found my purse and then realizing it’s the wrong one. I begin to get anxious and almost frantic as I search and search with no success. At one point the hostess comes in, a rather smug young woman. She hands me something; at first I think she’s given me my purse, then realize to my disappointment that it isn’t. I tell her this and she says, “Just listen to you, whining away over a missing purse.”

I fume to myself, wondering how there could be a woman on the planet who has no sympathy for the panicky feeling of having lost one’s purse, with driver’s license, credit cards, etc.

I become aware of feeling very sleepy. I walk through the apartment to its other end and go out on the deck. The area is filled with smoke from cannabis. All the party goers are here, and it is crowded and lively. I marvel that they can smoke pot so openly with no worries about reprisals; then I remember we are in Berkeley, and freedom prevails.

I look at the sky, and it’s filled with stars, brilliant and jewel-like. I gasp at the loveliness, and then return to the front room to resume the search for my purse.

I am so tired that I stretch out and fall asleep, thinking as I drift off that my friend must have left by now.I am lying on my back, asleep. I feel a gentle touch about my shoulders and face. Someone has put her hands over my eyes, as a child might do before saying “Guess who?” At first I think the person has said something like, “I am Jesus Christ, come to give you a prophecy.” Then I become aware that the touch is my mother’s, and I very strongly feel her presence although I can’t see her (she is behind my head). At this point I think she is saying something like, “Through the intercession of Jesus Christ I am here to see you.” I am aware she died several years ago yet her presence is so palpable it startles me awake.

Interpretation: I won’t attempt to interpret this one, except to point out some interesting symbols.
Bridge: A halfway station between one reality and another; enables the traveler to cross over
Road: my path to the place where the visitation takes place is strewn with obstacles
References to darkness: I’m in the dark about something. I don’t see directly but through a mirror (“through a mirror darkly”)
Janitor: original meaning: guardian of doors
Purse: my sense of identity
Cannabis: something that can cause a slip into the irrational
The brilliant sky:  another realm
Christ: a symbol of the union of man with the divine