Last night I dreamt that I was driving along a two-lane highway late at night. The dome light in my car was on, but my headlights weren't working. The road was very dark and I literally couldn't see a thing. I was very nervous, but not panicked, although for some strange reason I never slowed down. (Perhaps it didn't occur to me, or maybe I simply couldn't.) I marvelled that I had not hit anything, that somehow my blind steering managed to keep me on the highway. At any moment I knew I could lose the road and barrel into the woods.
I suppose this was a bad dream, but it didn't feel like the nightmares I had occasionally as a child, where I was being chased by some frightening creature and woke up with a voiceless scream. Perhaps this is how nightmares evolve to meet the fears of our middle age, when we are less troubled by things that go bump in the night, and more so by the unknown road that lies ahead.
Long before Joseph foresaw seven lean years people were looking for signs in dreams. And maybe that happens, although it seems like an unreliable courier for an important life message, since I forget most of mine minutes after awakening. I think it is more likely that our dreams are a reflection of our subconscious fears, doubts and silent aspirations. Dreams are parables, drawing on our life's experiences to symbolically illustrate points what we already know, but can't quite articulate in our waking moments. Dreams are ideas trying to emerge, but must sometimes dress in the day's experiences to get past our subconscious security. There is a kernel of truth in dreams, and sometimes an entire meal to digest.
Some years ago I decided to write down a description of my dreams as soon as I awoke. My experiment never led to anything profound, except that I remembered them longer and more vividly. My dreams moved from soon-forgotten rumblings to indelible memories, some cryptic and some meaningful enough to shed light on the darkened highways of my wakefulness.
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