Dreams, Old and Fresh

Last night, I dreamed I was in Moscow. It was a younger me, free of obligations or directions, unmarried and short-haired, but somehow still mysteriously pregnant. It was the very end of twilight, and the old winding streets of the heart of the city were deep in shadows, broad, leafy pools of darkness from the trees above. It was a dream Russia: everything was so well cared for and neat and calm. I walked without fear.

Suddenly, from around a corner, a young man stepped out of the shadows. He walked up to me and unexpectedly but very softly kissed me on the lips. Then he stood back from me and looked me deep in the eyes. I was not afraid. I was instantly in love.

I remember my dreams every night now, and they are usually jumbled messes of images stolen from the previous day's experiences. But this one somehow came from some other part of my psyche. It echoed with promise: that somehow, my other life that unfolded half a world away was still possible, relevant, a source of inspiration and creativity. My animus, my male muse had emerged, bearing a still unclear gift.

I don't know why, but it reminds me of another dream I had, several years ago, when still deep in the dark pit of IF despair. I think I've already discussed it here, but I'll repeat myself... I had somehow sneaked into Russia without meaning to, without a visa. Somehow, I was forced to confront a whole bad guys club (a la The Manchurian Candidate) who unleashed a dragon on an innocent man, woman, and their children. To save the family, I flung myself in front of them and somehow defeated the dragon. It became part of me, curled up in disturbing miniature on my cheek as a painful, permanent scar. Yet no one else could see it, and no one seemed to care that I had just done the impossible and survived.

That, friends, is the essence of the IF experience: We bear mysterious marks we can't erase, and once we've found our release, no one recognizes our secret yet astonishing heroism.