Keeping a dream journal is more than just a diary for me, it is a way to connect with my inner self, make sense of the my sometimes garbled thought processes, and focus on what is important in the here and now.  It is also the inspiration for much of the poetry I write. 

Having studied dream work and followed my own nightly forays for thirty years, I can confidently say that there is always something to be gleaned from the process.  I trust my dream source probably more than anything else.

There are countless ways to approach dream work, which all begin with keeping a journal.  I always write my dreams in present tense, as if they are happening as I write – this keeps the energy of the message alive.  It is also important to give each dream a title.

A fun and easy way to work with dream messages, is to compile the titles from a given time period and see what results.  I remembered this technique this morning and decided to look back over the past year, at the titles of the poems that were dream-inspired.  Here is what I came up with:

Pleas(e), knightmare shattered,
gridlocked – damn you, hindsight!

Presently seeking peace,
all the little pieces changing
direction; accepting self –
labyrinth:  dump truck, death threat,
a room of my own – oh, to dream.

Open to healing – fleeting libido
a sorry state; spider woman
re-righting the past; chasing
mermaids – grateful pause (paws)

The red box: driving passion –
celebrate with me – love
a husband and a son.
Disability’s rant juxtaposed –
maybe leave me out of it?
Daughters be free…

Rehabilitation scheme –
canine calamity –
hide(me)away.

Turning point:  What is it about me?
Under (re)construction, woulda, coulda, shoulda –
paradise rattled, fall from grace…salvaged.
Move me to understanding, Soul Stalker –
leap froggin’, dragon attack – imagining genius.

Seasons of love need a big ass truck,
out of step: lights, camera, heartache.

Hope, like a breeze,  in communion prevails.
Herd or heard – scorned woman’s rage, response
to scorned – the ocean awaits, levitating,
birthing the heroic.

Beauty and the beast revisited:
portrait of a waitress, bad birthday,
freak show’s in town – choices lacking
evolution, anchored in morbidity –
too far gone – they’re just family, after all.

Shadows echo – ready, set, go – not dead yet.
Branded loser, I stand in the doorway,
establishing a front.  Isolation’s hold casting
call, love, like shoes, checked out.

(While I did not alter the titles themselves, I did take liberty with punctuation.)

For more on dream work, see my original blog One Woman’s Quest.

Photo from Huffingtonpost.com