Defiant Wisdom

Category: Chronicle

A timeline of truth. Every entry, in date order—dreams, memories, moments, and meaning. Track the unfolding, the patterns, the pivots. This is the whole thread, stitched one day at a time.

  • Mea Culpa

    Mea Culpa

    The Dream

    Accessory
    to murder.

    Many years
    ago.

    The weapon
    gone in amnesty.

    He was a
    wrong’un.

    Thief!

    She harbours
    truth,

    decency
    and fault.

    Her patio
    withholds his dead.

    She was a
    wrong’un.

    The Meaning

    accessory
    Feeling shame and guilt over past actions, words and events that weren’t completely within my control. A reckoning with what responsibility means when knowledge, agency and understanding are limited.

    concealment
    There’s a desire not to be discovered for past actions or mistakes. But keeping the past buried requires something of the present self too.

    What Lingers…

    Can guilt can be carried without it becoming identity?

    What if reconciliation needs truth, not lifelong punishment?

    Marginalia

    Shame, guilt and rumination bring the past into present. Memories I thought long dealt with still arrive unexpectedly. I find myself wondering why they return. Already dealt with, I remind them.
    Shush.

  • After the Drain

    After the Drain

    The Dream

    Commercial bank
    its pond
    fetid.

    Its fish
    dead
    and dying.

    Call
    the RSPCA.

    The water
    drains

    waste and
    rubbish
    remain.

    Fresh water
    pours.

    No.
    The toxic mess
    remains.

    The Meaning

    pond
    The bank of emotions needs its poisoned swamp draining of waste before it’s refilled.

    What Lingers…

    What if emotional renewal requires more than refilling? What if it demands a purge?

    What if healing can’t begin until the waste is named, not just drained?

    Marginalia

    Sometimes, life needs a clear-out. We collect experiences and relationships that aren’t always beneficial. Much like the resurfacing of old memories in The X Files, here my dreams are demonstrating how a new environment can be just as harmful if what was originally toxic remains present.  

  • Their Old House

    Their Old House

    The Dream

    Mum’s kitchen.

    I make
    soap.

    Open
    the window
    away
    it blows.

    Undergrowth
    cradles glass.

    Unbroken.

    Sigh.
    I mend.

    I worry.
    Another thing
    he cannot
    fix.

    The Meaning

    soap
    Creation. I’m trying to make something gentle and caring.

    family home
    My origin and foundation.

    broken window
    The structure of familiarity is being ripped from my hands and I’m powerless.

    a temporary fix
    I’m relieved; it’s not as bad as I’d feared. The repair will hold for now, it will buy some time, but things are changing; they’re not the same anymore.

    worry
    I’m trying to protect Dad; I don’t want him to be burdened, but there’s the realisation that this person isn’t who they used to be.

    What Lingers….

    What if we can’t make things be as they once were but accept how things are now?

    Marginalia

    My Dad has broken his shoulder. The house is falling apart. I’m unable to fix these things. The situation calls for a different side of me as I swap places to nurture those who once nurtured me.

  • Two Donkeys

    Two Donkeys

    The Dream

    Two donkeys
    loose
    on the road.

    One
    wears a
    red spotted
    head scarf.

    Toy donkeys
    but real.

    One of them
    skittish,
    the other one
    calm.

    I called
    the RSPCA.
    They didn’t
    have any
    space.

    I felt put out.
    I was stuck with them.

    The Meaning

    donkeys
    Life’s inconveniences. They wander in and demand attention.

    RSPCA
    I try to reallocate the problem. To the person whose job it should be.

    responsibility
    Responsibility arrives through proximity. I noticed; now I’m involved.

    What Lingers…

    What happens when conscience becomes responsibility?

    What if responsibility arrives before consent?

    Marginalia

    Life isn’t a funfair, it’s messy, sometimes absurd, and takes up space. My dream hands me two problems. There’s a reluctance from me. I tried to redirect to the proper authority. These are not my problems and yet I’m left dealing with them anyway.

  • The X Files

    The X Files

    The Dream

    A series of old memories,
    residue of time gone by.

    Why now?
    You mean nothing.

    Don’t you?

    The Meaning

    old memories
    Not all memories dissolve on contact.
    Some stay lodged until the body feels safe enough to unearth them.
    Healing isn’t a delay, it’s timing.

    What Lingers…

    What if the body stores what time alone can’t dissolve?

    What if release depends not on will, but on safety that never comes?

    Marginalia

    We know that painful memories can be hard to process, but what happens when they resurface years later like fresh cuts, unannounced and unprepared for?

    I don’t think our bodies want us to return there; instead, I think it’s a passage forward. To allow us to reframe with fresh, compassionate eyes. To help us let go.

  • Smudging with Mugwort

    Smudging with Mugwort

    They say mugwort is the ancestral herb, used for centuries to open portals between this world and those that came before it.
    I didn’t know that when I started smudging my room with it.

    I’d never even heard of smudging until I got to Arran. The farm was welcoming, but the house was strange. At night, I’d hear the front door open and close. Once, I heard a bedroom door handle turn. I lay frozen in bed, wide awake.
    The place felt off. I couldn’t rest.

    One night, while I was out with a housemate, the others smudged the house with sage. When we returned, the energy was different. Calmer. Like something heavy had finally left the building.

    Eighteen months later, that same housemate mentioned she’d been smudging her bedroom, in an effort to sleep, without knowing why she couldn’t. Her words brought it all back. I’d been walking with mugwort, drinking tea made from it, and something in me stirred.

    I bound a small bundle of mugwort with cotton thread. Smudged carefully. Let in some air. Went to sleep.

    I woke crying.
    The dream was Misunderstanding and Violence.
    Something had been released—shoved violently out of me in tears.

    A few months later, while cleaning, I smudged again. I hadn’t planned to. I didn’t prepare. That night, I woke at midnight—completely alert. I paced the house.
    Hours later, I dreamed again: The Break-In.
    Only this time, it didn’t feel like my dream.

    Both dreams were laced with fear, instinct and attack. Both came after smudging with mugwort. Both now felt like warnings.
    I had just been writing about my maternal great-grandmother, Catherine. The woman who gave too much, who overextended past safety.

    What if those dreams weren’t mine at all?
    What if mugwort didn’t just facilitate dreams, but opened up the dreams of the dead?
    What if I didn’t dream about Catherine—
    but through her?

  • Part 2: The Break-In

    Part 2: The Break-In

    The Dream

    My house.
    I lived here—
    once upon a time.

    My son.
    Sleeping upstairs—
    small but not cosy.

    The door.
    A huge bolt,
    but so many holes.

    The windows.
    So many,
    with useless curtains.

    I am exposed.

    A knock.
    From the darkness—
    a man, desperate.

    “Open up!
    I need money—
    I see you in there!”

    I’m silent.
    He’s angered—
    smashing his way in.

    “Fire!”
    I shout—
    I’m terrified now.

    The Meaning

    house
    A past place of exposure and vulnerability.

    door
    One access point now, but full of holes. My inner boundary under direct threat.

    windows
    How I’m perceived. Someone sees me as withholding, but my refusal comes from fear, protection, and context—not stinginess.

    curtains
    I can’t hide myself. Transparency makes me a target.

    attack
    A collision of learned behaviour, fear of overextending, misunderstanding, and maternal instinct. I’m literally under siege.

    fire
    Survival strategy at its peak. I don’t cry for help—no one will come. I shout “fire” to draw people in through spectacle and self-interest.

    What Lingers…

    What if desire to help sits hand in hand with the fear of giving too much?

    What if the forgotten safety of intuition is replaced with survival scripts to protect?

    Marginalia

    After The Renovation from the night before, as much as this dream feels like its sequel, it doesn’t feel like it’s mine.

    I’ve spoken before about how dream sequences ramp themselves towards a terrible climax. Each night teasing themselves closer to the ‘root’ of the issue being explored.

    In Not My Dream, I also discussed how I’ve had dreams that haven’t belonged to me. This I believe, is another of those dreams.

    Only yesterday, I’d posted the insights I’d discovered about my maternal great-grandmother in Fragments of Catherine. In it, I state how she overextended her boundaries. This dream feels like her warning to me.

    To trust my instincts when things ‘feel’.

    To make sure I have boundaries in place. Not just in my waking life, but in my dreams also.

  • Fragments of Catherine

    Fragments of Catherine

    She says they came
    to her
    to read their future.
    She read tea leaves.

    —

    She says she went
    to her
    when she was cold.
    Deep to her breast.

    —

    They say she held
    secrets
    her lips sealed.
    She did not judge.

    —

    Stars say she loved
    too deeply
    more than her
    weary soul
    could hold.

    Marginalia

    Catherine is one of the ancestors I found was imprinted onto my natal chart. She apparently gifted me with intuition, symbolic thinking, spiritual downloads and dream insight. She’s not a fanfare, she’s just there at my side, holding my hand.

    I never knew Catherine but when she showed up in my chart, I was intrigued to know more. This poem (if you want to call it that) is the fragments of what I discovered about her. And by now, I wasn’t surprised to find those fragments echoed in her natal chart.

    My Nana, however, her daughter could read people as easily as the news. I recall her rocking in her chair when something vexed her, when she knew the truth was being withheld. I can’t recall the exact instances, just the subtle changes in her behaviour.

    I thought that everyone had that ability.

  • Part 1: The Renovation

    Part 1: The Renovation

    The Dream

    My house —
    so big.
    So many
    front doors.
    It’s perfect
    to split.

    Everything
    needs renovating.
    It’s such a
    disaster.

    When it’s done,
    I’ll rent the rooms
    to refugees.
    It’ll be safe
    here.

    The Meaning

    house
    It’s back. This time in ruins.

    door
    Access points to my inner world. More than one way in or out. I’m open.

    renovation
    The interior is chaos, but I’m not giving up. I’m ready to rebuild from scratch — not patch over. What’s reborn here isn’t just for me. I want it to shelter those still seeking safety.

    What Lingers…

    What if inner ruin can be repurposed into refuge?

    What if usefulness begins not with perfection, but with making one room ready?

    Marginalia

    I think I’ve already mentioned elsewhere that I only ever recall dreams that have a message for me. Because of that, I don’t remember every bit of brain fodder, and days, weeks, and months might go by before I recall again.

    Sometimes the recall comes in flurries. It’s been over a month since my last ‘recalled’ dream. I’ve now started my new herbal course and already feel confident that this was meant to be the way forward.

    The last time I dreamed of my house in The House That Contains Everything, I accepted all the rooms in it, even those that were cold. Here I’m on with the renovations and I’m clear about why I’m renovating… It’s to be for the benefit of others.

  • Clean Hands, Dirty World

    Clean Hands, Dirty World

    The Dream

    Changing rooms
    an argument
    she steals
    from me.

    On camera
    I see her
    I’m not innocent
    I still want justice.

    Camping
    they steal
    from me.
    I know
    where they live

    The Meaning

    theft
    I carry guilt but I’m not corrupted by it. I’m committed to doing the right thing, even if it burns me.

    What Lingers…

    They say let those without sin cast the first stone. But what if standing by means the world rots?

    What if doing the right thing still matters, even when no one gets to stay clean?

    Marginalia

    Sometimes I can’t locate my dreams into my waking life and I wonder where they are from? The past? Maybe the future? Maybe from another life entirely.