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.

  • What If Overflow Isn’t Failure?

    What If Overflow Isn’t Failure?

    The Dream

    I was outside,
    under a tarp.

    It was raining—
    relentlessly.

    A leak
    in the roof.

    I made something
    to drain the water away.

    The rain
    intensified.

    Eventually,
    the water was overflowing—

    even the drain
    I built
    couldn’t handle it.

    The Meaning

    the tarp
    Attempting to protect myself from being emotionally flooded. I hide under temporary protection but this is thin, makeshift and exposed.

    the leak
    The emotions are being managed. Even though they’re leaking through the tarp, I attempt to problem solve them away with structure and practicality.

    the overflow
    The feelings are too much. Even the systems in place to stop them from becoming overwhelming can’t cope.

    What Lingers…

    What if no structure can hold what needs to be felt?

    What if overflow isn’t failure, but the truth finally arriving?

    Marginalia

    It feels like a big responsibility, digging into ancestry that was meant to remain unknown. This dream carries the weight of that. I think of the rain as my Nan and Mum—both of whom either didn’t want, or don’t care, to dig up this past.

    But for me, even though it’s their story, it’s mine too.

    I’ve learned that simply giving these stories air makes them lighter. What was heavy in silence begins to lose its weight when spoken.

    And whatever their reasons for not looking, I want to say: it’s OK. I understand.

    You can read our story [here].

  • The House That Contains Everything

    The House That Contains Everything

    The Dream

    Eating food
    with a friend I volunteer with—

    the meal was amazing,
    complex,
    tasty.

    I needed to go shopping.

    Instead I
    showed my partner
    around the house
    we were living in.

    I’d finally decided
    I could face
    the huge task
    of renovating it—

    it was fucking massive.

    I’d already explored
    the newer parts—
    carpets, beds,
    salvageable things
    from the previous owner.

    I said it was all easy enough—
    except the freezing cold room
    next to the front door.

    It had bars
    on the inside.

    It felt haunted.

    We toured the old wing—
    cold rooms,
    ancient furniture.

    He pointed
    to a sloping wall.
    “Subsidence,” he said.

    I wanted to reuse
    the furniture.
    He wasn’t keen.

    The rooms were filled
    with character,
    creepy in places—

    four ebony heads,
    their eyes closed
    sat on one shelf.

    Black magician capes
    with crystal balls at the collar,
    displayed on mannequins.

    Shelves
    of black stone balls
    with white inscriptions.

    Sheds
    connected to bedrooms,
    stuffed with bikes
    and bits of metal.

    I met a friend
    celebrating their graduation,
    wondering whether
    to tell social media.

    I encouraged her.

    My partner
    chatted—
    with a woman concerned
    about her son
    working illegally.

    I said, flippantly,
    “It’s hard—
    but it’s time
    to let him go.”

    To my partner
    I said
    we’d need to sort the bathroom—
    tiny.

    He wanted
    to rent the old wing out.

    I wanted
    to keep parts of it—
    even if the stuff wasn’t mine,
    I liked their character.

    Then,
    I entered
    the new wing—

    rooms connected
    by ladders
    and slides,

    rooms linking into others
    in strange ways.

    The décor was simple—
    but the structure,

    it was wild.

    The Meaning

    the meal
    Connection. Nourishment. Shared appreciation for something complex.

    the house
    My entire psyche—and here? It’s sprawling. Too big to casually renovate.
    I’m living inside my own complexity, and for the first time, saying, yeah, I can handle this.

    partner as witness
    He’s not the fixer, I am.
    He observes, comments, critiques, offers strategies
    but I’m the one touring him.
    He sees flaws. I see potential.

    room with bars
    The reception room by the front door. Freezing cold and determined to keep everything in. The trauma vault.
    It’s cold, defensive, possibly haunted.
    And whilst it’s not fixed, it is acknowledged.

    the old wing
    Memory. Inheritance. My ancestral/psycho-spiritual archive.
    These are my dormant powers, forgotten stories, and unclaimed emotional objects.I want to keep them because they carry depth.

    bike rooms
    Junk drawers of the psyche. Unsorted, but not useless.

    slides, ladders.
    The newest part of myself. Not polished, but playful. This part is
    more connected, more dynamic and nonlinear.

    graduation
    Someone’s ready to share what they’ve accomplished and I encourage them
    I’m helping others to celebrate themselves.

    renting out the old wing
    I’m saying not everything needs to be useful. Some things are just part of who I am.

    What Lingers…

    What if shadow work isn’t about fixing, but finally deciding to live in every room?

    What if some things don’t need to be cleared out, just honoured as part of the architecture?

    Marginalia

    This dream holds more than I’ve even begun to unpack yet—but it was the catalyst.

    When I woke, I knew: those four heads were connected to my ancestors. I felt it in my gut. This was the moment I knew I needed to pick up my ancestral research again. Research that led me to finding out who those four heads belonged to.

    But it wasn’t until I shared the dream with a friend that something clicked. The room at the front of the house was Jimmy’s.

    Working more intuitively, I’ve learned to trust that kind of knowing. Without it, I wouldn’t have gotten this far.

    And the more I trust, the more I find is revealed.

  • What If the Sea Takes It All?

    What If the Sea Takes It All?

    The Dream

    Staying
    in shared accommodation
    on holiday.

    I was in a rush
    to leave.

    I’d left it too late
    for my onward journey—
    it would be very late
    when I arrived.

    I worried
    about cleaning
    before I left.

    I relaxed
    it was okay—
    others were staying on.

    —

    At my next location,
    the weather
    was glorious.

    The sea
    was wild.

    I stood on the prom,
    confused
    at what I was looking at.

    Then I realised:

    the sea wall
    was made of glass,
    holding back the sea
    from consuming
    the land.

    My camera
    had fallen into the water
    somewhere—

    but it had been returned
    onto the top of the sea wall.

    I tried
    to take photos
    with it.

    I cleaned
    the wet lens.

    A sunburned ex-boyfriend
    stood nearby,
    chest on show,
    trying
    to flirt with me.

    I pondered
    the benefit
    of protecting the land.

    I understood
    it was inhabited—

    but isn’t it just evolution
    to let things
    change?

    The Meaning

    shared space
    Another borrowed place. I’m on the move—again. But this time? I’m not cleaning. I’m letting go.

    late arrival, wild sea
    The delay gives way to glory. It’s not just beautiful—it’s threatening to consume everything. The sea is vast, wild, and held back by something thin and artificial.

    glass sea wall
    This is a fragile defence against overwhelming emotions or truths. And I’m there trying to understand my role in the protection, or the surrender to the inevitable.

    the camera lost and returned
    I lost my tool for witnessing and the sea/my emotional unconscious gave it back. But it’s blurry, the lens is wet, my perspective needs cleaning.

    sunburned ex
    Here we go again! The ex representing past impulses—all while I’m mid-epiphany.

    the evolution question
    I’m questioning the validity of trying to protect anything at all. The land is meaningful, but is resistance to change even reasonable? This is my psyche trying to reconcile grief, detachment, collapse, and transformation.

    What Lingers…

    What if perspective doesn’t need replacing, only cleaning?

    What if evolution isn’t in protection, but in the willingness to let something go?

    Marginalia

    This dream feels like a continuation of the questioning in This Path Used To Be Shared—how I’ve held space, even lineage, with others.

    But now, there’s a shift: I’m no longer trying to disappear like The Considerate Ghost. I’m ready to move on. Ready to pass the baton of “impact” to someone else.

    And maybe for the first time, I’m starting to believe that what I’m passing on doesn’t need to be sanitised.

    Of all my dreams, this one’s questions linger the most in waking life:

    Do I maintain the status quo, or let everything be washed away in the current of natural evolution?

    And when it comes to energetic lineage—

    Isn’t there a difference between burying something and letting it be washed away?

    One is shame.
    The other is surrender.

  • How to Start a Fever

    How to Start a Fever

    The Dream

    Someone was unwell.

    I asked them
    if they had a fever.

    They said no.

    I explained to them
    how to initiate
    a fever response.

    The Meaning

    the fever

    In this dream, I’m the initiator of transformation. I see someone stuck in subtle sickness, and I don’t offer comfort. I offer fire.

    the explanation
    I’m not healing them—I’m showing them how to activate their own process of confrontation and repair.

    What Lingers…

    What if healing doesn’t begin with soothing, but with setting something alight?

    What if the role isn’t to cure—but to show where the fire needs to start?

    Marginalia

    Sometimes illness just simmers—never bad enough to demand serious attention, but never well enough to ignore. Like the body got stuck midway through its healing arc.

    That’s what this dream feels like. A bringing-to-the-surface. A necessary pressure. Not just the physical kind, like walking away from a school that was never right—but also the deeper kind: stories long buried, now asking to be voiced.

  • The Body in the Greenhouse

    The Body in the Greenhouse

    The Dream

    I and a friend
    had escaped
    from where we lived.

    We told the police
    there was a body
    buried
    in my greenhouse.

    The victim
    was our flatmate’s.

    For some reason,
    I felt
    I had something
    to do with it.

    The Meaning

    the greenhouse
    The greenhouse is typically a space of growth, cultivation, healing. Something has been hidden under my growth work.

    the flatmate
    The flatmate is another version or aspect of me.

    the escape
    I’m finally telling someone about something long buried.

    responsibility
    The subconscious asks: “What have you tolerated too long? What have you known and stayed quiet about?”

    What Lingers…

    What if growth has been quietly wrapping itself around what was never meant to stay?

    What if unearthing isn’t destruction, but the first honest act of healing?

    Marginalia

    I’d recently rekindled my ancestry research after dreaming about my great-grandmother, Cleopatra. But by this point, I’d shelved it again—worried I was just procrastinating with side quests.

    Then came this dream.

    Literal bodies, buried beneath the space where we grow our nourishment.

    A week later, I dreamt of The House That Contains Everything.

    Another nudge.

    There’s more to know.

  • No Car, Still Loved

    No Car, Still Loved

    The Dream

    A passionate embrace.

    His mum entered.

    She could see
    the love.

    She approved.

    —

    In the city,
    attending
    an event.

    I had
    free parking.

    When I went
    to collect my car,
    it was already
    on a transporter
    in the distance.

    —

    I visited
    an apartment.

    We’d gathered brochures
    from the event.

    A couple of us
    headed home
    together.

    The Meaning

    romantic intensity
    Embodied desire without shame.  I’m not asking for permission.

    his mother
    This is my psyche healing around the idea that passion and approval can coexist. No shame. Just recognition.

    car towing
    Someone has moved the goalposts. Autonomy interrupted.

    returning home
    Even though my vehicle has been taken away, I’m still returning with insight of my experiences and I have companions for the journey.

    What Lingers…

    What if passion didn’t need permission to be real, or witnessed to be valid?

    What if the return home was the proof—that something meaningful happened, even if the space couldn’t hold it?

    Marginalia

    At the time of this dream, I’d recently left a school that hadn’t worked out for me. The dream reflects the sense of losing a vehicle that I believed would take me where I wanted to go.

    Still, despite that loss, I felt I had something to carry forward from the experience. Like most things that don’t go as planned, there were lessons I could take with me on the journey ahead.

    There’s a strange exposure in dreaming of someone who isn’t your partner—like your subconscious got caught with its hand in the sweetie jar. But I don’t think the dream was about them, exactly. They were a stand-in. A symbol of the passion I’m finally letting myself feel for the path I’m on. It’s a theme I explore again in Walking Away With The Door Still Open.

  • The Considerate Ghost

    The Considerate Ghost

    The Dream

    I had been staying
    in someone’s house.

    They were returning
    soon.

    I was cleaning up
    for their arrival.

    I was
    frantic.

    Changing beds,
    tidying everything.

    I wanted it
    to be
    spick and span.

    The Meaning

    occupying space
    I’m occupying space that isn’t fully mine. Temporarily. Carefully. This a recurring theme for me: negotiating borrowed spaces. This isn’t just a house—it’s a metaphor for my role in someone else’s life or system.

    over-cleaning
    I’m not just tidying. I’m atoning. Preemptively trying to eliminate guilt, judgment, or perceived messiness before the owners even walk through the door. This is emotional hyper-vigilance dressed in dusting gloves.

    erasure
    I’m trying to leave no trace of my presence. Even though I’ve been here and lived here. I’m trying to disappear cleanly, like a considerate ghost.

    What Lingers…

    What if presence didn’t need to be minimised, only inhabited?

    What if disappearing neatly is just another way of asking for forgiveness without being heard?

    Marginalia

    Whether in real life, dreams, or under celestial influence, I’m beginning to understand the impact of presence in someone else’s life.

    My children, my partners, my nieces and nephews—the responsibility for the energetic and physical mess I leave in someone else’s lap is starting to land, especially as I consider the mess left in mine by others. Some of whom I’ve never even known.

  • The Mentor I Didn’t Tell Anyone About

    The Mentor I Didn’t Tell Anyone About

    The Dream

    Mary Anne Hobbs—
    a famous DJ.

    She was my mentor
    at herb school.

    She already knew
    my partner.

    I didn’t tell him
    she was mentoring me.

    Or her
    that I was connected to him.

    I wanted
    to make my own
    connection.

    The Meaning

    the mentor
    Archetypes collide. She’s sonic, intuitive, non-mainstream. A curator of atmosphere. I dreamed her into a herbal mentor—another kind of intuitive guide. One who deals in plants instead of sound. I’m linking her to healing and resonance. Medicine with vibe and atmosphere. This isn’t about rules, it’s about knowing when something feels right.

    secrecy
    I’m carving out an identity that’s mine alone. Even if they know each other, my relationship with her is sovereign. This is symbolic individuation. I’m saying: My learning, is mine alone. It doesn’t need to be earned through ‘relations’ I’m actively stepping away from it’s not what you know but who you know and stepping out into the world as an individual.

    the school
    I’m in learning mode. But this isn’t institutional—it’s mentorship.
    Not curriculum. Connection. This isn’t a class—it’s a transmission. Wisdom by osmosis.

    What Lingers…

    What if true learning doesn’t follow curriculum, but connection?

    What if resonance is reason enough to follow a path—no permission needed?

    Marginalia

    Sometimes I feel an urge to hurry—to learn as much as I can, as quickly as possible. Other times, I hold back, aware of how easily I’m influenced by the information I receive, and wanting to see how much I can intuitively remember.

    It feels fitting that I’ve chosen Mary Anne Hobbs as my herbal tutor. Completely unrelated, sideways learning—much like the journey I began when I first started sifting through my ancestry after a dream I’d had. At the time, I thought it was just a distracting side hustle.

    Now I can see how it’s all beginning to weave together.

  • Cleopatra | Dream of the Name Unspoken

    Cleopatra | Dream of the Name Unspoken

    The Dream

    I dreamt
    of my great-grandmother.

    I only found out about her
    a few years ago,
    after a DNA test
    showed I have African roots.

    She was Jamaican.

    At 15,
    she became the concubine
    of my great-grandfather—

    a Portuguese doctor
    in his late 40s,
    already with a family.

    She gave birth
    to seven of his children.

    She’s mentioned
    in a book.

    She was deported from New York
    on the grounds
    of being ‘immoral.’

    She travelled
    to the UK and US
    in her lifetime.

    I’m not sure
    why I’m remembering her now.

    Her name
    was Cleopatra.

    My first black cat
    was called Cleopatra.

    My email handle
    is “cleo21.”

    My grandmother
    didn’t want anyone
    to know
    about my mother’s father.

    Another man—
    her husband—
    was listed
    on my mum’s birth certificate.

    My mother’s biological father
    and his family
    knew she existed.

    They’d been told
    she’d moved
    to Australia.

    They all knew about her.
    She
    never knew
    about them.

    The Meaning

    the woman herself
    Cleopatra is not just a name. She’s my great-grandmother. A teenage girl swept into a colonial arrangement— her story buried with scandal and shame. She reappears now not just as history, but as witness. As legacy.

    the name
    I’ve been carrying her name unconsciously for years—in my pets, my usernames. I don’t believe this is a coincidence. I think it’s lineage trying to find voice. I was already remembering her, long before I “knew” her.

    hidden lineage
    My mother was erased from her paternal story. My great-grandmother was deported for “immorality.” I’m the first in this line to say: this happened. I’m breaking silence simply by remembering. Cleo is stepping into that role.

    arrival
    I didn’t summon her.
    She came to me.

    I’m the one who can carry her story—not with shame or denial, but with understanding.

    What Lingers…

    What if remembering is a form of repair—stronger than silence, a candle against shame?

    What if some names live in the body long before they’re spoken aloud?

    Marginalia

    I was twenty-one when I took Cleo’s name into my email address—the same age I began experiencing the panic attacks I later connected to another of my ancestors, over twenty years later.

    Perhaps those events are unrelated, or even chance; it all depends on what you believe. To me, not everything has to be explainable to be true.

    This dream, along with The House That Contains Everything, sparked another deep dive into my ancestral history. The research felt so unrelated to my herbal path that, out of curiosity, I uploaded my natal chart to an AI—to see whether I was on the right track.

    What I found out shocked me.

  • The Wind Wasn’t Even That Bad

    The Wind Wasn’t Even That Bad

    The Dream

    A campsite.
    I wasn’t happy
    with the layout of my pitch.

    It was windy.

    I’m trying to decide
    where to plant
    my herbs.

    I wonder—
    where to plant
    the rhubarb.

    Meanwhile,
    the wind is getting choppy,

    and the cats
    have come home
    to be looked after—

    even though the weather
    wasn’t really
    that bad.

    The Meaning

    the campsite
    I’m not settled and I’m not happy, but even here, I want things in their right place. It’s not about escape—it’s about temporary order in a shifting life.
    Even in impermanence, I crave structure. That’s not control—it’s care.

    wind
    Choppy, unpredictable energy. Not quite a storm, but enough to knock things loose. I’m impacted by forces that don’t look like a crisis—but still demand my energy, my attention, my pre-emptive problem-solving. This is low-grade overwhelm that wears you down, not blows you over.

    herbs
    My toolkit: intuitive tending, healing, symbolic nourishment.
    But even here—on uncertain ground and under pressure—I’m still trying to cultivate something. This is me practising steadiness, not fantasy. I’m gardening through it.

    rhubarb
    Rhubarb is powerful—but not flexible. It needs proper placement.
    Too big to ignore, too valuable to dismiss.

    cats returning home
    Survival instincts showing up for shelter. Soft, skittish, responsive. My inner dependents—those parts of me that don’t wait for crisis, but move early.

    And I notice: it’s not even that bad. That’s me realising I’ve lived so long anticipating storms, I don’t trust calm. Again, just like I explore in the The sea liner and tsunami maybe it’s time to stop bracing for something that doesn’t always come.

    What Lingers…

    What if cultivating calm isn’t a weakness, but a wisdom learned?

    What if the storm never comes—but there’s a part of self that needs care anyway?

    Marginalia

    The circumstances around this dream reflect my sense of being untethered. I’ve just left one school and haven’t yet started the next—stuck in limbo until September. And it shows. My subconscious is, quite literally, trying to plant rhubarb in a windy campsite.

    There’s a kind of chaotic tenderness in that image: Maybe the rhubarb is just my body’s way of asking, “Is it safe to digest now? Can we let go?”