Defiant Wisdom

Category: Dreamwork

Narratives shaped by dreams — unpacking symbolism, subconscious patterns, emotional truth, and inner shifts through the dream state.

  • How the F*@k Do I Water This Fig?

    How the F*@k Do I Water This Fig?

    The Dream

    My back,
    arched.
    I look
    up.

    How the f*@k
    do I water
    this fig?

    Growing down,
    from the
    ceiling–
    no less.

    Awkward,
    and yet–
    requiring
    my care.

    The Meaning

    ceiling
    The higher self, the divine — dropped into the everyday.

    fig tree
    A symbol of knowledge, shame, fertility, protection. Here it hangs awkwardly from above, still demanding care.

    growing
    Not rooted in the ground, but descending from the top down. Inconvenient, unconventional — and I’m still trying to nurture it.

    What Lingers…

    What if grounding doesn’t always rise from below, but descends from somewhere less expected—and more true?

    What if all knowledge isn’t learned, but nurtured into being?

    Marginalia

    My fig tree, dried to a crisp. Still alive but very sick. In waking life, I bring it inside to keep my eye on it. Perhaps it has more to teach me than I’ve yet allowed myself to learn?

    This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to care for herbs in dreamland, despite an inhospitable environment. In The Wind Wasn’t Even That Bad I try planting Rhubarb in a campsite. In The Attic, the Shite, and the Kettle, I’m trying to gain access into the space above. The experience is painful.

  • Misunderstanding and Violence

    Misunderstanding and Violence

    The Dream

    Conversation.

    Their smile
    said yes.
    Something else
    said no.

    I felt it
    before it
    happened.

    A pencil—
    They bored
    into
    my face.

    They’d misunderstood
    me.
    I woke
    crying.

    The Meaning

    sense
    I register danger before it’s visible. A felt knowing. Something’s off, but I can’t name it.

    stabbing
    The wound of being misunderstood.
    My system is primed for it—hypervigilant, bracing for impact.

    What Lingers…

    What if the body recognises threat before language can name it?

    What if living in defence becomes its own signal—drawing what it fears?

    Marginalia

    A recent conversation gave me information that didn’t tally. I remember the apprehension in my body. This dream is how my unconscious chose to live out that anxiety.

    It could have pacified me, but instead it forced me to face my fear — releasing it so violently it shook itself out through my body.

    I know nightmares mean different things depending on our histories. For some, they retraumatise — looping the body in terror, not healing at all.
    For me, they sometimes act like emotional fire drills — terrifying in the moment, but afterward I feel lighter, as though something has been processed.

    This is only my experience. I know not all bodies dream this way.

  • Reverent Without Rules

    Reverent Without Rules

    The Dream

    Ceremony.
    A square of fabric–
    adorns the floor.
    A woman
    kneels,
    a small table
    in front of her.

    A young girl
    jumps excitedly
    around the
    candle-lit room.

    I speak.

    You can do
    without that
    stole.
    It just
    gets in the way.
    And it makes
    no
    difference.

    The Meaning

    ceremony
    The accessories are all present—fabric, fire, posture. Reverence is here.

    girl
    Her energy disrupts the solemnity, but no one chastises her. Youth and joy are allowed, even in ceremony.

    me
    I refuse what feels ornamental.
    I seek resonance, not excess.
    Rebellious, yes—but also practical: if it makes no difference, why keep it?

    What Lingers

    What if reverence is meaningless unless joy is allowed to run through it?

    What if ceremony begins not with tradition, but with trust in what’s already known?

    Marginalia

    This isn’t the first time I’ve wrestled with appearances and gatekeeping.

    In Appearance isn’t Identity I question the costumes of belonging.

    In Walking Away with the Door Still Open I read Tarot — a beginner, yet I trust that I know how to proceed.

    In the Christian faith, a priest’s stole represents spiritual authority, humility, and the yoke of Christ. Here, I’m rejecting the “exclusivity” of that role and its attire.

    This dream is another step in questioning the gatekeeping of spiritual connection, and in choosing to trust my own inner knowing.

  • Sowing Meadowsweet

    Sowing Meadowsweet

    The Dream

    Darkness.
    Soil.
    Meadowsweet
    seeds.
    I scatter them
    lightly
    across
    the mound.

    A flowerbed
    prepared,
    or is this
    a fresh new
    grave?
    I never
    could
    tell.

    The Meaning

    sowing seeds
    The intention is growth—something new taking root.

    grave/flowerbed
    But the ground is uncertain.
    Am I planting into rich compost,
    or laying life into rot?

    What Lingers…

    What if growth and grief share the same soil—and the only difference is what’s acknowledged?

    What if the act of planting is enough, even if the ground only knows loss?

    Marginalia

    This is the second time I’ve dreamed of seeds and graves. In Poppy Seeds in a Rush of Yes, I was eager to buy seeds. In The Body in the Greenhouse, I drew attention to the secret buried in foundations meant for nourishment.

    Here, I’ don’t know’m unaware of what I’m planting into — but I seed with the intention that my efforts will bring a positive reward.

    Around this time, I’d gathered some wild Meadowsweet seeds but they never made it to my garden. Instead, they were forgotten in a pocket and sent through the wash. The powdery scent lingered on the clothes as I pulled them from the machine.

    I didn’t know until afterwards that Meadowsweet has been linked with burial rituals since the Bronze Age; its scent is believed to have helped mask the decay of the cadaver.

    But for the moment, it seems Meadowsweet isn’t mine to work with. I missed the blooms and lost the seeds but I trust she’ll return to me to when the time is right.

  • No Balustrade, No Friend

    No Balustrade, No Friend

    The Dream

    Work.
    I’m reprimanded
    for smoking
    in the office.

    College.
    Preparing
    to move class.

    Tardy.
    My friend
    leaves
    without me.

    Lost.
    The staircase
    has no
    balustrade.

    Vertigo.
    I grip
    the floor,
    in terror.

    The Meaning

    smoking
    Old habits resurfacing. Resistance to letting go.

    college
    A new environment without support. I thought I had backup—turns out it’s just me.

    stairs
    The climb is there, but fear of the unknown environment paralyses me. A crisis of confidence exposed.

    What Lingers…

    What if authenticity invites distance from those no longer aligned?

    What if the real vertigo comes not from the world outside—but from within?

    Marginalia

    This is another dream cycle where my subconscious presents an arc, then throws a curve ball at the end to help me process fear.

    In The Attic, the Shite, and the Kettle, I’m given gifts of terracotta.
    In We’ve Met Before, I’m introduced to the stability that comes from spirits choosing to meet across multiple lives.

    But here, I’m faced with abandonment for being tardy — not self-abandonment like in I Was Late, After All, but rejected by a friend.

    The fear that we’ll be abandoned for being exactly who we are is something I’m sure that many of us face. Every day, we scramble to align ourselves with what’s acceptable, with what’s expected.

  • We’ve Met Before

    We’ve Met Before

    The Dream

    Have you seen the photo?
    They asked.
    It was me
    my family,

    my partner 
    and his family.

    We were children.

    Didn’t you realise
    you’ve met
    each other 
    Before?

    The Meaning

    A hidden history surfaces.
    Our lives crossed long before we were aware.
    It changes the story—what feels new now carries suggestions of an older thread.
    The present isn’t starting fresh; it’s picking up where something once left off.

    What Lingers…

    What if the present isn’t a beginning, but a continuation of a past we just forgot to remember?

    What if the threads we call coincidence are roots, winding back through time?

    Marginalia

    I don’t think it’s unusual to believe that families and friends find each other again in their “next lives.” This dream didn’t just make me feel that’s possible—it shifted something in me. A sense that my partner and I may have chosen to meet again. It gives our relationship a depth that feels steady and secure, as though our story has been woven before, and is still unfolding.

    This dream also marked a pause in my nocturnal downloads— as if there was already enough to process in waking life without transmitting more.

  • Not My Dream

    Not My Dream

    The Dream

    My son,
    on fire.

    I ran,
    threw a blanket,
    pushed him
    to the floor.

    I soaked
    his body
    in cold
    water,

    over
    and over
    again.

    I didn’t
    scream.

    I didn’t
    panic.

    I just knew
    what I needed
    to
    do.

    The Meaning

    Crisis overrides emotion.
    No time to feel—only to act.

    What Lingers…

    What if, in a crisis, emotion is an unaffordable indulgence?

    What if real strength moves silently—and without ceremony?

    Marginalia

    My elderly dad has fallen and is still in recovery.
    I don’t think this dream belongs to me—I think it belongs to my mother.

    I asked her how she feels,
    but she always puts Dad’s needs first.

    Now I understand why.

  • The Monster Inside

    The Monster Inside

    The Dream

    Family gathering, extended.
    I said goodnight.
    No one answered.

    I shouted it louder.

    Silence.

    I asked one of them,
    “What’s your problem?”
    “You’re a mess in skin.
    I don’t like you.”

    They couldn’t explain why.
    They’d just decided.

    I pleaded with my parents,
    my cousin:
    “Are you gonna let them
    get away with this?”

    Silence.

    I raged.
    I smashed things.
    I hit them.
    I threatened:
    “If you ever
    invite them again,
    I will cut you
    off.”

    They’d proved
    their point.

    I walked away.
    A mess
    behind me.

    I boarded
    a boat
    in a wetsuit.
    I was off
    to meet friends.

    I felt a fraud.
    I had a monster
    inside.

    The Meaning

    The social exile that happens in families— not for what you’ve done, but for what you represent.

    Erasure is harm. Silence is a weapon. And it’s complicit.

    The desperation to be witnessed. The rage that erupts when you’re made invisible— and somehow you’re the problem?

    I didn’t cause the wound. But I raged.
    And that gave them their proof.

    Now I walk away with the shame.
    Am I the monster, because I roared at those who poked me?

    What Lingers?…

    What if monster is just the name given to anyone who finally roars?

    What if invalidation wounds louder than anger ever could?

    Marginalia

    This dream takes me closer to the bone than My Breast and the Boy, where I was only the witness. Now I’m in the front-row seat of my own mess — and there’s no escaping my humanness again. Much like Flawed but Trying: When triggered, I roar.

    The work I’ve done on my astrological ancestry gives me a sense of where this originated, and why it’s been passed to me — to rage on behalf of ancestors who couldn’t. I’m not shirking responsibility for my own actions. I’m just learning that What I Carry Isn’t All Mine.

  • Misogyny at the Water Park

    Misogyny at the Water Park

    The Dream

    The water park—
    a woman sliding with joy,
    wild and fearless.
    A guy started,
    “Excuse me, you need to—”
    Before he finished, she shot back:
    “Your words have misogynist intent.”
    Then she yeeted herself
    down the slide,
    super fast.
    I followed.

    As we rose from the water,
    I asked,
    “If I said or felt the same as him,
    would you say my misogyny is
    internalised?”
    “Yes…” she replied.

    —

    I was waiting in a queue;
    a woman cut in front.
    She had the audacity to whine
    my umbrella had sprayed her.
    When we arrived at the desk,
    I said,
    loudly:
    “Actually, I’m next —
    this woman jumped in front
    and now has the cheek to complain.”
    The attendant said nothing.
    Both she and I —
    we were told to wait.

    The attendant said,
    “Get your shoes and socks on —
    we’re going to abseil.”

    We were ecstatic.

    —

    I met with a friend.
    They were telling me
    about their new partner,
    but still obsessed with their ex.
    “Let me know
    when you want to face
    the hard truth.”

    She was silent.
    No one ever wants hard truth,
    I thought.
    But I do.
    It’s where the honey is,
    right at the centre
    of the bee hive.

    The Meaning

    woman
    Policed for being free and having fun,
    this woman lives her life out loud and refuses to conform to cultural expectations.
    I’m not leading — I’m following —
    while also questioning my own internalised boundaries.

    attacking from the victim position
    Here we have the abuser playing the victim —
    and me calling it out.
    And what do we both get?
    Silence. Stagnation. The waiting room of consequence.
    Polite society doesn’t want truth—it wants compliance.
    Even when you’re right, you’re a problem

    descent
    Now we’re invited into a structured descent,
    a contrast to the earlier one of chaotic abandon.
    The fact that both the perpetrator and I — the victim —
    have been invited suggests this:
    the woman is a part of me.
    A part that has played (or can play)
    into the DARVO dynamic:
    Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender.
    I see all of these women as aspects of myself.

    the truth
    I’m waiting for my friend to open space for growth, she blinks, she doesn’t want to hear it but I know this is where healing and growth resides.

    What Lingers…

    What if joy didn’t need internal policing to be permitted?

    What if truth-telling wasn’t punished, but welcomed as a catalyst for change?

    Marginalia

    I’m on holiday and I’ve just written Baked In. This is my subconscious exploring the themes I confronted in there only a few days prior.

  • Appearance Isn’t Identity

    Appearance Isn’t Identity

    The Dream

    A clan of mystics
    and various spiritual misfits.
    They said I should choose
    my witch name.
    I told her,
    “I’m not a witch,
    and I push back on that term.
    It’s nothing but misogyny.”

    Thinking of my name—
    what name
    would best express
    me becoming
    who I am?

    Their names
    sounded like Pokémon characters,
    their attire,
    like fantasy avatars.

    But I’m just me,
    I thought.

    —

    On the phone,
    someone offered to pay
    for me to stay at home and study.
    I never responded,
    my partner was standing next to me.
    When I started to speak,
    the person hung up.

    —

    My mother sat down.
    Frail.
    I looked down upon her.
    She should have been tall
    and strong—
    but her mother-line
    had starved her
    of who she was meant
    to become.

    Then it dawned on me:
    maybe the woman
    she thought was her mother
    wasn’t her mother
    after all?

    The Meaning

    the group
    I want to belong but to something real not projected.
    I’m me, that’s enough.

    phone call
    Scared of fully embracing an opportunity.
    I’m afraid to offend or alienate my partner.
    A lost chance if not seized when offered.

    mother
    The maternal line stripped of power and truth.
    What if the whole foundation was fiction?

    What Lingers…

    What if belonging didn’t need a costume or the right label to count?

    What if naming only heals when it honours what was erased, not what was performed?

    Marginalia

    This dream can be taken literally, but for me it feels inseparable from my ancestry and my mother’s ability to pass as white — how that meant acceptance in ways that wouldn’t have been possible otherwise. I’m not about to negate for one hot minute how that speaks, not just to colour but to gender also. I wish it wasn’t so.

    In my dream, I ask: Aren’t I enough?
    Can’t I just be enough as I am—
    without the aesthetic trappings,
    without the cost of approval?

    I talk more about my maternal ancestry in It Began with a Name.