Defiant Wisdom

Category: Dreamwork

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

  • The Attic, the Shite, and the Kettle

    The Attic, the Shite, and the Kettle

    The Dream

    Trying to get into the attic—
    but the room was upside down.
    I had to squeeze in under the sagging ceiling,
    but it scraped my back,
    and I was naked.

    When I came downstairs,
    the party had started.
    The house was a mess.
    The floor was covered in shite.

    I shouted at everyone:
    “Get out!”

    —

    I wanted to boil the kettle,
    but something was wrong.
    I traced the cord back
    to the plug in the wall—
    it was behind the cabinet.

    I dragged the cabinet away from the wall,
    furious.

    —

    I noticed people had bought me presents—
    lots of plants,
    and terracotta pots.

    I could feel the rough unglazed clay
    through the wrapping paper.

    The Meaning

    attic
    A higher space containing insight and memory.
    Accessing that part of me is disorienting and painful.
    I’m trying to rise, but the structure won’t let me.

    party
    Everything’s already in motion.
    I didn’t set the tone, but I’m left to clean it.
    No more tolerating the shit other people drag in.

    kettle
    I want to restore comfort, warmth, nourishment.
    The power is blocked—hidden behind heavy furniture.
    It’s labour to get to the source. And I’m furious.

    gifts
    Amidst the wreck there are signs of care.
    Practical, earthy, rooted things.
    The clay is rough—unglazed.
    This is growth that comes with grit.

    What Lingers…

    What if access to insight requires discomfort?

    What if grounded growth comes wrapped in grit, not ease?

    Marginalia

    This dream belongs to a theme of unearthing secrets and facing what’s uncomfortable, echoing The Body in the Greenhouse and The House That Contains Everything. But here, there’s a pivot: before, I stood alone in the work. Now, there are signs—and with them, an acceptance of nurture from others. In waking life, I’m on holiday, enjoying life with my family.

  • Ansuz, Laguz and Rahu

    Ansuz, Laguz and Rahu

    The Dream

    Camping.
    A muddy field,
    I lay out two picnic blankets.

    I watch—
    an immaculately dressed woman
    lays her blanket
    on the ground.

    I wonder:
    Will she get muddy?

    I turn around.
    My partner has rolled
    onto one of the blankets,
    stood up,
    ran backwards,
    and then forwards
    onto the other—
    he leaves a trail
    of footprints.

    I wake myself up,
    shouting at him.

    —

    A girl sets up a stall.
    We’re at a public event.
    She’s young.
    I admire her bravery.

    I finger through her trinkets—
    children’s toys…
    I used to sell those
    in a past life.

    —

    On a bus,
    I help a boy—
    he’d been injured.

    I’m also a child now.

    I recount how I’d fancied him
    for years—
    he’s never noticed me.

    My friend wants to speak
    with him and his friend,
    but I have no interest
    in chasing his affections now.

    —

    When I finally wake,
    I have two symbols in my mind.

    I scribble them down
    and put the photo into OpenAI
    for it to find them:

    Ansuz and Rahu—
    or in Western tradition,
    The North Node.

    But Ansuz has a third prong,
    which AI suggests is perhaps a bindrune.
    On its own, the other rune is Laguz.

    The Meaning

    muddy blankets
    I’m trying to create space in a mess.
    I wake, shouting.
    This is about space being violated.
    I’m protecting boundaries
    while others clumsily crash on.

    woman
    I wonder if she’ll get muddy—
    but really, I’m looking to her to find out:
    How does she stay clean?
    This is the part of me that wants
    to move through mess
    without absorbing it.

    girl
    I see my past self in her,
    but from a place of gentle recognition,
    not regret.
    She’s starting something
    I once survived.

    boy
    I’m helping someone who never saw me,
    who I used to long for.
    Now?
    I’m not chasing.
    I’ve grown past the need to be chosen.

    The Symbols

    Ansuz: inspiration, transmission, divine voice.
    Laguz: water, emotions, intuition, depth, flow.
    Rahu/North Node: soul’s destiny, karmic direction.

    Together? A holy triad.
    I’m being told—clearly, cosmically:
    Listen.

    This is not random.
    Your path, your emotions, your dreams—
    they are one system.

    Stop second-guessing.
    The messages are coming through.
    And they’re meant for you.

    What Lingers…

    What if messages aren’t metaphor,
    but a map—pointing to what’s already known deep down?

    What if growth isn’t about staying clean,
    but learning how to move through mud with meaning?

    Marginalia

    In waking life, I was trying to understand how my ancestral, dream, and herbal work connected. I didn’t have a clear map or plan—just a hunch, and then this dream, among others like The Room Behind the Wallpaper, and The House That Contains Everything, kept nudging me forward. However unusual it seemed, I went with it, trusting it would all make sense in time.

  • Competence vs. Compassion

    Competence vs. Compassion

    The Dream

    Herb School.
    The teacher got the wrong impression of me.
    I confronted them—
    their bias couldn’t sit.

    —

    Shouting at my son,
    I was trying to get him ready.
    We were going to be late.
    That would be another thing
    against me.

    The Meaning

    teacher
    Profiled before.
    It’s happening again.
    But this time, I don’t absorb it.
    I push back.
    That’s new.

    rush
    I’m not just late—
    I’m being watched.
    Every stumble, another mark.
    I snap at my son,
    trying to prove I’m competent.
    At his expense.

    Old stories and shame cycles are replaying, but this time I’m doing something different. I’m calling it out and noticing my behaviour for what it is. Internalised perfectionism and desire to be seen for who I am, not for others’ projections.

    What Lingers…

    What if pushing back is progress— even when the system still keeps score?

    Is competence worth it if the cost is compassion?

    Marginalia

    I’m waiting to begin a new herbal medicine course, and this dream is revisiting old fears from being a lone parent student as a young woman. This is the third in a series of herb school dreams.

    In Incense Blocks & Period Costumes, I weigh old ways against new.
    In Fireweed and Bunny Munro, I’m lost but eager to learn.
    In I Was Late, Afterall, I abandon my own needs for accountability.
    In Flawed but Trying, I’m exposed in my mess while defending my son.

    Journaling helps to show me the bigger picture of what my subconscious is trying to do.

  • Fireweed and Bunny Munro

    Fireweed and Bunny Munro

    The Dream

    Herb school.
    I was struggling to learn.

    My teacher asked me:
    “Do you know the route of Bunny Munro?
    The low road along the river?
    The one he took to go fishing?”

    I nodded, uncertainly.

    “Then you know where I live.
    Come round at 7:00,
    and I’ll take you through it.
    A list.
    Of things to do.”

    Fireweed.

    It’s the only entry I can recall.

    The Meaning

    school
    The new path forward.
    But I’m struggling.
    And I need help.

    teacher
    She’s willing to guide me—
    but she expects me to take the path Bunny didn’t take.

    river
    The emotional low road.
    Inward.
    Following the bank of my inner landscape.

    The river = emotion.
    Fishing = delving.
    Go deep. Go slow.

    7
    The number of the divine.
    A cosmic nudge:
    Take the hard, boring, muddy path through your emotions.
    Fish out what’s true.
    Show up at my place at 7—and everything will become clear.

    fireweed
    She grows from ashes. We’re going to need her.

    What Lingers…

    What if the path to healing runs low, not high— through mud, not sky?

    What if blooming from ashes isn’t a miracle, but a method Fireweed already knows and can teach?

    Marginalia

    I’m waiting to begin a new herbal medicine course, and my dreams are pulling old patterns and fears to the surface. This is the second in a series of herb school dreams.

    In Incense Blocks & Period Costumes, I weigh old ways against new.
    In Competence vs. Compassion, I’m profiled by my tutors.
    In I Was Late, Afterall, I abandon my own needs for accountability.
    In Flawed but Trying, I’m exposed in my mess while defending my son.

    Journaling helps to see the tapestry being woven: the curriculum beneath my surface, the lessons I didn’t know I was studying.

  • The Slow Boat to China

    The Slow Boat to China

    The Dream

    An office.
    I’m talking—
    to an ex-boyfriend, no less.

    An old boss,
    from a life gone by—
    asks me:

    Would I like to take
    the slow boat to China
    with him?

    The Meaning

    Old patterns. Old behaviours.
    I’m being invited—not coerced, not wooed.
    The journey is long, slow, and arduous.
    If I accept, this is mine. My terms. My timeline.
    I’m heading forward with eyes open.
    This isn’t regression. It’s sovereignty.

    What Lingers

    What if it’s not the destination that matters, but the journey?

    What if taking an old path isn’t regression—but power, reclaimed through choice and clarity?

    Marginalia

    Old boyfriends and previous bosses appear frequently at this time.

    In This Path Used to Be Shared I tell an ex I’ve moved on. In Clown Boss, Borrowed Passwords I’m still labouring. In What If the Sea Takes It All I consider letting the tide erase it all.

    The theme: old patterns stepping forward to be cleared, one by one.

  • Prolapse

    Prolapse

    The Dream

    The bathroom isn’t mine.
    “In a sec,” I sound.

    The toilet—blocked.
    The sink—blocked.
    Paper, everywhere—
    a sodden mess.

    My rectum,
    prolapsed.
    Around me,
    filthy.

    I dig in.

    Deep into the bowl,
    I pull out the mess
    and drop it
    into
    the bin.

    The Meaning

    Before I can even start dealing with my own internal exposures, I have to unblock the system with the mess everyone else has left behind.
    I don’t know who the mess belongs to.
    Yet it’s mine to deal with.

    Because if I don’t, nothing else can flow.

    This is an emotional and somatic backlog.

    What Lingers…

    What if healing starts with clearing what was never owned but still clogs the system?

    What if the flow doesn’t return until the filth is faced?

    Marginalia

    In waking life, I was waiting for test results, which would later confirm a prolapse of my small intestine.

    At the same time, I’d just uploaded my natal chart to AI out of curiosity, while researching ancestry inspired by Cleopatra | Dream of the Name Unspoken and The House That Contains Everything.

    Compelled to write everything down, I wondered if my chart might explain these side quests—pulling me from my herbal medicine studies.

    What I discovered initiated this dream and led me to write the story What My Natal Chart—and AI—Taught Me About Ancestral Healing.

  • Incense Blocks & Period Costumes

    Incense Blocks & Period Costumes

    Herb school tutor —
    making incense blocks.
    “I prefer diffusing oils,”
    I said.
    Her response:
    “Not as eco-friendly.
    Know your market.”
    She’s detoxing her digital life.
    Has haggled for a paper map.

    —

    On a compound, the ranger
    talks about the squirrels.
    He can’t find the word.
    “Hypervigilant,” I say.
    “Exactly!” he remarks.

    —

    “You know you can get chillies
    from these trees?” I say to a friend.
    “If you look up, you can see them.”
    I add, pointing to the sky.

    —

    A teacher asks me
    about a child’s birthday.
    “I only buy Christmas and birthday presents —
    it gets expensive otherwise.”
    You’ve said that three times,
    I say to myself.

    —

    One of the children has finished
    their lunch.
    They’ve sucked all the flavour
    from the meat and fruit —
    and spat out the protein.

    —

    Driving out of the compound:
    “Watch their toes,”
    I say.
    Little children all around.

    —

    On the main road —
    lots of trans people.
    Live your best life,
    I think.
    Shops selling period costume.
    I must browse these at some point.

    The Meaning

    incense
    Tension between an old personal preference and a new way forward. How do I align?

    map
    A return to simplicity, by making life unnecessary harder.

    squirrels
    Shared language—sensing what’s there before it’s named.

    chillies
    There’s sustenance, if you know where to look.
    Nourishment isn’t always low hanging.

    repetition
    There’s parts of my identity replaying and now they’re being challenged.

    lunch
    A need to be careful about absorbing pleasure without nourishment. 

    exit
    I drive like a protector—eyes wide, foot light, careful about innocence falling under my wheels.

    road
    Acknowledging and witnessing the brave move to live an authentic life, even if that means conflict.

    shops
    Period costume. A nod to history.
    I see, but don’t engage.
    Not yet. Maybe later.

    What Lingers…

    What if discernment means knowing when to speak, and when to simply witness?

    What if growth is found not in rejecting the past, but in choosing where to engage next?

    Marginalia

    Waiting to begin a new herbal medicine course, and my dreams are keen to surface old fears and unhelpful patterns. This is the first in a series of herb school dreams.

    In Fireweed and Bunny Munro, I’m lost but eager to learn.
    In Competence vs. Compassion, I’m profiled by my tutors.
    In I Was Late, Afterall, I abandon my own needs for accountability.
    In Flawed but Trying, I’m exposed in my mess while defending my son.

    Journaling reveals the picture being woven: lessons I didn’t know I was studying.

  • I Stand

    I Stand

    The Dream

    I stand,
    I argue,
    I explain.

    If you’re the leader—
    then say so.

    Don’t take responsibility
    one minute,
    just to shirk it
    the next.

    I need to know.

    Is this an autocracy,
    cosplaying as a democracy,
    or is this a collective?

    The Meaning

    The Illusion of shared power.
    I’m tired of shape-shifting power, where ambiguity is weaponised.
    I’m done with faux-collectives that are really just control with better branding.

    I need clarity, or I’m out.

    What Lingers?…

    What if inclusion is just power in sheep’s clothing?

    What if clarity is the minimum cost of real collaboration?

    Marginalia

    This dream reflects what I’ve learned in volunteering: power dynamics rarely look how they’re sold. I’ve become practised at sensing the gap between what’s said and how things are done. These days, instead of wading and digging in, I’m getting better at choosing where my energy goes—and quite often now, I walk away.

  • Sunsets and Nervous Men

    Sunsets and Nervous Men

    The Dream

    On holiday—
    it wasn’t comfortable.

    The view was nice
    from my bed,
    the bed was too short,
    jammed into a window reveal.

    I desired
    to watch the sunset—
    it was just around the corner,
    out of sight.

    To find a place
    to witness it,
    I had to climb over walls.

    —

    At the bar,
    Trevor Noah looked awkward.

    I told him
    I liked his show—
    I’d forgotten his name.

    I asked him
    if he was waiting
    for a date.

    He seemed nervous.

    —

    At the restaurant,
    the sea view
    was
    in darkness.

    The best feature,
    out of sight.

    I walked through
    to look at it.

    Did the tsunami hit here?
    Of course it did.

    —

    I was bored.

    I decided
    to rewire an electric plug—
    I realised
    I hadn’t isolated the switch.

    I did it again.

    Then I announced:
    being an electrician
    was too dangerous
    for me.

    —

    A woman
    tried to confide in me
    in a crowded room.

    I walked out,
    expecting her to follow.

    She didn’t.

    While I waited,
    I tried
    to find a place
    to see the sunset—
    without having
    to climb.

    —

    Back in the room,
    I asked a couple
    what they’d done
    on their holiday.

    I was going home tomorrow.
    I’d done nothing.
    I felt guilty.

    They said
    they’d done nothing.

    A young man approached—
    proudly told me
    he’d driven 70KM
    around the island
    that day.

    “Good for you,”
    I thought,
    walking away.

    The Meaning

    bed in the window
    Even in beauty, I’m uncomfortable. Cramped into a frame that doesn’t fit—barely able to enjoy what I’ve earned.

    sunset
    The moment of meaning. Just out of reach. I can’t sit and enjoy—I have to climb for it. Joy shows up as effort.

    trevor noah at the bar
    Polished public man, rendered awkward and nervous. This is me outgrowing the need to be impressed. Also: why do I always approach unavailable men like I have something to prove?

    the sea / tsunami
    Dark, vast, past trauma acknowledged.
    “Did it hit here?”
    “Of course it did.”
    Memory disguised as inquiry. Grief without spectacle.

    electric plug
    I fix because I’m bored. I risk injury for the illusion of control. I do it again— it’s still unsafe. Eventually, I admit:
    “This is too dangerous.”
    This is growth disguised as resignation.

    confiding woman
    I make space for intimacy. I walk out to give her privacy. She doesn’t come.
    Another moment where I prepare, and no one steps into the space I made.

    holiday guilt
    I did nothing. I feel bad. Others did nothing—I try to justify. Then someone brags about performance—and I finally don’t care.
    “Good for you,”
    I think, walking away. That’s detachment. That’s real.

    What Lingers…

    What if joy doesn’t have to be earned through effort, just accepted?

    What if rest isn’t idleness—but resistance to performance disguised as purpose?

    Marginalia

    This dream closes a cycle.
    In How to Survive a Storm and Still Talk Shit, I ran from the wave.
    In What If the Sea Takes It All?, I wondered about letting it come.
    Here, I stand in the aftermath.

    In What if Rest Feels Like Dying?, I feared stopping.
    Now I name the guilt, and still claim the right to be still.

    In Pedalling While They Take the Bus, I exhausted myself for others.
    In Walking Away with the Door Still Open, I refused to wait.
    Here, I reach for joy without needing to earn it.

    Trevor Noah—famous, present, yet I can’t recall his name.
    In Clown Boss, Borrowed Passwords, I paid homage to what once filled me.
    Now I don’t.

  • Walking Away with the Door Still Open

    Walking Away with the Door Still Open

    The Dream

    I offered
    to read tarot
    for some friends—
    I was a rookie.

    I started,
    but another rookie
    took over,
    placed some cards herself.

    I pulled them back
    and restarted.

    She didn’t like
    how I was doing it—
    she wouldn’t let me
    continue.

    A message from the tarot
    showed up on the wall.

    It supported me:

    “Things need to be done
    the right way.”

    —

    In a café,
    the toilet had a key code.

    I offered
    to take a woman
    and let her in.

    She got distracted.

    I stood there,
    the door open,
    calling to her.

    She wanted
    to help someone else.

    So I walked away—
    the toilet door
    shutting
    behind me.

    —

    Driving,
    I saw a woman,
    again
    and again.

    On the third day,
    I steered
    to avoid someone’s car

    and crashed
    head-first
    into her.

    “This was going
    to happen
    eventually,”
    I said.

    The Meaning

    tarot as a rookie
    An intuitive role. I don’t know what I’m doing yet still trying to offer insight. I’m asserting my voice even though people are trying to reshuffle my deck before I’ve even had a chance to speak. I get a message from the oracle,
    “Things need to be done the right way”

    My subconscious agrees with my intention.

    the cafe door + distraction

    Unreciprocated effort. I offer access, but instead of staying there waiting, I’ve learned when to walk away and protect my peace.

    collision
    A symbolic confrontation with something I’ve been circling around for a while. Could be a person. Could be a part of myself. I know the outcome is inevitable.

    What Lingers…

    What if protecting peace means walking away—even with the door still open?

    What if the truth doesn’t arrive gently, but waits to be collided with?

    Marginalia

    In waking life, my new path means I’m still the rookie. In Pedalling While They Take the Bus, I exhausted myself making room for others. Here, I leave the door open, but I don’t wait forever. I walk away.

    The next evening, in Sunsets and Nervous Men, I close this cycle: from over-effort, to release, to the acceptance that not everyone will follow where you lead.