Defiant Wisdom

Category: Dreamwork

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

  • 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?”

  • Yarrow by the River

    Yarrow by the River

    The Dream

    I ask a woman,
    “Where can I find yarrow
    growing wild?”

    “By the river,”
    she says.

    The Meaning

    yarrow
    A healing plant, tied to protection, divination, and wound healing. I’m not asking for beauty. I’m asking for medicine. For insight.

    the river
    Flow, emotional currents. Wild yarrow grows where feelings run. It also grows along river banks.

    What Lingers…

    What if the way doesn’t come from a map, but from asking the right questions?

    What if guidance isn’t hidden—it’s just waiting for us to be ready to find it?

    Marginalia

    This was the third dream I had about yarrow in quick succession. The first left me with nothing more than a vague memory—I’d dreamed of her, but couldn’t recall the details. In the second, yarrow rods dried in a smoky hut. And now, in this dream, I’m asking where to find her.

    Together, these dreams led me to create my own set of I Ching yarrow rods using locally sourced materials. You can read the full story of my relationship with yarrow [here].

  • Clown Boss, Borrowed Passwords

    Clown Boss, Borrowed Passwords

    The Dream

    Preparing
    to go somewhere—
    tidying my space,
    donating little dolls
    to a friend’s daughter.

    I was stacking slats—
    grouping them carefully,
    organising everything.

    Then I noticed:
    two photos
    of my old boss
    on display—
    he was pulling
    a silly face.

    I laughed.

    No photos of my partner,
    but here was my boss,
    grinning
    like a clown.

    —

    Later,
    I asked —
    two former workmates,
    and an ex-boyfriend—
    for their passwords,
    so I could
    do some work
    for them.

    The Meaning

    donating
    Things I’ve nurtured but no longer need to keep. There’s movement. Release. Making space for what’s next to come.

    sorting
    I’m not lost—I’m sorting my inner life into neat piles. Not chaos—IKEA for my soul. Functional, intentional, slightly exhausting.

    the clown boss
    Romantic sentimentality? Gone. Absurd, outdated power figures? Still getting shelf space. I laugh at it, sure—but I also haven’t taken the photo down either. It’s a joke, but it’s also still taking up space.

    password requests
    I’m trying to access old systems— asking for keys to identities and relationships that aren’t mine anymore. Maybe I still want to help. Maybe I still think I’m needed. Or maybe I don’t know how to stop trying to work for people who don’t need or appreciate my energy?

    What Lingers…

    What if laughing at power is still a form of reverence?

    What if what’s passed on isn’t safe, but still finds a way through?

    Marginalia

    When we consider ancestry, it’s impossible to ignore how much our environments and relationships shape who we become. What we pass on—and what we no longer need—isn’t always fit for purpose. Sometimes it’s not even relevant and other times downright harmful.

    That’s a big responsibility. Our seemingly unimportant behaviours and offhand remarks can leave lasting impressions. Our words and actions hold weight. I explore this more in The monster inside.

  • The Alligator in the Hallway

    The Alligator in the Hallway

    The Dream

    Living in a house
    with another family.

    It was decorated
    in the Addams Family style—
    I loved it.

    We’d just bought
    a new alligator
    for the hallway.

    I was turning some lights off;
    it was too bright.

    —

    I picked a man
    to partner with.

    I knew
    he would be a good father
    to my children.

    —

    Old work colleagues
    joined me at the house.

    We were happily reunited—
    jovial.

    —

    I was getting ready
    for a lecture.

    I was so late.

    As I entered the hall,
    everyone
    was leaving.

    The Meaning

    the alligator in the hallway
    My inner beast has become a decorative accessory. Having finally got a grip on that energy, I’ve placed it front of house. This indicates I’m not hiding the more fearful elements of my personality and whilst they’re no longer in control of me, they serve as a warning to all who enter.

    turning off the lights
    I’m managing the energy in my space. Too bright? That’s overstimulation. I’m not seeking clarity at all costs. I don’t need every corner of my psyche floodlit; mystery and shadows are part of the package now.

    choosing a father
    Intentional choices, not just for romance, but legacy. I’m not dreaming of being saved, I’m choosing a reliable co-pilot. 

    old work colleagues
    Reconnecting with past versions of myself, or perhaps reconciling with abandoned parts of my identity. It’s jovial, not regretful. These are my professional ghosts, and now they’re guests in my new kookie home.

    missing the lecture
    I’m scrambling for something—knowledge, approval, relevance—and yet I’m arriving too late. Everyone’s leaving. There’s a fear inside of lost time, of missing out.

    What Lingers…

    What if taming the inner beast doesn’t mean hiding it?

    What if wisdom doesn’t come from the lecture hall, but shows up in hallways and hindsight?

    Marginalia

    Looking back on this dream, it has the cringe energy of “Welcome! Come on in,” followed immediately by “Watch the alligator—he bites.” I explore this a bit more in my poem What I Carry Isn’t All Mine.

    It takes time to feel okay with the parts of yourself that aren’t exactly socially smooth—like dropping truth bombs or asking questions that make people squirm.

  • This Path Used to Be Shared

    This Path Used to Be Shared

    The Dream

    An old boyfriend—
    he was hanging around,
    following me,
    trying to charm me.

    He was asking
    would I change anything?

    I told him,
    “I may have done things differently…
    but I would have made
    the same choices.”

    I had my son
    in the car.
    I’d moved on now.

    —

    I was in a new home,
    tidying house,
    nurturing its garden.

    The landlord came.
    She pointed
    to a plant I was growing—
    the water didn’t meet
    the gold rim on the glass.

    I laughed at her.
    I had more important things
    to worry about.

    She was rambling
    on and on
    about god knows what.

    She went off
    to inspect the house.
    I followed her.

    I complained
    about the damp—
    behind the wardrobes,
    and the kitchen cupboards.

    —

    An old client stood next to me.
    We were watching yarrow rods
    drying in a dim-lit hut.

    He spoke
    about a new venture.

    I was going to offer my services—
    but I never bothered.

    He was flaky.

    His voice trailed to nothing.
    He sheepishly walked away,
    apologising
    for not employing me before.

    —

    Overlooking my garden,
    there was land I owned—
    just beyond the boundary.

    I accessed it
    using next door’s path.

    I looked over.
    I couldn’t be sure—
    was it my land anymore?

    There were others on the land—
    a group of children,
    people farming.

    I walked
    to take the path.
    It looked like
    it wasn’t shared anymore.

    It was fenced now.
    Before,
    it had been just a path.

    I must check the boundary lines
    on the deeds
    before I question this,
    I thought.

    So I sat,
    chatting on the fence
    with a friend.

    When I stood
    on the other side—
    on the shared path—

    it felt strange.

    The Meaning

    an old boyfriend
    Charming but expired. I’ve evolved now,  turned my back on old patterns and taking responsibility for the choices I’ve made. I have my son in the car. I’ve moved on to something more meaningful.

    the landlord
    I’m over superficial measures of success. Instead I’m concerned with what’s at the core of things and where there is rot, I’m not afraid to point it out.

    ex clients and yarrow rods
    There’s deeper, more intuitive work to be done. I could pitch my services to this client, but my energy is not for rent. He slinks off, the ghost of empty promises and politeness, and I’m fine about that. My priorities are changing. 

    paths and ownership
    Uncertainty about taking space in a place that shares access. Ambiguity looms so I sit on the fence as I try to resolve ownership, direction, and belonging.

    What Lingers…

    What does belonging mean when the map and the memory don’t match?

    What if old paths don’t need to be reclaimed, only released?

    Marginalia

    After this dream, I discovered that dried yarrow stalks were once used in the ancient divination practice of the I Ching. Intrigued, I followed the thread until I found myself creating my own I Ching set from locally sourced material, sparked by Yarrow by the River. If you’d like to know more about my relationship with yarrow, you can read my story Yarrow | The Forging of a Shield.

  • How to Survive a Storm and Still Talk Shit

    How to Survive a Storm and Still Talk Shit

    The Dream

    A sea liner—
    a group of women with me.
    The captain struggled
    to steer the ship
    through a storm.

    The women—
    they wanted to lay mattresses
    on the floor,
    to soften our fall.

    I persuaded them not to—
    the mattresses
    would make us
    more unbalanced.

    I suggested: clear the room.
    When the ship loses control,
    at least we won’t fall
    on broken glass.

    —

    On land.
    The UK coast, somewhere.
    Cold.
    Sharp.

    I saw a penguin
    on the hill—
    I knew:
    this was a bad sign.

    A scream behind me:
    Run!

    I ascended the hill,
    up a narrow,
    steep,
    slippy,
    snowy path.

    A tsunami approached.
    Something else too—
    a wild animal
    I never saw,
    but I knew
    was there.

    —

    Later, at a friend’s house,
    before going out
    for the night.

    I poured a glass of wine.
    I smoked a cigarette.
    (I haven’t smoked in ten years.)

    My bestie complained
    about the dog
    bringing ‘field poo’
    into the house.
    (She meant mud.)

    I was talking,
    enjoying good company.
    I stood up and said:
    “I have to get ready,
    or we’ll never get out tonight.”

    I explained:
    “Once you change
    the way you see the field poo,
    you’ll feel differently.”

    “It’s not field poo.
    It’s the sustenance of life.
    It’s alive.
    It feeds us.
    Everything comes from it.
    Everything
    goes back
    to it.”

    The Meaning

    the sea liner and stormy sea
    A group of women = my school community and the instability that surrounds it. The mattress? More imbalance disguised as cushioning. For me, I insist on practical, proactive safety measures. Let’s not get cut by the glass that will inevitably smash. This reflects how I face chaos: instead of pretending I can soften the impact, I tidy my emotional room instead.

    the penguin and the tsunami
    A penguin? On a UK hillside? Even in the snow, this bird is out of place. The avian equivalent to an elephant in the room. And the voice behind me? My subconscious knowing there’s a reason to run. I don’t go side ways, I go up the steep hill, the hardest but safest route away from the danger. The tsunami? Overwhelming emotions. The wild animal? Anxiety, the always-present invisible stalker.

    wine, cigarettes, and mud poo philosophy
    Back on dry land: wine, friends and old bad habits. I return to the comforting ritual of “getting ready,” but with a TED Talk to my bestie on how actual shit is a life source.

    I’m full circle in this dream. I’ve weathered the storm. Ran hell for leather away from my anxiety, uncomfortable emotions and finally relaxed with a glass of wine and a fag whilst recounting that ‘shit’ is a matter of how you frame it.

    What Lingers…

    What if survival isn’t the end, but the beginning of something softer?

    What would it look like to stop bracing for impact and start making space to live?

    Marginalia

    A day or two before this dream, I woke with a sudden memory of yarrow, which prompted me to start taking it. This was the first dream I had after drinking yarrow tea—just days after leaving school—and clearly, my brain was trying to process what had happened. This dream marks the beginning of my log.