Defiant Wisdom

Category: Dreamwork

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

  • 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.