Defiant Wisdom

Tag: dreamwork

Dream-based entries exploring symbolism, emotional patterns, and subconscious themes — the backbone of this archive.

  • 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.

  • The Room Behind the Wallpaper

    The Room Behind the Wallpaper

    The Dream

    An old house—
    it was damp.

    Around the windows,
    the walls
    were soaking wet.

    Beneath the fabric wallpaper,
    I discovered
    a hidden room.

    Inside
    a writing desk—

    it was warm
    in there.

    Really warm.

    I suggested
    we should open it up
    to the rest of the house—

    let the heat
    out.

    The Meaning

    the damp house
    My psyche. It’s not unsafe, just a bit neglected.

    the windows
    Where light and truth should come in. But instead? Wet. Seeping.
    I’m checking the perimeters. Looking for where my boundaries let the weather in.

    the hidden room
    I peel back the wallpaper and find… A space I forgot I had.
    A room with purpose, solitude, warmth.
    A creative core.
    An inner writer.
    A part that doesn’t need fixing—it just needs revealing.

    the warmth
    This is the warmth of readiness, presence, creative potential. I’m not discovering anything bad—I’m discovering a solution.

    letting the heat out
    I’m finally ready to say, let this part of me affect the rest. Let this warmth inform the cold spaces. Let this creative core change the larger structure.

    What Lingers…

    What if the solution isn’t on the outside, but already glowing deep within?

    What if the warmth that’s been hidden is finally ready to lead?

    Marginalia

    By this time, events and dreams we’re coming thick and fast. I didn’t know why, exactly—but I felt clear: I needed to record everything. This dream felt like a nudge in that direction, opening a warm part of me I didn’t know was there.

  • Pedalling While They Take the Bus

    Pedalling While They Take the Bus

    The Dream

    I was meeting
    an old friend
    at the theatre.

    I was running late—
    finishing work.

    My mum—
    I’d asked her
    to join us.

    I tried
    to call my friend—
    my phone
    wouldn’t work.

    I tried
    to buy Mum a ticket—
    the website
    wouldn’t load.

    I finally got through
    to my friend.

    They were upset
    (understandably—
    I’m often late).

    I explained myself.
    They softened.

    Now I was
    so late
    I would miss
    the start.

    I put my mum
    on the bus.

    While I
    pedalled furiously
    on a bike.

    The Meaning

    relationship as performance
    I was invited and expected—but I arrived late, distracted by other things.

    mum
    History, tension, inherited patterns—yet I’m trying to integrate her into a present connection.

    fails
    It’s not that I don’t want to show up—it’s that my tools fail me at the exact moment I try. Even when I care, I mess it up.

    pedalling while mum takes the bus
    Still trying to fix, working harder than anyone—others calmly carried along.
    I’m exhausted. I’m earning my right to attend—and yet somehow, miss the mark.

    What Lingers…

    What if over-efforting is guilt dressed as love?

    What if showing up late doesn’t equal not deserving to show up at all.

    Marginalia

    At the time, guilt was running the show—researching ancestry while letting others down in the process. I was beginning an NHS assessment for ADHD, and my mum pushed back—questioning why I’d take this road so late in life—this dream holds all the tension of her approach.

    My dreams return to this dynamic again and again. In Walking Away with the Door Still Open, I refuse to wait.

    In Sunsets and Nervous Men, I finally reach for joy without needing to earn it.

  • Poppy Seeds in a Rush of Yes

    Poppy Seeds in a Rush of Yes

    The Dream

    I dropped everything
    I went
    to the garden centre
    I bought poppy seeds.

    I was
    so excited.

    The Meaning

    dropping everything
    Freedom. Urgency. Joy taking precedence.

    the garden centre
    The source of potential. A sanctum place of future beauty.

    poppy seeds
    Poppies symbolise: Sleep and dreams, remembrance (grief, history, ancestors), wild beauty and literal psychoactive transformation. I’m not planting daisies. I’m planting something deep, something ancient. And I’m thrilled at the idea of cultivating something that could change me.

    What Lingers…

    What if joy doesn’t need justification to be sacred?

    What if the deepest transformations begin with the tiniest seeds—planted in a rush of yes?

    Marginalia

    I’d written the story of my ancestry research: It Began with a Name. This is the dream I was rewarded with. Clearly, the ancestors are delighted with the progress I’ve made. There is celebration and the joy of planting something new, so unlike the heaviness of The Body in the Greenhouse.

    In waking life, I did go and buy poppy seeds. It seemed only fitting to add some to my herb garden. I didn’t press them neatly into the soil—I just threw them across the bed. Now I’ll wait, and see what rises next season.

  • What If Rest Feels Like Dying?

    What If Rest Feels Like Dying?

    The Dream

    Holiday—
    I didn’t want
    to do anything.

    I recognised
    I didn’t have
    long left.

    I felt
    desperate.

    It dawned on me…

    I might be
    depressed.

    The Meaning

    the holiday
    When rest is mistaken for disinterest.

    time running out
    Shouldn’t I be doing… all the things? This is the guilt of not conforming to toxic productivity.

    naming the depression
    Maybe what I’m calling depression… is not being anxious. Maybe what looks like laziness… holds weight.

    What Lingers…

    What if it’s not depression—just resting for the first time ever?

    What if doing nothing is how the deeper whispers finally get heard?

    Marginalia

    I’ve quit a mismatched school and am waiting for the new one to start. I’m supposed to be studying, but instead I’m ferociously digging into my ancestry, chasing a dream of The House That Contains Everything.

    Not having anything clear to do, for an overachiever, is akin to dying.
    An existential crisis wired in from the start: if you’re not achieving, not producing, you’re useless.

    The question rises: am I procrastinating? Does this research mean anything at all? Does it tie into a bigger picture perhaps?

    But the void doesn’t stay empty. It fills itself—
    not with herbal work,
    but with whispers.
    With intuition.
    With dreams.

    I’m listening. Remembering.
    Not doing. Not achieving.

  • Valerian | Descent with the Morrígan

    Valerian | Descent with the Morrígan

    Valerian showed up in shadows—
    of sleepless nights, dark woods,
    and quiet omens.

    She shapeshifts—
    like her effects:
    soothing one dreamer; haunting the next.

    This is how she arrived—
    not with clarity,
    but dripping in contradiction.

    I tried to choose her.
    She doesn’t explain.
    But I kept showing up.
    And then, so did she.

    Valerian is not for comfort.
    She’ll take your hand,
    walk you to the edge—
    and show you the dark sea
    beyond your waking mind’s eye.

    If it suits.

    This is the story of that descent—
    and what I found, where she led me.

    Perhaps you’ve met her too?

    —

    The First Descent

    I was desperate to sleep.
    I tried magnesium, sleep hygiene,
    all the usual rituals.

    Then I tried her.

    She didn’t soothe—
    she stalked.
    Her scent was feral.
    Fermented.
    Strangely beguiling.

    She unfolded herself
    in layers of ambivalence.

    I learned this the hard way—
    through the morning hangover
    she gave me
    when I didn’t respect
    her nocturnal virtues.

    That was my first lesson—
    she demands reverence,
    not assumption.

    Meeting the Morrígan

    By the time of tea tasting,
    I recognised her.

    With my eyes closed.
    Mind open.
    Tea warming my hands.

    She arrived:

    It’s time to hunker down,
    by the fireside.

    With rose petals and decay.
    A wood hut.
    Mulched leaves.
    There’s dankness in the air.

    Apple pie
    and custard,
    laced with toasted almonds
    and spice.

    This is autumn—
    Samhain.

    A pregnant, liminal space.
    A bountiful harvest—
    followed by
    the horse-drawn carriage of death.

    —

    To me, Valerian is the Morrígan—
    not because she told me,
    but because of how I felt her:

    Cloaked, paradoxical,
    full of omen.

    A crow in the shadows.
    A whisper at the edge of sleep.
    The one who lifts the veil
    between this world
    and the next.

    A predictor of futures,
    an agent of death.
    She lights the lamp.
    Opens the gate.
    She is fate.

    The Trickster Herb

    My herbal apprenticeship required
    two immersions on the Isle of Arran.

    Each time, we were asked
    to walk with a herb in flower.

    During my first trip, I chose Dandelion.
    But Valerian’s leaves were spotted—
    always in the shadows,
    on thresholds,
    waiting.

    She’s not like her namesake sisters,
    you know,
    the showy red and ashy blonde
    that root into stone,
    waving from the roadside…
    “Cooie!!!”

    No.
    Valerie is aloof.

    On my second trip—
    I chose her.

    But again, only her leaves appeared.

    Why was I chasing her?
    I can’t be certain.
    Isn’t it nature to want
    what we don’t have?

    Instead Yarrow took my hand.
    And Valerian stalked
    as a hooded crow—
    watching from the edges of the shore.

    Oil & Omen

    Yarrow and Valerian were intertwined by now.
    So on my return, I ordered both as oil.

    Valerian’s scent made me queasy.
    I shelved the idea.

    Maybe she wasn’t mine after all.

    A year on, Yarrow had barged into my life.
    And still—no sign of Valerian in bloom.

    That summer, admiring my parents’ garden,
    a magpie landed on the grass.

    Then another—
    demanding, loud, open-beaked.

    Its mother fed it.
    I’d never seen that before.

    And I knew.
    A message had arrived.

    The Scent, The Descent

    Back home, I opened my plant ID app.
    The notification bell was alight.

    A confirmation of an observation:

    Valeriana officinalis.

    I was bemused.
    How could I have been obsessing over this herb—
    taken a photo of her—
    and not even realised?

    But I had.

    I had an idea.
    I added two drops of Yarrow
    and one drop of Valerian oil
    to my burner.

    I breathed deeply—
    because you can’t quite make out
    what you’re sensing.

    Naturally,
    you take your time.

    Each breath:
    deeper, slower, more deliberate.

    Each one,
    a step down
    into the basement of my dreamland home—
    the staircase which leads directly
    down onto the seashore.

    At high tide, the last few steps:
    beneath the surface.

    But today,
    I hear children playing.
    The tide is low
    and the weather is stunning.

    I’m descending now,
    a single rope around my waist.

    Yarrow—provides Valerian with a boundary.
    Yarrow catches the gate open with her foot.
    So the descent can be made—
    with a safe route back.

    The Message

    The next day,
    my son had found a small bird—
    not moving.

    He’d nurtured it to recovery
    until it flew away.

    He set up his camera in the garden.
    He wanted to see if it returned.

    The next day, he came in.
    “Look what I captured on my cam, Mum…”

    Ah yes, I thought quietly.
    Magpies.

    Valerian was ready—
    to feed me.

    Valerian and Yarrow journeyed me
    to meet my sleeping ancestors.

    The message?
    Seek their eyes.

    They’ve been waiting
    for yours.

  • 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].