Good Morning Dreams (MDs)

     I'm at the gym at least four days a week -- more, if I'm pondering a life issue.  Untamed, heavy metal music nourishes those feral thoughts I'm prone to express during a mind-boggling CrossFit session.  I wind down jogging along Murrieta Hot Springs Road or by trudging a mindscape beach on the elliptical for a spell to better receive easy, breezy, butterfly thoughts.  When I'm overtly inspired, I can envision the results I desire. Yes, things always work out FOR THE BEST, but not always in the fashion or in the time frame I imagined.  FOR THE BEST: that's the operative mantra.

     Some of my best, creative ideas appear in a brief, two-dimensional, vivid, morning dreams moments before I awaken. I dub them MDs in which the details, instructions, solutions for certain challenges are intuitive rather than spoken.  Sometimes an unresolved issue is made lovingly clear in perfect time.  35-plus years ago, my best friend, Carla, stopped coming around.  Of course, I thought she was angry with me, but I was never sure.

   I pondered the separation on rare occasion, but I never pursued clarification regarding the quizzical blip on the radar of my busy life. In a recent MD, Carla and her husband were screaming and yelling at one another, throwing things across a restaurant.  I recognized her husband to be the boyfriend with whom she incessantly argued. Way back when, Carla tearfully declared a thousand times that her relationship with Rodney was over.

   At all hours, I'd pick her up from the Carnation Restaurant in Yorba Linda and bring her home with me because he'd disable her car and lock her out of their apartment, indefinitely. Aaahhhhh.  I get it. She married HIM.

   In another MD, I was meandering through a busy news room. Barbara Walters passed by as I was making way to my office. She momentarily paused, casually suggesting to someone else (a stranger), "You need to make a demo tape. You know how to do so." I knew she was talking to me, though she was addressing the other person.  Reaching up, she rested a hand on my shoulder and smiled.  End of dream.  When I woke up, I felt a positive, loving energy which lasted for weeks.  I subsequently made a demo DVD.

   Picture a minimalistic, ritzy house near L.A. where I'm living with a mentor: an important, oriental, short, old guy (a stranger). In this MD, I had separate quarters, but I decided to color my hair in another bathroom.  A petite, matronly woman (a stranger), dressed in a gray housekeeper's uniform, appeared.  She blocked the doorway.  

  "You spilled dye on the white carpeting. This is my bathroom. What are you doing on this side of the house? You belong over there," she said, pursing her lips, sternly pointing to a window through which I could see a mansion – my mansion.

  I heartily apologized, squeezing by her on my way to find a solvent for removing the stain.  I was nervously walking down a long hallway, traipsing through the unfamiliar abode.  I didn't sense any danger.  I was intercepted by the old man who was eagerly waving a small document in the air.

  "This for you, Lyn. I think you like. It's for book you wrote," he said.  I wasn't aware of any book that I'd written.  To my left, I saw a magnificent, elevated dining room with an elongated, cherry wood table surrounded by several, high-back, upholstered chairs.  Purple, pink and white orchids graced the centerpiece candelabra.  An inanimate, life-sized, main character from the book I'd written sat at the head of the table surrounded by the supporting characters and the plethora of merchandise from the movie theme. 

  "Take this. It's every writer's dream," said the old man, handing me a piece of folded paper. When I opened it, I was floored.  It was a check for $20,000.  End of dream. Beginning of a children's book.

   I'm hard-pressed to recall dreams, thus I don't keep a dream journal, per se. However, the MDs frequently impart ideas, literally showing me simple solutions to particularly challenging situations, like a breath of whimsical, fresh, perfect air.  I document the distinctively compelling MDs because I refer to them for a little clarity while taking a step toward achieving a goal, like writing this blog. 

  On occasion, I've thought of abandoning this Patch blog, which commenced in 2011, largely because I was free to write about the magnificent, magnanimous Murrieta Fire Department. 

   My writing world has since grown a tad, but I also remember an MD in which my mom, Marian, appeared in a supportive, applauding crowd.  They were all standing on the shore of the beach near the pier in Oceanside.  I'd paddled out and couldn't catch a wave because I was surfing on a square piece of plywood with illegible calligraphy all over it.   

   "Lynda, you just keep writing and keep surfing," my mom shouted out. In the dream, I was aware I was surfing and writing on an ineffective piece of wood, but I knew I would only have to ride this last wave all the way to shore to get a better surfboard from the crowd. End of dream.  Assuredly, I'll keep writing and surfing.

   I'm no clairvoyant, no prophet, no medium.  Obviously, I'm an intuitive dreamer.  I can live with that nomenclature.  In the interim, I'd love to hear some easy, breezy insight from other dreamers while I embark on some fanciful projects.