Me and My House

When I dream about Houses, I may be dreaming about my Self.

I'm no dream expert, but I've always been interested in Jungian theories about dreams and have taken a few classes over the years that tell me this is so.

In a recent dream, I was living in an old, weathered three-story house with a small extra room at the top.  Since I am actually living in a 70 year-old body, three decades plus one, I think the symbolism is quite obvious.

In the dream, strangers were walking around in my house taking my treasures but not seeing me at all, even when I begged them to stop. One man took three light fixtures (not ones I actually own)  and hauled them out to his truck.

I followed him.  "Please give me my lights back," I yelled.  But he put them in the bed of his truck and drove away.

(I followed him in my daddy's red truck, intent on getting my lights back, but, alas, I woke up before I caught the guy.)

The dreamed-house had once been a beautiful house with fresh paint, filled with the gifts and mementos that were precious to me.  And yet, at the point of the dream story, it was being invaded by strangers.

Back in the real daytime world, I--and most of my friends--are in processes of simplifying our actual houses and getting rid of clutter, but we're also still painting and updating and acquiring new pieces for reasons of comfort and/or aesthetics.   Our dream selves, like our daytime selves, are always in the process of change.

When I came home from my trip to find ruined floors from an air conditioning leak, it was, at first, almost as unsettling as discovering an injury in my body.  To prepare for the removal of old floors and the laying of new ones, I have spent much of the past week moving everything I can personally lift to the only room that doesn't require  new floors. I am dragging things over old floors that will soon be removed without taking the usual care to avoid scratches.

The process requires a lot of waiting--for estimates, choosing material, insurance calls. In this instance, after the floors are done, I'll also have to wait for a mold expert to determine if my house has mold and an allergist to tell me if there's a connection between mold and what I call "fibro days."

There are upsides:

When things are in chaos, when all the window coverings are down, when rooms are practically empty, you get to see the canvas fresh in different lights, unfiltered lights, revealing new possibilities.

I have six panels of wood today to watch in changing lights--from dark brown to whitewashed.  With fibro flaring for three days, it's hard to decide.  But tomorrow is another day, and as Scarlet O'Hara sort-of said, "I'll think about wood tomorrow."