My husband tells me the way I dream is unusual, and I’m curious to know if that is true!
I’ve always been an adventurous dreamer. As a child, I’d dream of being in the school yard, off in some little corner by myself, practising my levitation skills. I’d slowly lean back, keeping my body straight and stiff, balancing my weight on my heels. Instead of falling backwards I’d suddenly find myself floating with my heels an inch off the ground! It required a lot of concentration, but with practise, it became easier.
As the years rolled by, I was able to float a little higher, and for longer, and by the time I reached my teens I could fly! Sometimes, my flying looks like Wonder Woman. When I fly like this, it feels almost as though I am a dolphin, streaming, winding, whipping and turning effortlessly, this way and that. Other times, it’s more a sense of being able to jump with weightlessness, launching in the air and leaping to great heights. Continue reading “My Life as a Dreamer”
I had watched him scuttle past these rocks so many times this week. I do not think he knew I was watching. Perhaps he thought I was like all the other tourists; too busy watching the sunset and the wind-surfers, to notice him rifling through bags and swiping picnic food. He was about 8 years old, I was guessing. A wiry, sun-bronzed boy with a matted mess of blonde curls. He did not seem to belong to anyone and always disappeared around the rocks, rocks so slippery I hesitated to follow but he was the only mystery worth solving on this beach and Thomas had forgotten me, so followed.
Continue reading “Seashore”
A gust of wind stirred him back to consciousness. Half awake, his eyes still closed, the King’s nose wrinkled in disgust at the horrid smell. He froze. Something very large, with bad breath, was sniffing him. The dragon. Well this was it. His first taste of freedom in a zillion years and it all comes to this: getting eaten by a dragon. He probably should have stayed right where he was.
Continue reading “The King and the Dragon- part 3”
The death of my father by suicide in 1988 was shocking, but perhaps not unexpected in hindsight. He hadn’t seemed quite sane in the year leading up to his death and the few times I did have contact with him, I found him a little frightening. We had fallen out over something trivial, mulberry jam, I think it was. I’d forgotten to take it home to my mothers house so he disowned me, in a heated conversation over the telephone.
Continue reading “Death, dreams and hauntings”