The Beautiful Mind

My husband absolutely hates it when I wake up in the morning and want to discuss my dreams.  It’s almost as if the B movies of my subconscious will lure him into some altered state of reality that is either a) too boring or b) too scary…so he politely declines my offer to repeat, to the extent I ever can, the blow by blow of a particular dreamscape.

As I’ve gotten older, however, my dreams have become more “vivid” and, sometimes, I vocalize or act out the dream, which awakens me immediately.  I’ve been known to talk in my sleep (a lot) and occasionally, hit something, like my husband or the headboard.  The headboard usually leaves a bruise; David, not so much.

Last night, I had a very complicated dream about which, for the life of me, I am unable to reconstruct the narrative.  This is not unusual.  Feelings stay with me – or particular “scenes” -- but rarely the whole dream-state story, unfortunately. 

I do remember this:  I was with old and new friends and my husband, of course, and my daughter, who was very little in the dream, maybe 6.  We were staying someplace – on vacation? – in a warren of serially-connected rooms, like a railroad apartment.  One room featured a fireplace, with a golden glow from the fire.  Another room had people and lots of pillows.  In the dream, my daughter and I walked away from the pillow room and laughing people and down a hallway toward our room, and I saw the face of a thirtyish man with sandy hair, a thin face and dead eyes staring at me through a window or reflected in a mirror.  He had a gun.  He pointed it.  A warning.  I looked away, took my daughter’s hand and walked quickly away into our room, locking the door.

We fell asleep.  Suddenly, I woke up and the stranger with the dead eyes was in the room.

I screamed.  Loudly.  Twice.

This got my husband’s attention.  Even though startled, he still had the composure to say my name soothingly, grabbing my hand and calming me into consciousness.  For a few minutes, I didn’t say anything but just held his hand.  I closed my eyes and dared myself to remember the terrifying face.  I couldn’t.  And then suddenly, all I could think of was the Woody Allen movie where he plays tennis with the Grim Reaper – that’s sort of how silly I felt, and how disturbed. 

After about 5 minutes or so, my husband pulled his hand away from mine, eager to return to sleep.  I pet my dog, Shasha, and within a few more minutes, I too fell unconscious.

This morning, I read a story in the New York Times about the deep brain research called direct brain recording which “listens to the brain’s internal dialogue in real time.”  Researchers hope this will ultimately lead them to better understand and treat traumatic brain injury, epilepsy and other chronic brain conditions that affect memory and reasoning.  One doctor acknowledges in the article that researchers “know so little” about the brain.

The brain is the greatest mystery of all, the key to our spiritual being and the navigator of the pragmatic self.  It fascinates me, and if I could do it all again and spend time getting a serious STEM education, I’d love to be a brain specialist.  And when I have weirdo dreams that cause me to punch my husband or talk loudly or scream, I’m grateful.  It reminds me how miraculous our challenging and beautiful mind truly is.

Ok, enough of that.  Didn’t have the best sleep last night.  Think it’s time for a nap.