It’s not always easy to see the opportunity or good in each situation. I have been practicing the art of seeing everything that happens as something intended to help me. Even if it doesn’t appear to be the best thing ever, there is likely something for me to learn.
This little toon I drew several years ago is a fun reminder. If I remember correctly, I was drawing the baby with the mouth wide open and I got curious about what all you could identify in a mouth that wide. I did some quick research and this is the result.
For your amusement…
(and I feel the need to say that no babies cried this hard or were in this much distress in the making of this drawing). 🙂
I’ve had a lot of zombie dreams over the years. And yes, I’ve watched more than my fair share of zombie shows and movies—so I’m sure that’s partly to blame. For most of my adult life, anytime I walked into a new space, I’d instinctively scan for the best exit route in case of a sudden zombie invasion.
I can’t be the only one who does this, right?
A Dream That Became a Story
One particular dream stuck with me and eventually became the seed of my book The Resurrection Incident. At the time, I still called the creatures in my dream “zombies,” even though that label didn’t quite fit.
In the dream, I was on a spaceship, walking through dim hallways with a group of people. We all had a shared sense of urgency—something was coming. We didn’t know what, just that we had to hide. We found a mechanical room and ducked inside.
Then they appeared.
The Floating Undead (But Not Really)
They didn’t look like traditional zombies. They floated about a foot off the ground, their eyes glowing blood-red, bobbing eerily as they moved. When they entered the room, the people around me began to explode into parts—and then rise again as creatures like the ones who’d just entered.
I knew I was next. I could feel something stirring inside me, about to shift.
Then I had a moment of lucidity. I became aware that I was dreaming—and I realized I was in control. In that surreal moment, I could see my vast, energetic body stretched across space. It turned, slowly, like a cosmic being waking up. And then it opened its eyes…
I stood up in the dream and faced the creatures. I pulled the plug on whatever power was animating them—and they dropped to the ground in piles.
From “Space Zombies” to “Resurrects”
When I woke up, I remembered every detail. That dream became one of those stories I circled for years—freewrites, chapter starts, rewrites, new outlines. At one point, I called it Zelwa and the Space Zombies. Later, it became Jarem and the Space Zombies. But as the world deepened, I realized “zombie” didn’t quite fit.
They weren’t undead—they were something else. Something tied to energy, resurrection, and transformation. So I renamed them: resurrects.
I thought “The Resurrection Incident” might be a single novel, but I later had a few people ask me if there would be more and, what do you know, I had an idea for a sequel. I just have to clear out a few more books before I get to it. 😊
Ready to Explore The Resurrection Incident?
If you’re into:
Sci-fi with a spiritual/metaphysical twist
Floating red-eyed beings that may or may not be zombies
Dreams that rewrite the rules of reality
And characters who wake up to more than just danger…
At various times in my life, I’ve written them down—sometimes just to remember them, sometimes to try to understand them. A few were so vivid they’ve stayed with me like memories, even ones I had as a teenager (or younger). They shaped how I viewed myself and the world. I used to wonder what it meant to have the same dream over and over again. Why that image? That story?
When I got my driver’s license as a teen, one of the first things I was excited to do was drive myself to the public library. Up until then, I’d only had access to school libraries—but this was a new world.
I would leave with a backpack so stuffed with books, it bulged at the seams. I kind of miss those days.
Strange Shelves and Quiet Spark
In the little rural town I grew up in, there was one narrow aisle in the library with a small cluster of books on dream interpretation, reincarnation, ghosts, psychology, and religion. I devoured everything I could find.
That’s where I discovered the work of Dr. Ian Stevenson, Edgar Cayce, and likely Joseph Campbell. A memoir called Welcome, Silence—about one woman’s experience with schizophrenia—also made a deep impression on me.
All of that fueled my curiosity about things that can’t be easily explained. And, as you might expect, my writing took some unusual turns during that time (and let’s be honest—it still does).
A Psychic, a Folded Dollar, and “The Work”
In college, a friend of mine visited a psychic. I was intrigued. I knew the house—just off the highway I drove past every day to get to class. So I made an appointment.
Honestly? It was a bit underwhelming. It felt like the woman was just trying to upsell me. My friend had told me her reading, and strangely, I was told nearly the same thing—though I hadn’t mentioned anything in advance.
The woman gave me a folded dollar bill and said I’d either see that its face had changed and return, or I wouldn’t—and I’d never come back.
(Spoiler: I never went back.)
But she did say something that stuck with me.
She described using her intuition as “going into the work.”
That phrase sparked my imagination. I began picturing the universe as an enormous, steampunk-like energetic machine, and sleep as a way we plug into it—accidentally or intuitively. Maybe we all go into the work when we dream.
The poem below came out of that idea. I think I was 18 or 19 when I wrote it. It’s simple, but still resonates.
The Work (by Sheila Lee Brown circa 1996-7)
At night one goes unknowingly into the work – – eyes closed, breathing rhythmic. The body continues with minimal effort as the mind-spirit-soul merges more completely with the mechanics of consciousness. No self, yet all self. It moves – – Bolted in mortality, fueled by blood, edging towards something greater and surreal. Visions come that baffle the optic nerves and intimate God, the unliving present; and one awakes, calling it a dream.
One More Story (for Another Time)
Later in life, I visited a hypnotherapist and went through a past-life regression—which was a very different kind of experience.
But that’s a story for another post. 😊
Where Do Your Dreams Go?
Over the years, writing down my dreams has helped me track patterns, explore symbols, and spark story ideas I never would have uncovered otherwise.
If you’d like a space for your own dreamwork, I’ve created a Dream Journal that you can find in my shop. It’s simple, magical, and made for nights just like the ones we talked about above.
