Dreaming, Reading, and Wonder
I’ve always been fascinated by dreams.
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.
🌙Check out the Dream Journal on Amazon.
