Tag Archive | dreams


The world that comes off from the poetry of John Clare is so wholesome and inviting. I want that world to be mine one of those days. And even if I cannot write in words, because written poetry is really not my forte, I can experience the poetry of things and learn the names and ways of various birds and plants and trees. I can live in that world instead of reading about it and sighing and pretending the little forest grove and meadow near my ugly house is countryside. Well, I suppose it kind of is countryside, but regardless. I want to see that:


……when I look out of the window.

And this poem is ever so pretty:

All nature has a feeling: woods, fields, brooks
Are life eternal: and in silence they
Speak happiness beyond the reach of books;
There’s nothing mortal in them; their decay
Is the green life of change; to pass away
And come again in blooms revivified.
Its birth was heaven, eternal it its stay,
And with the sun and moon shall still abide
Beneath their day and night and heaven wide.

Having grown up lived on poetry like this and nothing modern, the challenge of writing contemporary nature poetry has a strange appeal. But.

Being a dreamer

I think I’ve been throwing around that descriptive a little too uncomprehendingly, and I have never doubted its positivity.

To me, being a dreamer meant  that you spend more time in your head and are prone to fantasizing of other worlds and alternative lives or environments, some more realistic, others completely not.

This is the kind of dreamer I am. However, I’ve recently realised that there is after all a downside – I don’t like it when my dreams start to turn into reality. I want to take the opposite course. I want to reject it and run away. And it is not fear, it’s the misery of getting what you want.

Truly, there is nothing worse than getting what you want to a dreamer like myself.  I live on hopes and dreams, what will I live on if yet another is destroyed by turning itself into a reality? Reality can never live up and I will have lost.

Sometimes, it’s not so bad, of course. Sometimes you get used to it and there are days when you are pleased and praise yourself for having made a very good choice. But other times you just want to get rid of what you obtained to return to the blissful state that you were in when only dreaming of it.

A few months ago, I made myself an Instagram account upon a whim. Sometimes I scroll through other people’s pictures. Who has not heard that social media depresses people because they feel their own lives are inferior? Well, it doesn’t seem to work on me. Instead, I use it to cheer myself up. It inspires me to dream on dull, dreamless days. I notice someone has a fabulous flower garden, and I dream of my own, and make a mental note of the design. I notice someone more beautiful than me, and am full of admiration. I notice someone has an awesome bookshelf and dream of the time when I will have a similar one.

Dreams are the most important things to me in life. I am truly unhappy only when I don’t have anything to dream about, anything to be inspired by, to look forward to, to hope for.

So getting everything I want must promise great unhappiness indeed.


Today looks like the last day of summer. The wind is so strong but also so warm. I spent the morning reading The Secret Garden, and must praise it as one of the few 19th to early 20th century children’s books that doesn’t suffer from excessive sentimentality. It is what it describes. Magic. The style does exactly what the words say the garden and children are doing. Growing, transforming. It’s an ode to the transformative potential of the individual and to nature.

I hope the fair weather holds until I get my work done and can go out to enjoy it.


It’s a challenge to talk about dreams. The true dreams, not the things one wants out of life or the things they dream about at night. Those are easy. The former are part of one’s identity and the content of the second you are not responsible for.  If I should night-dream of being engaged to Delboy, I could share it with everyone and have a laugh. If I should daydream about it, on the other hand, people would most certainly think I have a major crush on him and that I have bad taste in men.

And that’s why sharing dreams is so difficult, so unwise. People tend to take them seriously. They become something quite other when shared. Frankly, even I would be more inclined to take them seriously once brought to the real world. While they are swimming around in my head, being nothing but stray thoughts and fancies, I’m not responsible for them. They are mine, but are not part of my identity. They are just visitors. Some I spend a little time with and hear them out, others are but fleeting glimpses into possibilities I want nothing to do with. Being prone to daydreams is part of my identity, but the substance of my dreams is an amorphous thing. I’ve never tried to define it or paid particular attention to it.

Sometimes, when I become conscious of the content of my dreams – most of the time I’m not – I can be a little surprised and amused. What on earth did I just dream of? Hold your horses, where do you think you are going with your thoughts? But of course, I usually carry on and pay no attention to reason or rightness.

I don’t dream very often these days. When I was younger, my favourite thing was to daydream myself to sleep. Sometimes I was quite annoyed when sleep came and I had to continue the following night. I even remember some of my dream landscapes. Things like a certain yellow wooden house with two-storeys. I lived in the upper storey and had a view of a vast empty field. Such dreams I indulged in and made permanent companions of for long periods of time. Maybe those would be part of my identity.

But then there is the other kind, the one-time dreams. Let’s suppose I entertained the thought of what a great monarch I’d make and how I’d rule the world. If I spoke of it publicly – if I said I’ve dreamt of ruling the world (or Europe) – I’d be taken more seriously than I’d ever have meant it. Psychologists would prick up their ears: hmm, delusions of grandeur? Narcissistic or bipolar personality disorder? Mania episode?

And so, one fancy is taken out of the millions and added to my personality map. I don’t mean to say that the things I daydream about have no connection to who I am and are unwanted intrusions, but that there are so many one-time idle fancies of no significance that extracting any would lead to severe misunderstandings. So they stay in the dream world. All the bizarre, evil and too beautiful things alike. My dream world really has no boundaries other than those of the imagination.

I can share a  few, but most stay where they belong.

And now, one totally unembarrassing and uncontroversial dream: I caught myself missing the presence of flowers. To the point that if I had any space and not a cat that eats everything when in a bad mood, I’d get ten pot plants and fill ten vases with various flowers. Daffodils, roses, more daffodils, and hyacinths. Such a longing for colours and scents. I’m going to spam the blog with flower pictures as a result.




These little white flowers smell the best! Even if they don’t look like much theirs is one of my favourite scents.


This is my own peony. I was so proud of it when it actually blossomed for the second year.

This is my own peony. I was so proud of it when it actually blossomed for the second year.




To hope and dream

God should honour the man who invented sleep, for he must have been a smart fellow; still more honour, however, should be paid to the inventor of the dream. Not the dream that arises from our minds only when we lie under the soft blanket of sleep — no, the dream that we dream our whole lives long, the dream that often lifts the oppressive burden of earthly cares upon its wings and silences every bitter woe, every dismal lament of disappointed hope, being itself a heavenly ray kindled in our bosoms both to inspire our incessant yearning and to promise its fulfilment.

(E. T. A. Hoffmann, Princess Brambilla)

It had never in my life occurred to me, before I read this, how fascinating, utterly wondrous, is our capacity to hope and dream. What survival advantage or psychological value could it possibly have? To hope and dream. No other creature hopes and dreams.

Future work fantasies

It is no surprise to any one who has read more than one of my blog posts or knows me personally that I detest my studies. I love the subject, but hate the competitive, stressful atmosphere. And if ever I do pull myself through it and get myself that wretched clinical psychologist’s diploma, it is thanks to fantasies like these.

I enjoy likening myself to Sherlock Holmes in my future work.

My profession – the solving of the problems of the mind. My tools: knowledge, intuition, daring and creativity. My passion: unusual characters and understanding the very depths of human nature.

A patient enters. I tell them that if any one can fix them in our country, it is probably me. But I cannot do my work if they withhold information and deceive me to save face. And if I detect it, I shall sulk like Holmes and send them packing.

And then, on some rainy days, I shall moan about the dull problems the majority of patients have. All those marital troubles that are pretty much identical, and the hordes of anxiety suffering women. I’ll smoke my pipe and long for an exciting, unique patient. A real case! Nothing predictable and ordinary. A personality unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.

If I ever become a therapist, I want to be like Holmes.

If ever I become a psychologist, I want to be like Holmes (here played by Jeremy Brett)