I used to be a wild dreamer. I have several notebooks full of dreams that I dutifully recorded, written in smudgey blue bic pen ink, by the light of the alarm clock in the middle of the night. When we were in our 20s and 30s, there was a fad of dream interpretation. There was thought to be value in writing down the dreams for a clearer translation.
I would regale my friends with the dreams, most of whom could not believe the intensity and the detail of the strange visions. In recent years, as my hormones diminished and sleep became more elusive, the dreams faded too, until they completely stopped. I missed them. I wished I could awake with the sense of having been somewhere else, maybe in a house with many rooms and secret floors, or on a planet with fiery soil, flying over the mountains with a sense of elation.
Just within the last month or so, the dreams have returned. I don't know if it's the adjustment of my thyroid medication, or a new mattress, or just a new era. But suddenly I'm sleeping well and revisiting the land of nod. Last night I awoke several times during the night (Lola was wandering around the house, her paws clicking on the hardwood floors), and each time, I had been dreaming deep and hard. I guess I need to get a new notebook and put it by my bed.