Home for the Shaman

So I have this dream, that has crystallized in the first half of this year.  A lifetime in the making, or most of my lifetime.  In its essence the dream is a simple one about being possessed of home, hearth and work.  Oh, and love.  Love is in there somewhere.

I know now I have had this dream, or a version of it ever since I was a teenager.  It grew stronger while I was in college but remained unformed.  I would wake up with a vague feeling of contentedness that quickly evaporated in the sunlight of my overheated higher education adventures.  I chased it many days and never caught it while I was awake.  After graduation I moved on to a fairly average existence as a responsible (mostly) career man living in the suburbs of Baltimore.  It was then the dream began to wane.  Perhaps because I convinced myself that I had everything I needed, even while my subconscious held the unsettling truth that I did not.

The dream has come back, powerfully, and it starts in a house.  The location of this house I have yet to determine but I feel a strong suggestion of New England or maybe South-Central US.  The dream never lasts long enough for me to experience much weather and I cannot tell much of climate.  All I know is that it is early fall,  there is chill in the air and the house is nestled somewhere among some hills.  I suspect there are mountains nearby, as well.

In this dream, I am my own boss, although I cannot say exactly what I do.  I think I may design houses.  I think I write, successfully, for various publications spanning many aspects of fiction and non-fiction.  It is entirely possible that I make things.  I have seen handcrafted pottery and maybe metal sculptures.  Definitely pottery.  I had a semester-long workshop in architecture studio, in college, and the idea of making pots and tiles never really left my mind.

The dream starts in the kitchen, I think.  I have seen out the window over the sink, and it overlooks a barn-like building sitting a relatively short distance away in a back lot.  There is a flagstone path leading from the back door to a door in the front of the barn.  A gravel driveway leads away from the barn and out of sight beyond the side of the house, presumably to a road out front.  I've never been out front in this dream, so I cannot say.  There may be an old tree out back with some slightly rusted cast iron lawn furniture under it, a table and two chairs.  It pleases me to think I nap in those chairs some weekends when the weather is good.

It is only recently that I have clearly begun to see myself in this dream.  It's very strange, my thoughts are my own but the point-of-view is from somewhere else.  That somewhere else, I believe, is from behind the eyes of another person in the dream.  It starts abruptly like a spliced-in video clip.  It is early morning, sometime after sunrise.  A screen door can be heard to slam faintly, and the POV feels like the person/me is standing at the sink, about to wash some breakfast dishes, and looking out the window.  It looks up.

I am strolling across the back lot, dew wetting my workshoes.  I am wearing a flannel shirt, untucked, and jeans.  Under the shirt, I have the feeling that I am wearing a thermal undershirt, the kind that has the waffle-like surface to it.  In one hand is a big travel mug or ceramic cup.  Faint steam leaks from the top and though I have never seen it I swear it has hot tea in it.

Sometimes, in this dream, there is a large dog frisking after me, leaping up and wagging his tail.  When the dog is in the dream, I let it rest its paws on my chest as I pat its head before getting him down.  It might be a Weimaraner or a Lab, not sure.

I can be seen making my way across the back lot.  Just before I reach the door to the barn or workshop, I turn to look back at the house.  My eyes lock onto the eyes of the person in the house.  I raise my hand to my cheek, which is two days' unshaven and still warm from the kiss it received before leaving the house.  I smile, deeply, warmly.  The person smiles back and waves.  I reciprocate and turn towards the barn.  It is usually then that the dream ends.

In the afterglow, those precious few moments in the doorway between sleep and wakefulness, I am overwhelmed with the feeling that I am home, I am happy...that I am loved, truly, deeply, unconditionally.

I was close to it, once, my home and hearth in the hills.  Now, I know I'm not.  I dreamed this dream last night.  Never has life and love seemed so clear as then, and never, ever have they seemed so far away.