With No Parachute

I never try to analyse my dreams, but for years I have had a re-occurring dream where I am falling, free falling, towards something obscure in the middle of the countryside field. In the dream I don’t possess a parachute and long before I reach the point of impact on the ground the emotions are so overwhelming I snap out of it, I wake up, usual shouting a garbled helpless sound.

It haunts me this dream, but I try to come to terms with this helplessness, along with the other existential fears I harbour, creativity. I recently composed an instrumental for the guitar called ‘Free Falling’. The guitar is my Bach flower remedy (groan). Seriously though if you suffer from anxiety or any other condition, I advise you to consult your Doctor first.

Anyway whilst camping under the stars last night the dream happened again. The sky opens and clouds evaporate and the ground comes closer and closer. The grip of feeling intensifies and it reaches the point that I can see the target. It’s a large tent, a Marquee getting bigger and bigger.

I hear voices coming from inside. They sound familiar, as if they are voices of people I’ve loved, some I’ve lost, throughout my life. All assembled under the most enormous canvas roof imaginable. The tent and I contact and I suddenly find myself cushioned. Wrapped up in a ball of arms, a sea of faces. I feel less anxious as I come towards the end of my decent. I have lost the fear that accompanied me in free falling only to find joy, an indescribable joy, waiting for me at the end of my decent.

In this final moment the tent disappears and everyone has gone. Except I see my daughter (older than she is now) sitting alone in a deck chair, smiling and looking up at the clouds, her face, rosy cheeks and wavy hair. Radiant she is and I am hovering over her looking into her bright blue eyes, her mother’s eyes, and know that I will always look over her with this feeling of joy.

Though I have tears, my tears are a happiness to find her safe, content and smiling. I call her name and stroke her face and tell her that I love her, and that she is eternally beautiful both inside and out.

I must tell about this dream some day. And I must tell her every day, that I love her, like I’m falling from the sky with no parachute.


By 67paintings

A dialectical site of poetry, painting and the odd musical excursion into the unknown.

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