Dreams are Our Brains on Vacation

I’ve had some wild dreams lately.

Sharing one’s very personal dreams in a very public forum such as a blog might make some feel a bit vulnerable, but I’ve always looked at dreams as our brain going on vacation while our body needs it’s rest, and what happens on vacation is out of our control. Unless it’s a horrible nightmare where you’re killing the neighbor’s cat with a weed eater (not one of my dreams, thankfully), enjoy it, no matter how weird things get.

That’s why when I was sitting on Elton John’s lap the other night, I wasn’t the least bit ashamed. Okay, maybe a little, but it was just a dream. It was very involved and very detailed. My wife and I had been invited to a posh Christmas party, and Elton was there, banging out a rousing rendition of “Buh Buh Buh Bennie and The Jets” on a piano in the corner. He finished the song and swiveled around with a smile. The whole crowd knew it was time for Elton to play Santa Claus. (This is how dreams work for me, like I’m wandering onto a movie set, the scene already in progress.)

So, after some goading, I found myself in line to tell Santa Elton what I wanted for Christmas, which was a Rickenbacker guitar (true). Elton bellowed his best Santa laugh, and I hopped off to make way for another guest, who just happened to be Elliot Gould. Behind him stood Jessica Lange and a grade school friend, Buddy John Shakely, who actually looked more like Peter Frampton. (I don’t make the rules. I just enjoy the ride.)

After I woke up, I felt like I was still at the party. The energy in the room was still there, the chatter of the crowd still echoed in my head. And I can now say that I know how it feels to sit on Elton John’s lap – without having to actually do so! All sexual innuendo aside (I knew you were going there!), I think that’s pretty cool.

I felt the same way last night as I was getting guitar lessons from Keith Richards. It’s only been a few hours, so I can still feel the whole thing, even smell it. (Coffee, cigarettes, a little body odor and the hint of an expensive cologne, probably from Europe. Just what you think Keith Richards might smell like.) His large, arthritic hands played riffs now deeply archived into our brains from songs like “Satisfaction” and “Brown Sugar.” I was like a kid, watching, soaking it in. I can honestly say the sensation of being there was no more real than if it had actually happened in real life – maybe even more so. Dreams are strange that way. They employ all our senses. We hear it, feel it, see it, smell it, taste it.

And there was nothing unpleasant like what usually happens when I meet famous people. There was no insecurity on my side, and no ego or arrogance on theirs. We were just guys, all sharing the same turf of my dream.

And it makes me wonder why real life can’t be that way. Insecurity is not a part of dream life for me. It used to be I guess, when I was a kid and dreamed night after night that I was naked among a classroom of my clothed school mates. I don’t know what made me more anxious: that I was naked, or that nobody seemed to notice. But that was the fear, that at any minute Becky Butler or Suzy Alexander was going to stand up and point at me and expose me to everyone as the one kid who showed up without his clothes. I felt that way growing up. Everyone had a clue but me. I was the only one who didn’t know what was going on.

Come to find out, I wasn’t the only one who felt that way, or had those dreams. There was an army of us. Even Becky Butler, the accuser in my dream, had similar dreams of her own. She told me so at a high school reunion. It wasn’t until I was in my mid thirties that my dreams changed. Once I felt more secure about who I was, my subconscious decided to let up a bit and give me a little peace.

My wife Polly dropped out of college shortly after we were married. She had changed majors a few times, and decided she’d just put it on a back burner for awhile. We raised our family and worked very hard, she at home with the kids, and me out there doing whatever I could to bring home the bacon, as it were. But for years, she had the dream that she was in class, totally unprepared for the test that was being handed out by a stern teacher. Or she’d dream she was walking the halls of a school somewhere having no idea where she was supposed to go. Our subconscious can be a strong, unrelenting voice.

Those dreams have stopped now. They've been gone for a few years. She replaced them with the very real event of going back to college. As she walked onto a stage last month at Middle Tennessee State University to get her diploma, I could see, almost as if it were a dream, all the years behind her in a glorious vapor of light and color, stepping into a new chapter of her life, a chapter void of the insecurities of unfinished business. What a wild ride it’s been, and what a privilege it is to watch so intimately the course of someone else's journey.

Here's to all of us putting those insecure dreams behind us.
In the meantime, I'll be sitting on the laps of whoever may walk through my dreams – and enjoying it.