A Dream I’m Still Listening To

This weekend, I’m helping facilitate a dream work retreat. It’s a safe space where stories from the night are honored as sacred texts in our lives. As I prepare, I’ve found myself paying closer attention to my own dreams, listening to the ones that linger. One in particular keeps tugging at me, vivid and strange. It begins in a field I know by heart…

I am at my grandfather’s farm, the field I once ran through barefoot and wild. I was ten years old again. Everything felt both real and unreal. It was like a memory embedded with a profound message. What follows is the dream as I remember it:

I am ten years old again, walking through the front field of my grandfather’s 18-acre farm—the place I grew up. The grass brushes my legs as I follow a black cat weaving through the tall blades. Behind us, a golden retriever trails quietly. I glance back. The dog is still golden, but smaller now—like a golden doodle. I walk a little farther and look again. It’s changed again, now a golden cocker spaniel.

We’re nearing the edge of the field when a red car turns into the long gravel driveway. My grandmother’s voice calls out urgently, telling me to come inside. I run toward the house. Suddenly, I’m at the basement level, and she’s ushering me in quickly, just before the strangers arrive. We close the door just in time.

She opens an inner door, and we descend even further—into a lower basement I’ve never seen before. The people from the car are knocking. I peek through a small window. Three have exited the vehicle. A man and a woman circle the house. One man stands at the door.

My grandmother leads me into a quiet room. There’s a plain white couch and loveseat. Across from us sits a boxy 1980s-style TV. She’s crocheting a purple quilt, her hands moving steadily. She talks to me, but I can’t quite focus on her words. I know I’m dreaming. I know she’s gone. But I’m just so glad to see her again.

I woke up with the feeling that she was trying to tell me something important. I can’t remember what it was. I carry the ache of that missing message, wondering what I missed.

My grandmother had spoken to me, and though I couldn’t recall her words, I felt their weight. Maybe the message wasn’t meant to be remembered, but received. Maybe her presence was the gift.

I carry the dream with me now. But it made me wonder if others have had this experience. Have you ever dreamed of someone you’ve lost and felt, for a moment, that they were still with you? Did they carry a message?

A newsletter by Katie Rea.