Unlock The Power Of Dreams And Make Life Clearer

Unlock the power of dreams. I really believe that we can be so caught up in the stress of day to day living that we lose touch with the part of our souls that exists to wonder and dream. You can see it in someone’s eyes as life becomes a chore instead of a marvelous journey.

One of the easiest ways to get this sense of wonder back is to keep a dream journal. Put a journal or notebook next to your bed along with something to write with. When you wake up in the morning or in the middle of the night, before you get out of bed write down whatever you dreamed the night before. The first couple nights the answer might be nothing. But I guarantee it won’t take long until you are looking forward to the mysteries your mind’s eye holds for that evening.

Some will scare you. Some will challenge you. Some will make absolutely no sense. Write them all down and I promise they will compel you to either make life a journey again, or provide insight into the journey you are already on. If you suffer from horrible vivid dreams, writing them down and analyzing them can help you learn from and control them. They are your dreams, take ownership of them and change them from fear to something you look forward to and learn from. The power of dreams is something we can use to make life clearer and better.

Take this challenge, try writing down your dreams for two weeks and see what happens. I’d love to hear back how it works out for you. Also, here is a fun website for interpreting your dreams: www.dreammoods.com.

The great dream pioneer Carl Jung said,

“Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart …”

Keeping a journal of your dreams will help you look into your heart. And as you focus, they will become clear.

For a look into my heart at a very dark period of my life, here is an excerpt from my book Who Am I?. Who Am I? had its beginning when I examined my own dreams while fighting to overcome severe PTSD.

Who Am I? is written like a fantastic journey by a character I call Samuel. Welcome to my dreams!

From Who Am I? by Silouan Green:

The Lady of the Lake’s hand rises high from the water as I enter a rotting rowboat dying on the lake’s shore. Miraculously, it floats, and I begin rowing towards her. Although I can only see her arm, she is hypnotic. The silken skin of her wrist glows soft and delicate, her fingers long, thin, and ageless like an alabaster sculpture. Blowing with the wind in a rhythm of ripples and soft waves, a light blue sleeve adorns her arm.

Rowing feverishly, sweat begins to collect heavy and thick on my brow. I seem to be moving steadily, but I draw no closer to her.

Anxiousness quickens my pace, and the Lady answers my exertion by opening her hand with the grace of a flowing wave. In her palm appears a thick, black book. Remarkably, although I still must be twenty yards from her, I can see the lettering on the spine. My name, SAMUEL, is written in bold red letters.

“What is that?” I wonder as I row even faster.

Sweating profusely with every muscle in my body aching, the lure of her hand and my curiosity to examine the book increase my strength – strength that builds as the skies around me darken, and a gale blasts fiercely across the water. Storm clouds invade, sweeping in like enormous ghosts. They blacken the sky and the temperature plummets, causing my skin to sprout enormous goose pimples.

Dimly, masked by the rustling of leaves from the swaying trees surrounding the lake, I hear a faint voice calling me to shore:

“Do not continue. The Lady is death. The Lady is death.”

But I can’t stop; she must be good and beautiful. And besides, I’m gradually drawing closer. I will reach her.

The storm continues to build. In the forested hills surrounding the lake, whirling tornadoes thoughtlessly tear trees from the earth and then toss them like balsa toothpicks. All of this destruction fills the air with the debris of nature: earth, animals, and anything else in its destructive path.

Mercilessly, the storm increases its fury. Above the lake, funnel clouds reach for the sky in turbulent, aquatic dervishes. Fish struggle to swim from the vertical current carrying them away, but their frantic attempts to dive back into the water are futile. None escape. All are carried away into the dark, swirling whirlpool above.

“Noo…!!” I scream.

Desperate and as exhausted as those fish must feel, the lady seems so far away. I have moved perhaps fifty yards since I began, but that was in calm waters. Till now the storm has steered clear of me, but between myself and the lady is bedlam, and it is a bedlam that I am not quite ready to face. I rest, laying the oak handles in my lap as I bend over to take a few deep breaths.

Before I am able to stop panting, I am jerked to attention by a stiff wind that peppers my face with water spray, stinging my skin like BBs. Energized, I begin to paddle again, determined to reach the lady. I cannot be stopped.

But my confidence is short-lived. Glancing down into the boat, I discover that the rotten wood floor is now leaking. I try to scoop the flood out with my hand, but it is futile. Water is pouring in faster than I can bail. Afraid and confused, I begin to long for the solid ground of shore. It can’t be that far away. I am sure of it. Fatefully, I decide to row back, but as I turn the boat around, water pours in even faster. Over the sides and up from the holes in the bottom, water fouls my rickety craft like a relentless demon spitting the whole of the Colorado River.

Desperate for hope, I glance back at the Lady, only to see her arm descending into the water. My name can no longer be seen on the binder, although both the Lady and the book seem much closer than before.

They’re only a few feet away!
My god, what have I done?
How, how did I draw so close?

My whole being screams, pleading with me not to return to shore. It wants the lady; it wants the book.

“God, I must have them!” Abruptly, I stop rowing and lunge toward the Lady’s hand. She is so close.

As I rise from the boat, a deafening roar forces me to hesitate. It is a furious, metallic crescendo like that of a locomotive. Looking up, I see a funnel of stirring air almost fifty feet wide. I am terrified, but before I can scream it descends upon me, snatching me from the boat like a rag doll. As I’m hurled skyward to meet the storm, I remember anguished words from a cross on Golgotha:

“My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

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