Recurring Dream

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Last night I had one of those dreams that I know I’ve had many times before, and as always, I woke up just feeling…right about it. I wish I had a better word, but that’s the one that resonates with how I felt.

In my dream, I travel along this long, winding road to Schulkyll Haven, PA (I’ve only ever been there once, so I can’t tell you for certain whether or not the particular house in my dream actually exists or not—maybe I need to scout around Google Maps or realtor.com). I had someone with me this time, and for some reason I feel it was Rupert Young (Sir Leon in Merlin—how odd).

Anyway, we’re traveling along this road and come in to Schulkyll Haven, and the roads are all hilly, and the way the houses are situated reminds me of the streets of San Francisco, another place I’ve never been. We come around a bend on the main street, and we stop at a corner, in view of a huge brick Victorian house (yes, the house is always Victorian). The really weird thing is that at this point I realize I am dreaming, and I tell Rupert that this is the house I always seem to dream about. It’s always in the same town, always on the same road, and always has the same feel when I go inside.

We continue on the road, walking now, and go inside the house. The atmosphere is very welcoming, as though the house recognizes me and is glad I’m home. Even sitting here typing this, I can still smell the somewhat-musty old-house smell of plaster, old wallpaper, and wood, and it is comforting. Even in the dream, I told myself, “Of course the house remembers you; you’ve been here so many times before, in so many dreams before.”

Nothing major ever happens in these dreams. There is never any real action, beyond me traveling along this familiar road—although there is sometimes an alternate route that I take—to this same house. I usually go inside the house and walk around a bit, but I never stay for very long. It may be a strange dream, a boring dream, but I love it. I love traveling that road and visiting that house. I love the feeling I get while I’m inside that house, and I wish I could locate it and visit it in real life.

I’m not much of a believer in reincarnation. I love the idea of it, and I love reading and writing stories that involve past lives, but it’s not an accepted part of my belief system. Still, things like this always make me wonder if there’s not a part of my soul that has seen things from other times, other places. And it’s that kind of wonder that makes me write.

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