tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86768002765967260732024-03-12T19:12:19.092-07:00a thousand threadsa collection of dream stories from over 35 dreamers.betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-57725426610296307022011-09-06T21:40:00.000-07:002011-09-06T21:40:43.996-07:00Tiny Threads<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gMmgzXq6xU0/Tmb1l3BfT8I/AAAAAAAAAK0/H2sWdcZ7g2U/s1600/blhall_tiny_threads_2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gMmgzXq6xU0/Tmb1l3BfT8I/AAAAAAAAAK0/H2sWdcZ7g2U/s320/blhall_tiny_threads_2011.jpg" width="274" /></a></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-21763355881112776882011-09-06T21:24:00.000-07:002011-09-06T21:29:10.083-07:00Many Thanks<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Special thanks to all the dream contributors:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Edith Abeyta, Carol Ann, Slater Barron, Cheryl Bennett, Dara Brady, Jack Chipman, Margie Darrow, Darlene DeAngelo, Marta Deffenbaugh, Don Dolan, Gabrielle Dorr, Tom Dowling, Trisha Drew, Richard Hall, Paula Isenberg, Lili Khanmalek, Stephanie Klein, Carolyn Liesy, Jason Lipeles, Drew Lohrer, Jane Lohrer, Rick Lohrer, Ruth Lohrer, Steve Marr, Lynne Mori, Gretchen Potts, Sue Ann Robinson, Joanna Roche, Don Schallau, Jean Shriver, Elena Mary Siff, Morag Stokes, Karen Frimkess Wolff, JEN ZEN (aka Jen Grey), and several anonymous dreamers... </span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">and to Stephanie Klein for editing and sequencing of the stories. </span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-20928347761315812482011-02-17T23:55:00.001-08:002011-02-17T23:55:59.765-08:00Anonymous - Walking Together<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">We recently returned from a visit to Kennebunkport, Maine, so I suppose that is why my dream two nights ago (October 20) at home in Southern California was set in the New England countryside. The actors in the dream were a young man and a young woman, walking together through a beautiful fall landscape and climbing a hill in an attempt to reach a sprawling wooden inn replete with gables and mystery. They were engaged in a quest, frustrating but not frightening, and taking place entirely in daylight. My dream had no resolution. The inn they sought was entirely visible throughout yet unreachable. And the dream repeated itself even after I awoke briefly and returned to sleep. I'd like to revisit that place to see what happens!!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
Anonymous</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-79311290021093142872011-02-17T23:54:00.001-08:002011-02-17T23:54:49.645-08:00Betsy Lohrer Hall - Very Tan Skin<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I look in the mirror and I am amazed to discover that while I have a section of long hair immediately bordering my forehead, around my face, I have a large bald spot on most of the top of my head. Not only that, the skin up there is very tan and somewhat wrinkled at the edges. It becomes clear to me - suddenly - that I’ve been living with female pattern baldness for what must be quite some time without even realizing it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">blh</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">October 28, 2010</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-85577291026988831002011-02-17T23:53:00.000-08:002011-02-17T23:53:48.473-08:00Carol Ann - Fuselage<div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I had a nightmare last night that I was standing at a second story window watching a plane come apart on take-off, and while I was steeling myself to go outside and help the survivors, a huge chunk of the fuselage came spinning towards the building I was in.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Carol Ann</span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-23426849472698604262011-02-17T23:52:00.000-08:002011-02-18T00:04:12.859-08:00Jason L - The Walking Painting<div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, there was this very strange portion of my dream where I was leaning on a large fence with some friends at a baseball diamond. It was one of those very tall fences and our weight made the fence sag behind us. We were watching high school baseball try-outs. Of course, my old high school track coach was there and I said hi to him. Different people were throwing the ball around and then this one guy came out and the track coach thought that he might actually be pretty good. He had legs but his whole upper body and head were confined to a huge oil painting in a gilded frame. He could move his hands and his face popped out of the painting, but he looked like a walking painting. I never thought of him as a painting though- he was a child who happened to be stuck in a painting. I thought perhaps that his parents were very conservative and this was some sort of religious ritual. Apparently, he was a pretty good pitcher. When one of the coaches came up to tell him what he was doing wrong he started to cry and the coach said that he made the team as a pitcher. I remember thinking that he would have made a good catcher because he would easily block wild pitches with that large upper "body." The painting was at first of a very traditional sort of Rembrandt portrait. Then, later by the end of this segment, I remember thinking it was strange that he was on the body of some sort of distraught maid.<br />
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Also, in the dream I was in an art studio and then walking around with my siblings looking at different houses. At first we were going to toilet paper them and then we just decided to look at them. I wanted to write a letter to the people and slip it under there doors. But, my sister-in-law was slightly opposed.<br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jason L</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">New year’s eve, 2011</span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-53915359973884659322011-02-17T23:50:00.001-08:002011-02-17T23:50:35.823-08:00Betsy Lohrer Hall - Singing Several Notes at Once<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I dreamt that my friend Sky could sing several notes at once – as if all the facets of her inner life each had a beautiful female singing voice and they were singing together in perfect harmony… many voices emerging from her one mouth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">blh</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 11pt;"></span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-9064917494666952642011-02-17T23:49:00.000-08:002011-02-17T23:49:35.370-08:00Joanna Roche - The Wedding Envelope<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the dream, my mother was central. She was organizing a wedding—for me—but I was busy at work and I arrived very late, as the few guests who had remained were leaving. I greeted those I knew by name, but it was clear I had blown it and they were embarrassed (themselves and for me, I felt). There was no groom at the space where the event was, and I wasn’t sure exactly who (or where) he was…. I saw several people to their car, and when I realized my mother was not among them, I asked the people leaving (who were carrying a lot of things—almost like they were moving—they had carts and coats and seemed very burdened by all the items they were carrying): “Where is my mother?” “She is back at the hall, straightening the chairs,” they told me. “Then I will go there to help her,” I replied. I returned to the place—and remembered the front of it as a large, Spanish style (?) entrance with an interesting façade and shallow steps leading up to a larger building, it felt formal, like an old hotel or even a museum entrance way. I believe (though I don’t remember) finding her there. I think we may have embraced and spoken, but I am not sure—I didn’t I bereft or awful when I woke up or in the dream, so probably I found her or we communicated somehow.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">As I wrote up the dream for you, I remembered an earlier part: before the guests left, when I had first arrived, and went into a smaller room, where gifts or other items were located (storage or coats or something, it was small and had lots of stuff in it). I remember picking up and opening an elaborate, very large, cream-colored envelope (several feet in size) that was for me, as the bride (I assume). It was flat, like a super elaborate Hallmark card, but unfolded into a cardboard archway (kind of like a pop up book, but bigger than a book). It was, it stated or I knew, an archway for the bride and groom to walk through and down (it was a passageway, not just an arch). It said on the card that it (the card/experience) was supposed to “smell like autumn,” and had images of orange and yellow leaves on the front. I tried to enter it, but could barely fit in my head and shoulders—I remember feeling like Alice in Wonderland after her “Drink Me” episode where she was too big for the room! I thought to myself at the time, “Two people could never both fit here, or walk through it!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Joanna Roche</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">October 30, 2010 </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">at my home in Southern California</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 11pt;"></span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-85702259952512036112011-02-17T23:47:00.000-08:002011-02-17T23:47:06.018-08:00Tom Dowling - A River of Milk<style>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Swimming upstream in a river of milk with 2 fully grown tigers on either side of me.<br />
Companions on a shared journey.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
Tom Dowling</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">October 28, 2010</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-75384066593630652472011-02-17T23:46:00.000-08:002011-02-17T23:46:04.804-08:00Cheryl - Leaving<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I had a dream last night about someone leaving me for someone else. I manufactured a way to still go home with them. I was crying and said to them, “I am afraid that I will keep doing this,” meaning not letting them go and figuring out how to spend more time with them. They said, “No you won’t….I won’t let you.” At first I thought they had confidence in me being stronger than that (continuing to hold on) and then I heard the second part of their sentence and realized they really were going to leave me, that <i>they</i> wouldn’t allow this to go on.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Cheryl </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Long Beach, CA</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">October 30, 2010</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">In my own bed</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-62109859519379735802011-02-17T23:44:00.000-08:002011-02-17T23:44:16.158-08:00Anonymous - Being Dumped Into The Void<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">As a child, in Chatham, NJ, I had a recurring nightmare: I dreamt that I was tied to a parking meter on a conveyor belt which gradually "dumped" us into a void!<br />
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I think that this dream started as I was in my bed looking up at the ceiling where there was a long crack. Somehow that turned into the dream!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">anonymous</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">December 11, 2010</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-61322877687686413492011-02-17T23:42:00.000-08:002011-02-17T23:42:50.770-08:00Jen Zen - Sweet Dream for Romi<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sweet dream for Romi...</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I knew he watched me -- black eyes ringed with blue, incandescent in the dark, mine reflecting amber gold, harvest moon and honey. He was humming love songs, his thoughts a fuzzy blur. I felt his breath, and heard the smell of wind, surf pounding on the beach far away, sinking in the heartbeat through his skin everywhere we touched. His smell familiar and soft as through a freshly laundered cotton shirt, crisply pressed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">I awoke and floated as a purring cat curled small and tender on his tummy, breathing long and easy, fur thick and plushy against his tawny skin, a buoyant leather drum, warm and resilient, suspended now dropping, heavy as an oval stone of smooth grey granite carried by waves in space and time, cinnamon grey tiger stripes spinning in the dark. He caressed my head absently, twirling fingers round my furry ears, round and round and round again, rubbing exactly right... so I purred louder not to stop, warm and happy all the way through, adrift in serenity.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">JEN ZEN (aka Jen Grey)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">October 31, 2010</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-26139742088857005212011-02-17T23:40:00.000-08:002011-02-17T23:41:04.569-08:00Rick Lohrer - Curious Companion<div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I woke up in the middle of the night thinking I was in bed with an alligator….and the skin on its belly was soft and smooth. Go Freud go!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rick Lohrer</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">December 21, 2010</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Block Island, Rhode Island</span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-48511144895624148642011-02-17T23:38:00.000-08:002011-02-17T23:38:44.659-08:00Cheryl Bennett - Runaway Train<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Somehow I ended up as the engineer of a runaway railroad train. The engineer wasn’t there and I had no knowledge of how to run a train. The tracks for this train went across the ocean and were even slightly submerged under the sea water. The waves were very rough. I sat in the engineer’s car which was actually more like being in a luxury cruise ship captain’s chambers. His seat looked out onto the tracks ahead. We were going at a fast pace but we stayed on the tracks. I finally found a ship-to-shore communication device. I kept leaving messages about my situation, always keeping a calm voice but no one was calling me back.<br />
<br />
At one point men were working on the tracks and assumed I would stop but I couldn’t. I heard the train hit two of them and they were bumped into the ocean.<br />
<br />
At one point, a woman told me that someone had left me a 20 minute message of how to stop the train when we got to our designation, which was my big concern all along. I don’t know why I could hear her but not the message but I didn’t know how to retrieve it. <br />
<br />
Somehow I came to the knowledge that the train had fallen off the tracks. I think I could see that we were total engulfed in ocean water through the windows and that we were sinking downward. That didn’t seem right to me as we weren’t filling up with water.<br />
<br />
Then I noticed through the video image of our train, which now looked more like an oval with points (kinda like the Beatles “Yellow Submarine” but not so fancy), that we had fallen off the tracks. BUT there was a rope in view that someone was trying to lasso the vessel with. It finally caught and was pulling us.<br />
<br />
At this point I knew I needed to talk to the passengers. I had to confide in one person to help me locate the intercom, so I left the captain’s quarters. The first room I came to had about six people playing handball. I asked for help and a 30-something man offered. He came with me. Getting to him had been straight-forward: out of my cabin, into the hall and into the big room (athletic room). Once we were walking back into my cabin it was if we were in an emergency room.<span> </span>We had to keep walking past nurses and I had to shut a curtain to privately talk with him but then somehow we were in the captain’s quarters again and all that was shut out.<br />
<br />
The intercom wasn’t where I had been sitting with all the equipment. It was built into a round table in the middle of the room. It was just a black faceplate where one part was a circle with holes. I saw us go by icebergs and asked someone on the mike if we were in Alaska.<br />
<br />
As we were getting off what had now become a cruise ship, I remarked to someone that this is why I never wanted to take a cruise; I was always worried about drowning.<br />
<br />
As I got off, no one knew who I was, which felt a little empty. Off to the right of the indoor hallway ramp (kinda like at the Los Angeles Airport where you walk up a carpeted ramp to get to some of the terminals), I noticed a body covered in a sheet and thought, “I didn’t know anyone had died because of this experience.” But before I could think anything else, there was a young black boy on a stretcher with an IV and oxygen. He was next to the body. I knelt by him and asked if he okay. He said he was. Still kneeling I turned away from him and started crying.<br />
<br />
I then told whoever I was walking with that I would have to go visit the wives of the two men I had bumped into the ocean. In the dream I think I was saying it because it cast me in the “right light” to do it, not because I was moved to the point of feeling I needed to help the wives feel better.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Cheryl Bennett</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-17010592760508452682011-02-17T23:36:00.000-08:002011-02-17T23:36:44.987-08:00Betsy Lohrer Hall - A Long Way From Where I Aimed For<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I went to Holly’s apartment for a visit. (In my waking life, she lives less than a block away from where I live in Long Beach.)<span> </span>It was a large building with a narrow corridor leading from the lobby to an elevator. The hallway and corridor were very dark. It was daylight outside, but it became night in the building. There was a doorman in the elevator (and the elevator was much larger than the one that is actually in her building). All of us in the elevator were whisked up quickly to another level of the building and placed straight onto a conveyor that took us to Seal Beach, several miles away. Seal Beach looked much like a fun zone, something like Coney Island or Balboa. I tried to call Holly, but my phone wouldn’t work. I was more than two hours late at this point, and had no way to reach her to let her know where I was.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Note: the morning after I had this dream I spoke with Holly on the phone. She said she’d tried to call me the night before, but the call wouldn’t go through.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Betsy Lohrer Hall</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-55181487905756808432011-02-17T23:35:00.001-08:002011-02-17T23:35:15.372-08:00Gretchen Potts - Playdates in Canada<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I had a dream last night that our good friends, who have a little boy that is best friends with our son, moved to Canada. We had to commute to do playdate every other weekend because the boys were so upset.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Gretchen Potts</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">October 24, 2010</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-16687445956804833902011-02-17T23:34:00.001-08:002011-02-17T23:34:18.558-08:00Marta Deffenbaugh - One Big Fat Cow<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">There was a large beautiful boat, at the edge of the water and I was trying to shoo one big fat cow on that boat. The cow was almost as big as the boat.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Then, I woke up.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Marta Deffenbaugh</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">October 23, 2010</span></span><b><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></b></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-21684120455089964412011-02-17T23:33:00.000-08:002011-02-17T23:33:14.153-08:00Anonymous - Water Runs Between Us<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">We are near the Hollywood sign around sundown and the glow from the city and from the sign light the sky. As we walk toward the sign, we see a first trail that leads from LACMA, and a second trail that comes from over in West Hollywood. There are canals/streams with water running and grasses and trees and we see a cross-dresser on the far side of the canal. We keep going. I’m with a beautiful young African American woman I don’t know, though it could be Sandra. Then I find myself at a yoga conference/social party. I’ve gained enough success and notoriety that people recognize me and know my name. They don’t approach me directly, but one server tells me they know who I am.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am doing yoga. We’re in a very interesting place, part shopping mall, part county fair. When I do certain yoga poses I start to spin and twirl in the air and I can’t stop. I’ll stop momentarily in a handstand, balanced on a railing or a chair, and then roll and transition into other poses.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">A man is snuggling me and kissing my neck. He’s married. I’m feeling turned on, but I don’t want things to go any further. Somehow I wriggle away and go on spinning and landing in yoga postures. I pass a pen – literally like a livestock pen – with a metal fence and there are many people practicing various poses. Someone asks me to be her academic advisor but in the back of my mind I know I’m not qualified.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I wake up with my arms over my head. My husband is getting out of bed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">anonymous</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-73738361315616795082011-02-17T23:31:00.000-08:002011-02-17T23:31:27.211-08:00Anonymous - Newly Discovered Rooms<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I regularly dream of large, run-down houses with rambling interiors. In the dream I’m often discovering a forgotten room or rooms which have been unused and neglected. I always have a need for the space in these newly discovered rooms, but am faced with a cleaning/clearing/rearranging job before I can use it. Interestingly, the houses are usually period properties – Victorian, Edwardian, and recently a 1950’s sort of place. They’re always very different places from anywhere I’ve ever lived – furnished as though there has been considerable wealth, but now are very shabby and worn. The detail I see as I survey these dream places is often phenomenal and I wake up thinking how could I possibly have had that kind of highly specific detail in my head, as I often see things that I have no memory of ever seeing in my life, but which seem totally compatible with the period. Sometimes I’m aware that I’m dreaming and have a degree of conscious control of the dream.<span> </span>(It seems like that to me, anyway.) When this happens I get rather excited in the dream and will often move in and out of rooms quite quickly to take in as much of their fantastical detail as possible. This awareness never lasts long, though, because I always try to assume too much control of the dream and it brings me out of the dream state -- always such a bummer!!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> anonymous</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-55344635466830422782011-02-17T23:29:00.000-08:002011-02-17T23:29:45.218-08:00Paula Isenberg - Tiny Threads<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">In this dream my son had just completed an art project for a fibers class by combining many sculptural baskets together. He was ranting with frustration because he didn't like the way he had joined the baskets and he didn't have time to take it apart and re-design it. Suddenly my sister, cousins and nieces came into the room and started the tedious process of undoing thousands of tiny threads. (This part featured each relative working.) When my son returned he was delighted to find that it was ready to re-construct. [P.S. - All these women were just here for his wedding.]</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
For years I've had recurring dreams about wandering through houses and finding new and wonderful rooms. Sometimes the new house is mine; other times it's someone else’s house.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Paula Isenberg</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Wednesday night, October 27, 2010</span></span><b><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></b></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-3984229939716617902011-02-17T23:27:00.001-08:002011-02-17T23:28:25.600-08:00Cheryl Bennett - Traveling Without A Ticket<div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Traveling with a group of people. Time to go home and they get ahead of me in line. I have to catch up to them because I don't even know what airline we are going home on. I am afraid people will think I'm taking cuts but then I realize a lot of people are standing off on the side of the line talking so no one will think I'm taking cuts. When I catch up to everyone and we are nearing the point of boarding the plane, I realize I have nothing with me. No ticket. No driver's license. Someone in my group says not to tell them I lost it but to say I never had ID. I am worried I won't think of all the answers to all their questions if I lie about that. I go up to the counter and the agent is a sympathetic black woman. I burst into tears and tell her that when I was in England someone stole my purse with all my money and ID. She tells me not to worry; that is why they digitalize everything. I am trying to remember my driver's license number but can only think of the first three digits for sure, just like in real life. I sorta think I know some of the other digits. She needs to know what flight number and airline. I ask Dwight for his ticket (he wasn't in the dream up until this point). I am surprised he lets me have it as he is usually worried I will lose it or do something wrong with it. Then I wake up.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Cheryl Bennett</span></div><div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">December 15, 2010</span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-9613692226544823982011-02-17T23:25:00.000-08:002011-02-17T23:25:55.079-08:00Betsy Lohrer Hall - Out Into The Storm<div style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am a man somewhat older (in real life I’m a woman in my 40s). I am in a beachside town and there is a storm coming. It’s a major storm which they anticipate will wash most of the shoreline beach and buildings into the ocean. I’m not prepared. My coat isn’t waterproof and because of my beard and the extra blanket that I have wrapped around me, people think I may be homeless. It’s an affluent neighborhood. They want me to MOVE ON. I stop into a beauty salon to get one last haircut and a new dress (?). They are packing to leave, but give me the address of another location on higher ground. They send me out in the gathering rain with peanuts and unpopped popcorn kernels in the big pockets of my coat.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">blh</span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-50197702781341408392011-02-17T23:23:00.000-08:002011-02-17T23:23:43.118-08:00Carolyn Liesy - Soaring<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am hovering over a valley -- a very lush, green valley in the alps, or a view from an airplane. I spread my arms out in a V and clasp my hands in front of me and soar through and around the valley. It is a peaceful experience.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Carolyn Liesy</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">October 28, 2010</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-243779765565447582011-02-17T23:20:00.000-08:002011-02-18T00:05:43.579-08:00Darlene DeAngelo - A Dog Named KIRKA<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was very vivid and about having a new dog. The dog was a puppy, but he was the size of a German shepherd, mostly black and tan, but had floppy ears like a cocker spaniel. His name was KIRKA, and I was walking him all over Europe – well, European cities I have visited. I seemed to magically go from Venice, to Paris, to Vienna, to London. People would stop me and ask me his name – he was a very friendly dog – and I would spell out K-I-R-K-A.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I had the dream two nights ago, November 16<sup>th</sup>, while house-sitting/dog-sitting for a friend in Huntington Beach, CA.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Darlene DeAngelo</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676800276596726073.post-75580956324603653762011-02-17T23:18:00.000-08:002011-02-18T00:06:05.165-08:00Margie Darrow - Animals Larger Than Normal<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">I traveled with my old friend Tig to her “job.” She was on team that did research on a natural preserve which was located on an island in the Caribbean, but it looked more like Northern California. It was this beautiful point and ocean cove where waves crashed up against rocks. The cove was cliffs surrounded by this green grassy knoll up on a hill. Tig had to inform all her co-workers that they had lost funding and the research was going to be disbanded, so we were meeting with her co-workers to tell them. The office was located in a white colonial building on the grassy knoll. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% lime;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">After that, we sat on a bench overlooking the cove and watched the abundance of wildlife, which was EXTREME. It was almost prehistoric. The animals were larger than normal. As I looked at the water in the cove I could see fins of huge sharks and sea life, and huge birds flying across the cove and landing on the rocks. Animals would jump out of the water. There was all this activity. It was fascinating.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Meanwhile, as we sat on the hill, some people appeared with a few life-size beeswax animal sculptures (like the ones from the machine at the zoo), but they smelled good so I knew it was beeswax. I remember a blue giraffe.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Then a woman came by walking the most beautiful specimen I had ever seen of hippo. It was shiny and pale coral and brown. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Margie Darrow</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Long Beach, California- in my bedroom</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">October 1, 2010</span></div>betsy lohrer hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07069155531201172190noreply@blogger.com0