Have you ever incubated a dream? That’s what I was doing when I decided to sleep on the decision about attending the Tarot Readers’ Studio in Newark.
Incubating a dream is when you come up with a question or issue about which you seek clarity and then take the question into your dream state.
In my case, I asked myself (and my unconscious) whether spending the money on this endeavor was the right thing for me now.
The second step can be done in several ways. For example, some people re-read their question throughout the day, meditate on it, even stash the written copy under the pillow.
I asked the question before I went to sleep and then in the early morning I had a dream: Someone was handing me a card from the Broyard deck. Now, to my knowledge, there is noBroyard deck, but there clearly was one in my dream.
The woman who owned this rare and expensive card is actually going broke in real life.
But somehow she’d managed, not only to keep herself afloat, but also to attend the conference.
Though I had no idea who Broyard was, I took this to mean, “Yes, spend the money, the trip will be valuable. You’ll bring back knowledge to offer others as well as yourself.”
Is this a co-dependent’s dream, making sure the knowledge will be shared? Who knows? Sharing knowledge is part of my nature.
Broyard sounded French, and when I finally remembered to google him I expected to find a French artist.
What I actually found:
Anatole Broyard, was a literary critic for the New York Times, a man who while he was alive hid his African American background.
(Is going to the Tarot Studio some kind of recognition of my roots?)
Born in New Orleans, he moved with his family to Brooklyn. In 1947 he re-located to Greenwich Village. He later wrote a memoir about it called Kafka Was All the Rage.
Random House describes him as a “dapper, earnest, fledgling, avant-gardist, intoxicated by books.)
I can now re-label my bookaholism as intoxicated by books. Certainly sounds more lyrical and glamorous, as if following the piped piper to some unknown destination. (Although, wasn’t the pied piper actually doing something hurtful or bizarre?)
As I was writing this, and thinking about the name Anatole, it occurred to me that he may have been the teacher who helped launch my aunt’s sister (Hilma Wolitzer) on her literary career some 35 years ago.
It turns out he was!
So, what was he doing in my dream? Who inside me even knew he existed?
Synchronistically, as I was composing this article, I also came upon a tarot deck idea that a friend and I never completed and I had somehow forgotten. The idea still intrigues me.
Isn’t it funny what we forget? For instance, I don’t remember ever hearing of Broyard.
Dreams are a time to let down our guard. Sleep comes in as it will and all the separate parts of ourselves merge with places, beings and things. Stories are devised, metaphors and symbols for our lives.
Jung said not deciphering a dream was like leaving a letter from God unopened.
If you think you don’t dream, you do. If you didn’t, you’d become psychotic. If you think you can’t remember, well you can. In fact, maybe it’s time for me to set up another dream class.
To commemorate my dream, I signed up for the Readers’ Studio, and will be in Newark from April 28th- May 3rd.
I also read two of Broyard’s books. He truly was a witty and urbane writer. I particularly likedIntoxicated by My Illness. This was his memoir about colon cancer.
Coincidentally, while contemplating my trip, I discovered that longtime friend, and friend of the newsletters, Allan McCollum, will have his work in a show at the Metropolitan Museum during that time, so there will definitely be a quick trip into New York City. (Where I have not been in at least 20 years.)
Maybe you didn’t know this, but many inventions were completed because of dreams. For example, stalled in his creation of the sewing machine, Elias Howe dreamt that primitive people were stabbing him with spears.
He realized their spears were full of holes, and thus he had the answer to the insoluble problem of how to thread the needle of his new invention.
In 1816, 19-year-old Mary Shelley listened long into the night as the famous poets, Byron and Shelley continued their discussion about the possibilities of re-galvanizing a body.
Mary Shelley laid down to rest.
“I did not sleep,” she said, “Nor could I be said to think. My imagination, unbidden, possessed and guided me, gifting the successive images that arose in my mind with a vividness far beyond the usual bounds of reverie. I saw — with shut eyes, but acute mental vision, — [a pale] student of the unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together.” And thus was born the tale of Dr. Frankenstein.
There are countless such stories of dream revelations from artists and inventors, and even fromordinary people perceiving psychic visions, and medical diagnoses.
In the Bible, we learn that Joseph’s interpretation of Pharoh’s dream allowed the people to shore up against the 7 years of famine the dream foretold.
So, who will you meet during sleep, and will you leave your letters from God unanswered?
(Note: I was hesitant to send this out because I was afraid it was too personal or too something. Last night I dreamt I was telling a young woman not to worry about looking foolish. Ultimately, that just didn’t matter.)
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