April 30, 2012

Dreams tell us a lot about ourselves. They tell us the truth about what is going on in our heads, even when we are not listening. Sometimes they scream and sometimes they whisper, but they always reveal something.

This dream begins in a funeral home hallway. I am standing alone between two double doors on either side of the hall, both closed. Chairs, couches and tables line the walls, with tastefully placed subdued lamps and large flower arrangements adorning some of the tables. All of the tables hold tissues in boxes covered with muted-tone flowers.

The doors to my left open and a man comes out to place a shiny brass stand in the hallway. I assume that the stand holds information about the services to begin for my loved one, but I can’t read it. The words are a jumble to me. The sign on the stand is not in another language and it seems as though I should be able to read it, but circumstances are not allowing my brain to decode the letters and words.

I move through the open doors to a small, open, white casket at the far end of the room. Looking into the casket I see a baby girl dressed in a beautiful white gown covered with lace and ribbons, and closed with pearl buttons.

Her face is broken. Her face is cracked into at least twenty pieces and put back together like a broken porcelain doll. The cracks are prominent and growing as I watch, and her beauty is lost in them. She clearly met a violent end.

I don’t know who she is in my waking state, but in the dream state she is mine. I don’t know how she is mine, but the relationship is at least as close as a daughter.

I begin frantically pushing the pieces of her face back together as one of the men who works at the funeral home takes my shoulders and leads me away. He takes me to a side of the room where there is a bolt of sheer white organza material. Together we cut a large piece, return to the casket and cover the baby’s face with the beautiful shroud.

Her face shows through, and the cracks in her face soften a bit under the sheer fabric. We are finished and I know it’s time to leave. I turn to go.


  1. Written words are usually indistinguishable in dreams. That sounds like a disturbing dream.

  2. I didn’t know that about written words in dreams. How odd that is.

  3. Oh my – that dream would put me off sleeping I think

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