A pandemic dream

In this dream I am living in a bahay kubo that only has a roof and a floor. No walls, except for four bamboo posts. A strong wind hurls the house, like what you see happening in movies about twisters and tornadoes. As the house tumbles in the air that takes it higher and higher, I cling to one of the posts and cry out for my mother to help me, to save me. In my mind, I am aware she is dead, but nonetheless she appears, and like an angel, sets down my house on the ground again. Dream ends there.

In the article "Why Are My Dreams So Vivid Right Now?" in the April 2, 2020, issue of The Cut, writer Alice Robb interviews psychologist Deirdre Barrett who says, "“Changing one’s routine dramatically often leads to more dream recall.”

View from a window of the Peninsula Manila

Insomniac photographing her own image

I don't think I have to lie on a psychiatrist's couch or consult a psychologist to interpret my own dream. I know the house stands for myself, secure in the thought of a floor (groundedness?) and ceiling (brains? thoughts? literally higher self?) to shelter my body and soul, but open everywhere--perhaps I bare myself too much, huh? Being carried off by a twister is the opposite of being locked down and imprisoned in one's abode so there I am, unexpectedly freed from prison.

I call on a higher being, an intercessor to be my safety net. And indeed, someone familiar appears--Mommy--and she puts my house, myself down on our backyard, amongst the fruit-bearing trees.