In my dreams, I'm wide awake

I've been having some vivid dreams recently. Not every night, but a few times a week I'll wake up to remember the smell of fresh bread at a bakery with cakes of a Willy Wonka level of creativity, the feel of a gentle hug from the man I have an unhealthy crush on, the sight of a kaleidoscope of colours and jewels, and the texture of fur on a queen's guard's horse. They come back to me in soft flashes, in warm sensations, that lull me into the dreamworld, and I long to return.

It's not always been like this. A few years ago I went through a period of dreamless nights, connected to -- I can see now -- a depression I was going through, when the world felt quiet and distant, even in my dreams. Those nights felt like teeth flossing, something inane and necessary and without pleasure. I'd lay down to sleep, and then wake up as though I'd simply done the obligatory time of being horizontal. During that period, I was keeping secrets, holding my tongue, and it was as though my subconscious zipped its lips too, not letting out any soothing sounds during rest.

Then there were the periods of anxiety, of work stress, of heartache after a break-up, when I'd wake up in the early hours of the morning, and any faint imprints of the dreams I'd had soon vanishing as the swirl of worry and thoughts marched through. I tried body scans, meditations, reading, scrolling, counting, waiting, magnesium, chamomile tea, yoga, music, lavender oil, audible books, and many other things you might have tried yourself to get back to sleep -- there are endless suggestions out there. There was no pattern to what worked, and often I'd fall back asleep for an hour or two before having to start the day groggy and unnourished.

Things have been shifting for me recently, well over the past couple of years. After reaching a certain depth of low feeling and burnout during the pandemic in 2020 -- while stranded abroad in Greece, away from family and friends, and in a strict lockdown -- I started to move into new realms of seeing and experiencing. Maybe it was an escape from my reality, maybe it was the weight of my experience cracking open new layers of experience and consciousness. I could travel deeper into my mind, and it reminded me of all the places and things I longed for: the New Forest (in the South of England) where I went to growing up, my family home with the blue door, our ginger, fluffy cats.

Old, lost memories floated to the surface of my mind in the relative sensory deprivation of the city apartment that I lived in alone. At the height of the lockdowns, I only went outside for one of six government-approved reasons which we had to send in an SMS to an automated number with our name and address too. If we were stopped by police when out and hadn't done that, we could be fined. My internet was patchy so zoom calls were painful, and work was draining. I felt trapped, lonely, and isolated. My balcony was the one oasis I had nearby, where I'd go and watch the swallows dancing as the sky darkened and stars emerged. There was comfort in knowing the swallows always found their way home, in seeing them take up space and move unlimited.

Trapped in the apartment, one thing that helped was getting into a steady habit of meditating which had been an on-and-off practice before that. It gained momentum over time and I could slip into deeper levels of relaxation. Little by little, things started to settle. I realised I had a choice in how I started and ended my days, and tried out different morning and evening routines: tea before bed, reading and writing; tea on waking, reading and writing. Sometimes a little dance, sometimes a little yoga -- starting the day in ways that felt right and gentle on me, and always tea!

Fast forward a bit and I've been back in the UK for over a year. There's not much like the relief of being in a place that feels like home after you were deprived of it, of sleeping in a house that feels familiar and safe, with your dad a couple of bedrooms over and your cats making sounds that, in their old age, were not quite a miaow but little squeaks and growls and made their presence known.

My sleep was still patchy for the first half of 2021 but gradually less so. I joined online events and meditations by a Buddhist community, went for lots of walks in nature, and created a nest for myself to be comforted in each night. I dug out my old teddy, with strawberries on its dress, and yes I'm in my thirties, and yes I slept with a teddy, she soothed me. My priority now is about what feels good, what is soothing, what is nurturing, and so I have no shame if that includes a childhood teddy, dancing in my room by myself, or chanting ancient mantras before bed!

I started 2022 on a Buddhist retreat in the British countryside, with plenty of meditation, nature, stillness, and community, and no phones, screens... or lie-ins! With the simplicity, the luxury of slowing down, the value of routine, the lack of stimulation and noise, I could settle into a deep place and reach new layers of relaxation and softening. I slept well while there, with rich dreams through the night as well as the daytime naps. In one dream, a bee was going towards my nephew so I intervened and asked it to sting me instead, which woke me up in time for yoga. In another, I saw geometrical golds and rainbows, and felt like I was moving into the realms of the spirits and myths we'd been meditating on. The whole experience, of doing less, made me feel more alive, more human, than when I'd been rushing around, caught in the restless whirl of our world.

So I started the new year with this intention: simplicity. More stillness, more in my breath, more in my body. Less stuff, less screens, and less drama. I realised I'd been creating my own chaos, and though it may not always feel like it, I can choose calmness over busyness. I've been trying to switch my phone off at 8pm and not put it on again until mid-morning, which helps settle my brain and open up space to read, write, or whatever else I feel like. It gives me space to hear myself. I create a flask of tea before bed and then put it where I can drink it on waking up -- my first kind gesture to myself of the day. In the evenings I often journal on what I've done and am grateful for. In the mornings, I usually write down what I dreamt about, my intentions and needs, and anything else that comes up. In front of my little shrine of a candle and incense, I try to meditate each day, maybe with some stretching or movement before, maybe putting on a song I'm craving and letting my body move however it wishes, to flow with whatever arises.

With all of these gentle resolutions and intentions, I have to keep reminding myself of them. We're over halfway through January and many are already slipping. Why is that? Why do we find it so hard to prioritise rest and relaxation? Is it a fear of missing out from our 24/7 internet culture? Is it our fear of being alone with our thoughts and feelings, alone and in the stillness with our bodies and what they hold? Are we unsure about letting our dreams have space to breathe and for them to grow so much we can't ignore them anymore?

I've been dreaming vividly recently, during the night and while awake. I dream of a society that spends more time in trees and less time on screens. I dream of a slower pace, where we have the ability and stillness to plunge into long juicy articles, not just swipe, scroll and stay on the surface. I dream of a place where we notice the stars and the life beneath our feet. I dream of deep conversations, deep connections, deep joy, and deep restful sleep. I dream of stillness, spaciousness, and ease not being acts of rebellion, but the norm we all keep. I dream that we resolve to rest, come alive, be gentle to ourselves, and dream more vividly this year.