For most of my life, my nighttime dreams have been vivid—sometimes so vivid that I'd wake up wondering if I had actually been there.

Like many people, I assumed they must mean something.
The problem was...
I had no idea where to begin.

So I started the way I begin many things. I took a deep breath, picked up a pen, and began handwriting every dream into a journal before it faded away.

I wasn't trying to become an expert.
I was simply becoming curious.
Over time, I noticed something fascinating.

Some dreams seemed filled with symbols. Others appeared to reflect what was happening in my own life. Some felt like they were helping me solve a problem, while others seemed to open doors to questions I hadn't even thought to ask.

Little by little, I discovered that dreams often speak in a language of images rather than words.

That's one reason I'm writing a book about dreams—not to tell people what their dreams mean, but to share my own experiences and hopefully inspire others to become curious about their own.

People often ask me, "What does my dream mean?"
My answer usually surprises them.
"I don't know."

And neither does anyone else—not completely.

Oh, we can certainly share ideas. We can talk about symbols, archetypes, psychology, intuition, and even the possibility of precognitive dreams. Those conversations are valuable because they may connect dots we hadn't noticed before.

But ultimately...
The best interpreter of your dream is you.

Here's one I've never forgotten.
Years ago, while I was teaching in Peekskill, New York, I dreamed about an enormous farmhouse sitting on a gentle hill.
It wasn't just beautiful—it felt welcoming.

As I walked through the first floor, I discovered something unusual.
There wasn't one kitchen.
There were several.

Each kitchen had its own purpose. One was devoted to fruits and vegetables. Another to baking. Another to preparing meats. Each space had its own specialty, as though every form of nourishment deserved a place of its own.

The rest of the first floor was open and inviting, centered around a massive wooden table where family and friends could gather together.

Then I walked upstairs.
Most of the rooms were ordinary until I entered one room that took my breath away.

There were seven babies.
Each was peacefully wrapped in the softest pale blue and white blankets. They looked completely content.

Then, one by one, they opened their eyes.
Every one of them had beautiful blue eyes.
I remember thinking, "That's interesting."
Then I woke up.

As always, I immediately wrote every detail in my dream journal.
Months later, during a dream workshop with about twenty women, we each shared one of our dreams and explored possible meanings. We talked about symbolism, personal reflection, intuition, and whether some dreams might even point toward future possibilities.

When it was my turn, I described the farmhouse.

Before I had even finished, one woman raised her hand.
"I bought that house," she said.
She described it exactly as I had seen it.
Every detail matched...
Except for the seven babies.
Now that certainly gave us something to think about!

So now it's your turn.
What do you think that dream was about?
More importantly...
What do your dreams have to say?
Do you keep a dream journal?
Have you ever looked back months—or even years later—and discovered something in an old dream or journal entry that suddenly made perfect sense?

I have.
Sometimes I read my old journals and smile.
Sometimes I think, "Did I really write that?"
Sometimes I find an idea worth expanding.
Sometimes I find something ready for the recycling bin!

But every page reminds me of one important truth:

We grow by paying attention.

Whether our dreams are symbolic, spiritual, psychological, or simply the mind's way of sorting through the day, they invite us into a conversation with ourselves.

And conversations with ourselves are often the beginning of wisdom.

So tonight, place a notebook beside your bed.
You may not remember every dream.
But the one you do remember...
Just might begin an adventure.

Sweet dreams...and happy exploring.​

In joyful light,
Nancy

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