The Bridge

The Dream Series Part 1

Author’s Note
In the midst of “doing the work” and taking Bacopa Monnieri, my dreams have become unusually vivid—lucid landscapes where my psyche works through old wounds and hidden truths. I’ve decided to share some of these dreams here, paired with illustrations created with the help of ChatGPT. They’re deeply symbolic to me and have been part of my healing and processing. Perhaps you’ll find them interesting, or even see reflections of your own inner life within them.

The Bridge Dream

For as long as I can remember, I have had this reoccurring dream:

I am a child, and my mother takes me to a small festival around a lake I know from childhood. The local park and small riverside market are both there, but in the dream the lake is shrunken, small enough that I can see all the way across to to the bridge that connect my rural home’s side of the river to my hometown.

I walk among the festival booths in wonder.

Ahead, I see a beautiful nature trail that leads from the lake’s shoreline to the bridge.

I ask my mother if I can walk the trail by myself. She gives me permission to walk it alone because it’s open and she will still be able to keep an eye on me.

I walk proudly, thrilled to be trusted.

But when I reach the bridge, it grows—suddenly as huge and daunting as it is in real life.

There is no walkway, only the scaffolding of the old bridge, high above the river. I hate heights. There are no rails, no safety, just open air. So I drop to my hands and knees and crawl, afraid of slipping and falling hundreds of feet into the water.

Most of the time, in the dream, I want to turn back, but I am desperate and in need of something from my little hometown on the other side. I climb across, inch by inch, until I reach the town. There I find a toy store tucked upstairs in one of the old brick buildings, or I stop at the co-op to buy vegetable seeds and seedlings so we’ll have food for the summer.

The dream usually ends the same way: me crawling back across the bridge, terrified but determined. I never make it home.

The New Bridge Dream

Recently, I had the dream again, but this time it was different. I was no longer a child:

I am in my childhood church. My wife is with me. Together we step out of the front doors.

And suddenly we’re at the festival around the lake. Booths line the water’s edge, and we wander among them side by side.

I look toward the trail and say, “This trail is beautiful. It was one of my favorite places as a child. Let me show it to you.” She agrees, and we walk hand in hand. She wears a flowing tie-dyed skirt and dangling earrings, moving with a quiet contentment. She’s happy and at ease.

When we reach the bridge, she stops and asks what’s across the river. I pause. “This bridge is very scary,” I tell her. “I don’t like heights. We don’t have to cross. There’s nothing on the other side worth going over for.”

And then the dream ends. And I’ve not dreamt it since.