Entre Chien et Loup

I wasn’t sure if I was seeing a dog or a wolf.

(Author’s note: These dreams actually inspired and brought to life my short fiction works, You Are My Inspiration and The Garden. Some of the dreams in this essay are also in an earlier blog post entitled, Dragons, Creative Flow Secrets, and an Encore.)

I had been sitting in the back of a mini-van with the sliding door wide open. While I was there, a beautiful and notably large white dog with ocean blue eyes approached. When I saw him I thought, “Although he’s beautiful, he better not come in here.”

I had no idea where he could be from or who he belonged to, and I didn’t want some strange dog invading my space. But as if sensing what I was thinking, he stepped right into the van. I noticed the size of this dog even more as he came to a rest in the doorway with a dignified posture. He sat taller than me.

“Get out of here!” I said, trying to shoo him away. With his icy eyes, he cooly stared at me like I was some weirdo.

Since that wasn’t working, I dared to push him gently. My hands sunk into his white fur. It was soft, warm, and a bit staticy—like an electrified sweater straight out of the dryer. The hairs on my arms stood on end at the sensation, tingling, but I still tried pushing him. He resisted.

At that moment I began to think, this might not be a dog. He could be a wild wolf. I was struggling to tell the difference, but that didn’t stop me from trying to push him harder. He still wouldn’t budge. Then using all the strength I had, I gave him a forceful push out the van, and as I did so, he vanished from under my finger tips.

I cracked open my eyes as I laid in bed. I could hear my husband snoring softly. The bedroom was dark, but there was a growing lightness to it. Early morning.

My hands buzzed from the somatics of that dream. From making contact.

He seemed like he wanted to stay with me so much. That dog—or wolf—wanted to be with me. But yet, I had pushed him away. What would have happened if I didn’t feel so overwhelmed by his presence? What if I had accepted him and taken him in?

I would probably never know the answer. It was just a dream after all. He was so beautiful, and I wished for a chance to do things differently. But it felt like a once in a lifetime kind of dream—a missed opportunity.

I wrote of the moment in my dream journal. Then I went about the rest of the day with regret in my heart. I’ve never thought of myself as a dog person.

One day, following a satisfying lunch, the afternoon drowsiness got the best of me. I laid down to take a nap and drifted off into dreams.

I held a large bath towel.

In front of me, standing on the tile of the living room floor of my home, was the white dog. His fur was wet, and I was drying him off vigorously, as if I had just finished giving him a bath.

This time, I was not going to push him away. I wanted to learn more about this creature. I wanted to take care of him and understand, why me?

I buffed his fur with the towel, enjoying the moment. And I spoke to him as I did so, saying, “I kind of wish you were a man right now.”

Those words alone were enough to jolt me awake, and I could not stop laughing. It was just so terrible. I pulled the bed sheets over my face from embarrassment. Maybe afternoon naps aren’t for me, and I should just drink a cup of lightly caffeinated tea and push through the slump instead. Yet, that didn’t stop me from making notes in my journal.

The next night, while deep in sleep, my subconscious sent me someone’s oddly taken selfie.

It was an extreme close-up.

Smooth moonlight skin, a pair of cool blue eyes with pale lashes, a nicely sculpted nose, and lips a shade of pink that works well for someone who is so fair. I knew exactly who this beautiful man was. His coloring was similar to the dog.

The dreamy glimpse of his face only lasted for a few seconds, like some ephemeral social media post. This male presence within me is a total tease.

On waking in the morning, I wished to be lucky enough to see more.

White gloved hands handled the reigns. He deftly rode a sleek chestnut brown horse through a forest. Once again, I only got a quick flash of what he looked like: tall posture, long silvery white hair tied back, riding gear suits him. View from the back only. No face this time.

But what I saw was enough to tell me that he was wealthy and had ties to the society of another era, like some kind of prince. Then came a warm, careful, and cultured voice, providing narration.

“I am 97,” he said.

Again I saw the grip of his hands as he navigated wooded hills and crossed wandering brooks. Then there was the image of a lone evergreen, a single tree from the forest.

“I’m like a tree,” he said.

This was a formal introduction. Then the dream shifted.

I was on an ocean shore.

I played at the edge of the water, skirting over the surface of it like someone who was riding a skimboard, except without the board.

Then I went from “skimboarding” to just straight out running over the water’s surface, farther out into the ocean. The more I ran, the less my feet touched the water until I was flying with my arms outstretched.

I felt a little scared as I rose higher and into the sky, but then I remembered that I had just gone from running on the water to flying over it. I had absolutely nothing to be afraid of.

So I flew like I had been doing this all my life at a good speed, while trying not to think about how deep the ocean below me could be. But then I saw dark storm clouds building on the horizon. It was time to head back. I turned and started flying towards the shore.

In dreams, the ocean often represents deep emotions, mystery, and the subconscious. Changes were hovering on the horizon. The color of the waves was in his eyes.

In that space between waking and sleeping, I caught another sighting.

He was submerged in an antique, freestanding bathtub. It was deep with clawed legs and placed in the middle of an elegant but rustic bathroom. This scene was not a quick glimpse. It was more like a steady gaze.

I could see where the water stopped a few inches below the tops of his well-formed shoulders. His full face was in view, lips and cheeks slightly reddened from warmth. That selfie from earlier was no lie. He slowly slid down into the water, until his face was partially hidden up to just below his coy eyes. His long white silver hair floated on the surface of the water as he did so, like seaweed. He came back up for a moment and then sunk down again.

I wasn’t sure if this movement was a sign of shyness, embarrassment, or more teasing. That earlier moment, when he was a dog and I was drying him off, was probably awkward for both of us. Apparently, he is fully capable of bathing himself.

And it was as if he knew he was being seen and both wanted that and feared that at the same time—a collection of opposites. Just like how his fresh and youthful looks were paired with something ancient. A puer aeternus and senex in shared form, intertwined and in motion.

For a moment I saw the childhood version of him: pale faced, white haired, with blue-eyes wide, looking up to someone unseen. It was like getting a peek into memories.

Then came a cruel, gravelly voice that declared, “You’re rotten and no good.”

Those words were meant for him, but I felt bruised by them as well. That unkind voice was followed by background narration from his adult self.

“I’ll be away for a while,” he said. “When I come back, I’ll be less incomplete.”

Although he delivered his intent matter-of-factly, I couldn’t help but sense the pain beneath it all. He was hurting. I responded to his disembodied voice, almost shouting at it, “Those words are like a curse that some witch has locked into your heart!”

As soon as I spoke, I saw the image of a copper heart. It was built of different sections of metal, riveted together and covered with ticking, interlocking gears and metal tubes to assist with circulation. On the front of the heart was a thick metal hasp with a shining, hanging padlock.

“I wish I could unlock it,” I said,“and let those thoughts go. I wish I could heal you.”

The image of the heart faded, and it was revealed that I was sitting on a bed. And next to me sat him, and my hand was pressed to his bare chest, over his heart. He looked at me, his lips gently parted from surprise, like I had seen something private.

Although this was a dream, for some reason his skin felt cool to the touch…

As I noted this collection of dreams in my journal, I couldn’t help but wonder, why?

Why am I living this fully-formed narrative in my subconscious night after night?

I still don’t have the answer. But after seeing the mechanical heart, things became quiet within for a little while. Until they weren’t.

Once again, I was at the ocean. This time around I was hanging out with some friends. We were all sitting at a covered picnic area that was unusually close to the water.

While we were there just relaxing and talking, a storm came up. This storm was generally mild, but the rain was heavy, the wind blowing it under the pavilion.

Those sitting near the edges opened their umbrellas and held up tarps to keep the rain off. The couple I shared a table with had both. They were already under a tarp, but the husband also had a huge umbrella. When he opened it, the tarp expanded outwards even more to keep the rain away.

We were managing to stay mostly dry but the ocean was turbulent and ripples of waves were starting to come under the pavilion. Then I realized a storm surge was on the way. The next thing I knew, waves had taken over the picnic area.

Everyone held on to ropes and tarps that were tied to the supports of the pavilion to keep from being washed out to sea. The storm itself was abating, but the waves and water were still rising. I clung to a rope as I was tossed by the salty waves. This wasn’t good. I needed to escape before they could get any higher.

I took a ride on an incoming wave that could have taken me back to shore, but I waited a little too long to let go of the rope, so when I let go I was almost swept back out to sea like an untethered balloon. Fortunately, I was able to grab hold of the rope again.

I waited and then tried once more. I gripped the rope as the waves pushed me towards the shore, and I let go the moment I felt sand under my feet. Then I ran as fast as I could, taking high steps and leaping through the waves to keep them from tripping me up and pulling me back in.

I ran without looking back until I was safely to shore. Once I was on solid ground, I worried about everyone else. Someone could drown in these strange conditions. Fortunately my husband was in the car during the storm, and I saw him returning to the beach, walking towards me. I called out to him, telling him not to go down to the beach and to see what we could do to save everyone else—I suggested calling 911, but then I woke up.

On waking from this dream, I was concerned. The oceans of my subconscious were home to him: the white haired dog, who I still questioned if he was a wolf at times, who took the form of a princely man. I wondered if he had gotten any closer to being less incomplete, and if he had succeeded in breaking the lock off his heart.

Having ridden through all of that turmoil, I suspected that maybe he did. And between sleeping and waking, I saw him.

He was in a room somewhere far away, sitting on a white bed facing a window framed with gauzy, fluttering curtains. Diffused light came in. He still had on no shirt. Instead there was a white sheet draped across his right shoulder, but his left shoulder was exposed. I couldn’t see his face, but I could see his profile as he looked back a little and told me that things were going fine. I only saw this imagery of him for a moment. A flicker, and then it was gone.

Weeks of radio silence followed. I tried imagining what the unlocked version of him could possibly be like. Was he happy? Was he free, riding a horse somewhere across plains and valleys to his heart’s content? No amount of imagining felt real. Not as real as the dreams. Maybe freedom meant we would never meet again. I struggled to be okay with that.

Then one night, I had a weird dream.

In the dream, he was wearing a black dress shirt, and I could only see him from the bottom of his chin on down. His hand rested at his top collar button, like he was about to undo it, and I heard him ask, “Do you want me to take it all off?”

He sounded like himself, but strangely, he also sounded like my husband. I wanted to say “Yes,” but I couldn’t quite figure out who I was saying “yes” to, so as a result I woke up from confusion. And a bit of surprise.

Shortly afterwards, in my dreams I saw an anatomically correct heart, surrounded by and wrapped up in curling red and orange flames.

It felt like it belonged to me. But I also knew that it belonged to him.

I was suffering from a chronic pain flare up, and my whole body ached. I placed my hands on my belly and gently noticed my breaths, in and out, to soothe myself as I fell asleep. The pain dulled, and I slept deeply.

I saw him.

He stood somewhere that didn’t feel like Earth, with a barren landscape and a deep dark sky against a distant horizon behind him. It was a place without a contained sunrise and without an atmosphere to block the view.

His long hair was now a rich obsidian, and his eyes matched in darkness. Dressed in carefully tailored midnight black regalia with purple accents, he took confident strides over the alien landscape, his cape fluttering behind him in a deep purple.

Resting on his head was an unique, ink black crown with two tall horns. The horns were etched with a purple spiraling thread. Maleficent from Sleeping Beauty would have been hopelessly jealous. The horns reminded me of antennae, picking up frequencies from the universe. But they also looked like weapons. I could see living things taking their last breath at the end of them.

On seeing him, I experienced that unique kind of inner knowing that only happens in dreams. I heard my inner voice say, “He’s the Dragon King.”

And I knew the title fit. He didn’t feel evil or like someone to be afraid of. Instead he was hypnotically beautiful. Before, he reminded me of sky, oceans, and rain. But this revealed king didn’t come across that way at all. He felt absolutely cosmic, born from the stars with their fire perpetually igniting his heart.

I witnessed a woman who turned into a dragon.

The moment she transformed, I felt like I was her—like I had transformed too. But afterwards she became a creature that was totally separate from me, and I was just…watching her.

She was fearsome with a dragon body, a long tail, and a human woman’s face. One half of her body was green and the other half black. She let out a roaring scream before disappearing like a blown out flame.

Just, gone.

As if she was crushed out of existence.

And I couldn’t help feeling a bit sad as I awoke. Maybe all she needed was a little more love?

It had been a busy day, and I wanted to feel as peaceful as possible. As I crawled into bed and drifted to sleep, I dared to imagine myself as a dragon, half green and half black with golden accents and golden wings, coiled and resting peacefully. I rested my hands on my belly and breathed.

Dragon woman, you are protected. You are safe. You are loved…

The next thing I knew, we met again. The White Wolf—now the Dragon King.

This time around he was residing in some heavenly sky palace. To fit the aesthetic, his hair had returned to being white, but the color was more luminous than before. This bleached white hair was cut into a shorter, boyish style with sweeping bangs and decorated with dangling golden ornaments that tinkled like chimes when he moved.

He wore a white robe like some Greek statue and had the most ornate dragon wings I had ever seen, made of pure, shining gold. The pattern of the gold lacework looked like countless intricate dragonfly wings, interlocked together.

It had been awhile. And the first thing I said when I saw him was, “Why didn’t you tell me anything?”

His angelic face looked at me in wide-eyed shock. He didn’t say a word as I continued to go on about how no one tells me anything and why he’s always like this. If it wasn’t for me coming around to give him a hard time, life in that perfect palace would have been totally boring for sure.

The following night, while still awake, I had an epiphany about my creative process. I realized that my creative ideas are best when they ferment, like fine wine. I don’t need to force myself to serve anything prematurely or demand an idea to become something. I wondered why it took so long for me to understand this.

The same night of this realization, I had a rerun of the previous dream.

Once more I met with the Dragon King: white hair, white clothes, golden ornaments, golden dragon wings, sky palace.

But this time, he was even sitting in a golden chair, and when I approached him I was like, “Hey! Why didn’t you tell me about all of this earlier?”

He replied, shrugging a little, “I just didn’t know what to say.”

“But you should have told me…”

Then I continued to comfortably complain, like we’re an old couple—a strange alchemical inner marriage of opposites between me and this muse that lives within me.

Hanging on a black, void-like wall, was a portrait of him. He was seated in a stately pose wearing a black robe. The piece captured his delicate face—the round blue eyes, lunar complexion, and long white hair, which flowed over his shoulders. But then the portrait flickered, and it switched to him having long black hair, dark eyes and slightly more sun-touched skin to match. The portrait kept flickering between the white haired version and the black haired one.

Two sides, two polarities, in one.

I only realized later that this dream was a warning.

I was attending a sci-fi and fantasy convention, cosplaying as an original space adventurer character. I wore a high collared jacket made of deep brown, soft leather-like material that conformed to my body and form fitting pants to match. I really liked the outfit, and I appreciated how it held the spirit of a universe wandering space rebel, with irregular decorative details on the jacket sleeves.

I spent some time in the fancy bathroom of the convention center peering into the mirror and working on my hair. I’m an African American woman with dense curls, so getting my hair in order was proving to be challenging.

At first my tries were worthless, but slowly my hair started to take on silhouettes that were a bit more pleasing. I put a little bit of water on my hair, making it more pliable, so I could perfect the shape. Although doing my hair felt like wrangling with hand-pulled cotton candy, I eventually got it to take this shape where the front swooped above my right eyebrow a little, creating a faux side swept bang.

Then I pulled the rest of my hair into a low ponytail, and I was very happy with how I looked, taking a moment to admire myself. From there I went out to enjoy cosplaying with my friends and others.

Then, things got weird.

We were in the hallway of the convention center taking photos and such, and at some point, we stopped to review the photos we had taken on someone’s phone. I got a glimpse of myself.

My appearance had changed drastically.

My tied back hair was no longer black but a flowing silvery white, and my eyes were a striking blue. Even the complexion of my skin had shifted, moonkissed and mixed with his brightness, like someone had poured milk into my coffee. I still had my feminine body, but overall my appearance carried a soft, boyish cuteness. I wondered if this was some kind of photo filter, but then I looked at my hands, and it was a positive color match.

Now I was the flickering portrait. A being between beings.

I had long sensed that I was both—both him and myself. The wolf and the dragon. A combined polarity. A harmonious dance with my opposite self. But even so, I still have a deep love for the part of me I’m used to seeing everyday.

As I looked at photos and later caught glances of my reflection in the mirrors of this more public space I thought, “No one is going to recognize me in these pictures. I look so different.”

And that was not what I was going for. Although I was cosplaying, I still wanted to be recognizable.

“The hair and the skin color, that’s not really mine,” I thought, critically. “But as for those striking blue eyes…”

Those eyes that carry subterranean oceans.

Skies and heavens.

Fiery clarity.

“…those are mine,” I thought as I slowly awakened.

Yes.

Those eyes are mine.