I have been called a dreamer … and I would never dispute it. Psychologically, a dreamer is a person who lives in or escapes to a world of fantasy or illusion. Again, I would never dispute that. And dreamers tend to dream. Again … me.

I’ve always been a dreamer and I always had nighttime dreams. They’re especially vivid after a repast of sausage or pepperoni. I’ve even shared some of them with you in the past.

But I’ve noticed something “different” since my tiny brain bleed. First, it knocked me out. I can’t get enough sleep … five minutes here … 15 minutes there … early to bed … late to rise. And each and every time I dream.

It’s like all the files in my mind have been tossed out of their neat little compartments to rustle through the caverns of my grey matter. And they’re intermingling with the free range thoughts grazing my brain.

It makes for some interesting entertainment when my eyelids droop.

On short trips to la la land, the eyelids screen highlight little pop-ups like puppies jumping for frisbies, sunrises, sunsets, rolling clouds, geometrical shapes, silhouettes and waves.

Nighttime REM dreams have been just as regular and vivid. I can’t say I remember them all, but I remember I did dream. The other night, after binge watching The Good Wife final season, I dreamt of Diane Lockhart and Cary Agos  interviewing a smart ass Goth teen, dressed all in black except for bright red fishnet stockings. Go figure. Another night I was dressed as Santa Claus entertaining kids on a train on the way to South Dakota {???}. Still another was a rerun of the day a young sideline reporter {me} was tackled by a 270 pound lineman on a sideline sweep at a frigid Sparta-Franklin game.

I’ve also noticed I am more active in my dreams over the past month. Typically, my “action” dreams were narratives where I watched the action. Since the bleed, I’ve actually been involved in the action {nothing strenuous, but, hey, at least I’m walking; that has to count for something}.

I dreamily recalled taking my grandmother to Connecticut as an 18 year old in my Studebaker Silver Hawk. The dream was limited to my hands on the wheel, the road ahead through the windshield and the Hawk’s long nose and the mother of pearl dashboard with my tach locked at 3500 rpm. Grandma again asked me why I was driving so fast. In another, I was visiting with my other grandma in dreamland, eating a biscotti while she sat at the kitchen table in her signature apron and housedress.

I dreamt of walking down a trail as the leaves changed with Sonni hand in hand. And I dreamt of getting a kiss from Karen  as we walked the boardwalk in Seaside Heights.

As I reflected on these dreams and mini dreams, it occurred to me they were all good memories. No nightmares. No unpleasant thoughts. No dark shadows.

That makes me smile. All is well with my unconscious self.

THOUGHT TO REMEMBER: Encouragement does for the soul what fresh water does for the body. We need it! It revives and refreshes us. It brings hope for a better tomorrow and helps us get through today.