I have recurring dreams, some unsettling, others uplifting and many that are neither, just a chain of seemingly unrelated mundane dream happenings. One kind of dream I have isn’t recurring in terms of plot but more in terms of its nature, its sensation, and my awareness of that feeling. The sensation I enjoy is breathing underwater. It’s kind of akin to dreams of flying, like those in which I rise up on my toes and gently, effortlessly lift off to soar. It’s not only the flying that is so amazing and wonderful, but the utter confidence that I can do it.
In the dreams where I breathe underwater it's unclear if I am submersed in a lake, or river, or an ocean—perhaps none of these. Rather, the existing landscape simply morphs into an underwater scene as I float weightless, suspended in a tepid current hovering over a rolling, verdant terrain. For a fraction of a dream-second I pause, conscious of the fact that there is no air, that I am sheathed heavily in water. Then slowly, deeply I inhale through my nose. My lungs drink this river so fluidly and naturally—like air—my mind and body surrender to its current, without a care in the world, only the faith that I can breathe. Everything melts away revealing only this serene feeling, this Utopian state, this Xanadu.
I often wonder if my dreams take me under because of the years I spent playing in the water holding my breath for sharks and minnows, diving for pennies, or trying with my lithe, flaxen-haired teammates to capture a greased watermelon, which by its surreal, spatial, slow motion, half-floating-half-sinking manner eluded our grasp.
My boy Calvin used to experiment in the bath holding his breath—before the drugs caused him to be so manic—dipping his face under water for a time. He'd come up red and take a deep breath. It scared Michael the first time he saw it, and he grabbed for Calvin's arm instinctively. I thought it was cute, my little fish-pie taking after his mama with a fearless joy of water. I’m glad he's tried learning these laws of nature, while at the same time defying them—defying gravity—with the water's buoyancy.
I wonder if Calvin dreams of breathing underwater, too. I hope he does.
In the dreams where I breathe underwater it's unclear if I am submersed in a lake, or river, or an ocean—perhaps none of these. Rather, the existing landscape simply morphs into an underwater scene as I float weightless, suspended in a tepid current hovering over a rolling, verdant terrain. For a fraction of a dream-second I pause, conscious of the fact that there is no air, that I am sheathed heavily in water. Then slowly, deeply I inhale through my nose. My lungs drink this river so fluidly and naturally—like air—my mind and body surrender to its current, without a care in the world, only the faith that I can breathe. Everything melts away revealing only this serene feeling, this Utopian state, this Xanadu.
I often wonder if my dreams take me under because of the years I spent playing in the water holding my breath for sharks and minnows, diving for pennies, or trying with my lithe, flaxen-haired teammates to capture a greased watermelon, which by its surreal, spatial, slow motion, half-floating-half-sinking manner eluded our grasp.
My boy Calvin used to experiment in the bath holding his breath—before the drugs caused him to be so manic—dipping his face under water for a time. He'd come up red and take a deep breath. It scared Michael the first time he saw it, and he grabbed for Calvin's arm instinctively. I thought it was cute, my little fish-pie taking after his mama with a fearless joy of water. I’m glad he's tried learning these laws of nature, while at the same time defying them—defying gravity—with the water's buoyancy.
I wonder if Calvin dreams of breathing underwater, too. I hope he does.
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| photo by Michael Kolster |
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