The Ghosts of Yore

December 6th, 2009

Many if not most of my dreams are set in the house of my childhood.

I’m not sure why, really.  I never dream about anything in the work setting, and I rarely dream about anything in this current home, in which I’ve lived for the last seven years.  Instead, I dream about the old red brick house on Zavier Street, which now lies within a dilapidated (or decimated?) neighborhood in Southwest Denver.

Of course, some of my recurring dreams are not staged in or around this house.  These are regularly held in an imaginary house that has a plethora of rooms with eccentric decor, and some are in an imaginary addition (a wardrobe, I think) to my grandparents’ house in New Mexico.  But most… most are a collection of past memories and newly invented ones that weave their way into the same, familiar back drop.

Dreams are funny.  I went for a good five years where I didn’t remember dreaming at all.  I believe this may have been triggered by anti-depressants, but one can never be sure exactly what those are doing to your mind, or for how long.  So that association is irrelevant at this point, I guess.

Lately, in the last six months, I have been refocusing my presence; and in the last week or so, I have been placing my intentions upon being mindful in everything I do.  I believe that being more “present” in addition to being more “mindful” has allowed me to bite into the vivid imagery of my dreams with more awareness of them over time.

While I was wrapped up comfortably in bed late last night, the cotton sheets against my skin and my pillowy driver’s seat beneath my chin, I began to reflect on the previous night’s dream.  As I watch myself become more aware, more aware in that my dreams frequently taking place in my “comfort” place, I have the strangest notions.

I began to consider ghosts.

How ever you define the term “ghosts,” and regardless of your belief in the reality of them, you probably at least have a notion as to what they are.  In my terms, they are energy left by other, now-passed souls.  Of course, whether or not that is what I believe them to be is neither here nor there.  That’s my layman’s term definition, and I’m going to have to work with what I’ve got.

I began to consider that if ghosts are remnants of energy, then perhaps there’s a possibility that they are formed based upon energy left by something besides the waking dead.  Perhaps they are not merely reflections of a person’s soul, but are rather memories of residual energy.

This thought marched me right up to my spiritual doors, where I proceeded to consider further possibilities.  If our minds create thoughts, and thoughts are energy… and if quantum physics can not disprove other dimensions of time and energy–and in fact leans towards supporting the idea– then what if ghosts, or what we experience as ghosts, are merely remnants of energy left over from a person’s dream of it?

What if my dreams of this house were to imprint ghostly experiences– simply because I cannot get the place out of my head?  What if the chills I’ve had that accompany the goose-bumps and eerie sensations of having an audience are not actually characterized with a literal persona as much as they were the pithy trail of leftover dreams having entered your experience?

And then, I shivered deeply.

Those poor occupants…  I simply cannot leave them alone.