I had my castle dream again.
The last time I had it was three years ago.
It feels so good every time I have it.
It's my favorite reoccurring dream, like a piece of birthday cake you only get to have once a year. But better than that. I get to revisit the dream in my mind over and over.
This time, it was an even bigger place, but it wasn't a castle.
This time it was Rudyard Kipling's home, but somehow not the famous one I've been in so many times. It was bigger than that. It was four stories high and large like a square. I was there with my mom, dad, as well as my grandmother and great-grandmother who have both passed. I was leading them through the house and I was so excited to show them every floor. We went through the first floor, the kitchen, the dining room, the living room and up the stairs. We went into the second floor and saw bedrooms and open studio rooms. There were desks, couches and open space to sit and write and read. We skipped the third floor and went up a huge, beautiful staircase to the fourth floor, which was open all around.
There were beautiful balconies and lofts with openings down to the third floor. You could see bookshelves and desks and windows on every side. The square of the house tapered up so that on the fourth floor you could see a panoramic view out the windows. There were mountain ranges and water around us. A river like an ocean went by out one window to the east. A beautiful range out the other to the west. The north was shadowy and darker. I was so excited to bring my family up to see everything, but I remember looking back as my great-grandmother had a hard time climbing the stairs. I was most excited to see the third floor which I thought would have my favorite room. In my dream two years ago, my favorite room was a large library with bookshelves up the wall full of writing I loved and writing I had done myself.
But for some reason I decided instead to take my dad to a secret passageway accessible from the kitchen. In the corner of the kitchen there was a small door to a closet. And inside that closet was a smaller door that led down into a earthen passage with small stairs. We went down two or three stories. It was scary but I had done it many times before. I'm not sure when I have dreamed about this passageway, but I've dreamed about it many times over the years. It is a passage that leads underground to lots of different places. I thought it was special and somehow important to show my dad this place. He went into a small opening and I thought about joining, but for some reason I didn't.
Now I was outside the house, walking around the grounds which were beautiful and huge. Someone was speaking in my head, the voice sounded like my friend and first landlord at the Optimist Center. He said the house was available and it had been for sale for some time. He could offer it to me for $775,000 even though it was on sale for much more, somewhere over $1.25 million. I thought about how much we had done together, how I had invested into him and felt that amount seemed right. I thought, "How could I make it work? How much would I need to make a year to be able to afford it? If I make $100,000 a year and I put $75,000 a year to the house, I can buy it completely in 10 years! But then there is interest and banks. My dad told me that you pay interest on a house for the first 10-15 years on a thirty year loan. That might double the price of the house!"
I thought about these numbers as I walked around the house and saw a smaller house on the edge of the grounds. It was small and white and simple. There was no one home but it felt nice from the outside. Somehow it felt a bit like our apartment that we are in now. I walked on the porch and looked up at the huge house to the east, I could see all the levels and thought about how big it was. I was back in the house and walking through the rooms, thinking about how much space there was to sleep. How many people could fit in this house? I counted 10, then 20, and then lost count of the beds I could have in the house and the rooms it had that could be bedrooms. The place was huge. Would my family want to live with us? Tunga's family? It would be like a huge mansion that everyone could live in together. It felt so open and large and flexible.
I still wanted to see the third floor, the large library and room of books. Where was it? Was it in the house now or had I imagined it from another house? I looked at all the amazing rooms, the beautiful view from the fourth floor. I wondered, "Does it need anything else?" This is Rudyard Kipling's home. Somehow I knew it was the place he lived while he was building his famous Nalahka in Vermont. And somehow I knew this was the home he later moved back to once he left Vermont. Nalakha was much smaller than this house. I had been there so many times, I had slept there and led a retreat there. It was a beautiful place, but narrow like a boat. It wasn't open and roomy like this home. It didn't feel like mine. This one did.
I looked around, wondering about the library. The missing third floor. I hoped I could walk around and find it. It was the one last thing I wanted to do.
But my puppy wakes me up.
My baby next to me starts to sing his good morning song. Oooo. Oooo. Oooo.
As I wake up and go about my morning, I realize it's been several years since I've had this dream. My castle has become a home. It's become much bigger and warmer and somehow even more exciting. I wonder about what all that means.
I think about all the elements, the rooms, the connections and passageways. The price and the people, the things my subconscious is trying to tell me with images and metaphors.
I'm eager to explore it and think it through. Maybe I'll talk with some of the people who were in the dream with me.
Maybe first I'll write it down. Right here.
2020
2017: The Castle
2014: The Library
