How the Practice of Lucid Dreaming Gives Me Authority over Waking Life
The dreams started when I was nine.
In second grade, we moved from the city to a suburb — better schools, better house, better life. Though most kids reluctantly accept change, my aversion has always been a bit extreme.
I remember delighting in the new house and cozier neighborhood. Getting my own room didn’t hurt the case, either. What ignited my anxiety was the paralyzing thought of making new friends in an unfamiliar school.
I’m shy; they’ll hate me. I can’t talk to people I don’t know. The teachers will be mean.
Needless to say, this transition rocked what little calm my eight-year-old self had.
Almost a year later on my ninth birthday, still adjusting to the move, my world shifted again with the death of my great grandmother. She was my friend. In the years before kindergarten, she kept me during the week while my Mom worked. We napped together in the afternoons before watching Sesame Street and The Joy of Painting (remember Bob Ross and that massive hair?).
It was then — going to a school without familiar friends, wondering who would ever again serve me sorghum syrup with toast — when dreams took over my life.
