Words: Clare Dwyer Hogg
Image: Barney Beech
Above the door to my kitchen there’s an iron sign that says ‘Dream’. I’ve been thinking about dreaming recently. Not the dream about pain au chocolate versus chocolate croissants (which I actually did have this week) or the dream that there were Mulberry handbags on sale in M&S for £25 (another real example). Rather, the conscious dreams: like, the kind of thing I would dream about doing or being or seeing or becoming.
I wrote them down recently, on paper, to see what I really wanted. When I considered writing about dreams here, I dismissed it, because people might think it’s too wishy-washy a subject. Which is why I finally decided to write it, because it’s not.
‘Dream’ has been taken by the culture in which we live, and had a little ‘TM’ tacked on to it. It’s become the word for wanting to be famous, I think. Really dreaming, though, is not an insubstantial thought process – head in the clouds type thing – but the creation of a space for something to happen. It doesn’t have to be escapism, or the fluffy shiny better model of what your life could be.
Dreaming is not incongruent with believing that where you are right now is important, even if it seems far away from the dream. How come? Well, I think of a dream as a sail. All the work you put in to your own life provides the strength for that sail to billow. Like this: while you’re working into all the pernickety details of where you are, and investing in all the small things that actually are the important things, and doing your utmost to be your best (I know – ideals), there is forming, above your head, a canopy of the things you dream about.