(Originally appeared in Spiral Songs and Grace Notes, November 22, 2010.)

When my daughter was younger, we watched a lot of children’s television programs together. One of our mutual favorites was Blue’s Clues. I mostly liked it because of Steve Burns — and no, I wasn’t one of those fans; I just enjoyed his gentle charm and his subtle, sly humor.

As I recall, the show covered a number of preschool-friendly topics — colors, shapes, and numbers, sharing, friendship. There was one episode, however, that introduced viewers to a more abstract and very useful concept: lucid dreaming.

A character was shown being troubled by an unpleasant dream. Steve and Blue entered her dream and offered encouragement: “If you don’t like this dream, change it!”

Now, I don’t know how many preschoolers (or, for that matter, adults) are really capable of altering a dream’s direction in their sleep. What can be done, more easily, is to introduce changes after waking up.

“I was falling and I was going to crash and I was so scared!”
“Can you change that part of the dream? Can you grow some wings, ride on a friendly dragon, land in a Jell-O lake and just start bouncing and bouncing?”

I have one memory of being able to shift one of my dreams in this way. In my dream, I was a secret agent, and my cover was blown. My enemies were chasing me, and they had guns. Down hallways, in and out of motel rooms, until I found myself cornered, trapped, doomed.

Then I woke up just a little — just enough to think, “Wait! This is a dream! I can do anything I want!“

And I dove back into that dream, fists a-blazing, and stepped straight into my superpowers. Pow! No one could hurt me. I was invincible.

Now, here’s the question that recently popped gently into my head: If we can do that in our dreams, can’t we try it in our waking lives?

I mean, half the time lately, I feel as if I’m sleepwalking through my days anyway.

What if I can stop, take a breath, take a look at the dreams that I’m living — at the stories I tell myself daily — and simply ask, “Does it need to be this way? What would I like to be different? What can change?“

Quite a bit, I suspect. I’ll keep you posted.

(Originally appeared in Spiral Songs and Grace Notes, June 30, 2011.)

I’ve been wanting to tell this story for a while now. Some of you may have already heard it, but perhaps you haven’t heard the whole thing.

It was, oh, let’s see, about fifteen years ago. I had spent the morning immersed in rehearsal, and now I was having an artist date: lunch and shopping at a mall in the city. I had some money to spend, and I was enjoying myself. I’d had sushi for lunch, and had just bought a gorgeous pottery mug, earthy purple and brown, adorned with figures dancing by the fire. (I still have that mug.)

Then I went into the bookstore next door, and began poking around.

I was having a wonderful time. I was in total artist date mode: blissfully solitary, delighting in my own company, following my nose and open to everything. Wide open. That’s the best explanation I can offer for what happened next.

I saw a book. Maybe you’ve seen it yourself. It became fairly popular, but at the time I believe it was still quite new, and certainly I’d never seen it before: Why Cats Paint.

I picked it up, and began flipping through the pages. I was enchanted. Wow! There are people who believe that cats paint? Cool! Hey, maybe they do! Why not, after all? Yeah, why not? This is fabulous!

I bought the book, of course. It was that kind of day. Besides, I was eager to know more. I flipped through the pages on the train ride home, splashing joyfully rather than drinking deeply. I was so happy.

Then I got home to my partner, and excitedly showed him the book. “Look at this!”

He looked at it. Smirked. “Cute. It’s a joke, of course.”

“What? No, it’s not a joke! I know it looks like one, but they’re serious! The authors have — wait, let me show you…”

And I looked.

But something had changed.

Suddenly, it was a joke.

Satire. Rich, detailed satire. Tongue firmly in cheek. Sly, witty, droll.

How could I have missed it?

I was so embarrassed, I couldn’t even bear to keep the book. I ended up giving it as a birthday gift to a friend who loved cats. I think she liked it. She certainly seemed to appreciate the humor.

Before I gave it to her, though, I showed the book to a number of other people. Most of them chuckled: very cute, a good joke. Only a very few people lit up inside, eyes widening, and said, “Wow! Is this true?”

(They were my siblings. Coincidence? I’m guessing not.)

The whole thing is still a bit of a mystery to me. I mean, I’m not an idiot, and I’m usually not a fool. I understand satire; I love satire. And no, there were no pharmaceuticals or other foreign substances involved — nothing tangible, anyway.

For a few hours, I lived in a world where cats might paint.

And it was beautiful.

Perhaps I’ll find my way back there someday.