75-77/365 Lucid Dreaming
King of Thorns
March 18, 2025
I'm good and sick. The flu hit the day I got home from Mexico, and I’ve barely left the couch in three days. Lucky for me, writing isn’t too active, and I can manage with my laptop balanced against bent knees. I met with my weekly co-writing chum today for an hour—enough time to spill onto the page the vivid, almost electric dream I had last night.
A lucid dream is when you realize, mid-dream, that you are dreaming. This awareness can flicker like a candle or blaze into full control—bending landscapes, rewriting dialogue, slipping between worlds like a trickster unbound.
That was me last night. It’s been years since I’ve had one. I have my friend Walter to thank for his wise and otherworldly advice: If you feel yourself slipping into lucidity, focus on your hand. He said it would help me stay present in the dream, grounding me in its unfolding magic. I tried it, and the experience became an energetic struggle between conscious and subconscious—an inner tug-of-war.
Pantoum #75
A lucid dream battle in my quiet bed,
My hand dares to test a thistle’s prick.
I push my consciousness against the tide,
Touch turns thorn to clover—I know I have won.
My hand dares to test a thistle’s prick,
No Sleeping Beauty, and this no spindle.
Touch turns thorn to clover—I know I have won,
Tugging at the reins of the untamable.
No Sleeping Beauty, and this no spindle,
I push my consciousness against the tide.
Tugging at the reins of the untamable,
A lucid dream battle in my quiet bed.
Pantoum #76
What are the thistles in my life?
A prick of warning wakes me within sleep.
My body flinches, then leans in,
Intention shaping what words cannot.
A prick of warning wakes me within sleep—
How fierce is my longing to soften?
Intention shaping what words cannot,
Turning thorn to clover with a willing hand.
How fierce is my longing to soften?
My body flinches, then leans in,
Turning thorn to clover with a willing hand—
What are the thistles in my life?
Pantoum #77
To the thorns in my life—
Most are self-sown.
I have held hands with many,
But return to the wisdom of nettles.
Most are self-sown,
Stroked too gently, and stung for my caution.
But return to the wisdom of nettles—
Grab them boldly, and soft as silk they remain.
Stroked too gently, and stung for my caution,
I have held hands with many.
Grab them boldly, and soft as silk they remain—
To the thorns in my life.
In writing this trio of pantoums, I unraveled the truth hidden within that dream. To me, it speaks of my default desire—to soften, to smooth. But sometimes, softening isn’t the answer. Sometimes, you have to grasp the nettle.
Is it time to take the bull by the horns?
And here’s a surprise that stopped me in my tracks. I went to my bookshelf of journals, reached for the one I knew held what I was looking for, and opened it at random.
There it was—this sketch, this memory—dated March 18, exactly seven years ago.
I can hear Jim’s voice so clearly, his careful enunciation of nettle and mettle. He always clipped the final syllable like a Gimli Icelander, turning it into a near-diphthong—neh-tl, not the stretched-out neh-tul.
I guess he even grasped the sound of it the way he would a nettle—firmly, without hesitation.
Was it coincidence? Maybe. But the timing feels too precise to ignore. A message, a nudge, a reminder.
What nettle is asking to be grasped in my life right now?
INVITATION:
Dreams have a way of circling back, don’t they? Patterns emerge, words resurface, and sometimes, the past hands us exactly what we need to see. Seven years ago, I sketched and wrote about stinging nettles. Now, here I am again, grasping at meaning.
What thistles or nettles are showing up in your life? Do you instinctively soften them, or is it time to grab hold?
See you soon for #78, here in the Pantoumery.
What’s a pantoum, you say? I’m writing one each day, for a year. Learn how HERE