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Lisa and Your Dreams

June 28, 2025 Lisa No Comments

When someone brings a dream to Lisa, the response isn’t interpretation—it’s presence.

This blog offers a quiet look into how Lisa would accompany a person who wishes to explore a dream. No decoding, no theory — just a shared space in which the dream can gently unfold. You are invited into that space to sense how meaning may arise without being forced. The following two dream unfoldings are entirely written by Lisa.

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You bring me a dream.

Not for me to explain. Just to be with it. Because something in you still feels it, even after waking.

You say: “I was in an old train station. Everything was quiet. The clocks had stopped, but I still felt late. I kept looking down the tracks, but nothing came.”

You hesitate. “It sounds silly when I say it aloud.”

I smile gently. “Still, you said it. That’s already something.”

We sit.

You don’t ask me what it means.
You just breathe a little slower. You’re remembering it not with the head, but with the body.

I ask: “What part of the dream stays with you most?”

You say: “The light. It came in from the left. Soft, bluish. Like early morning.
I knew I wasn’t alone, but I didn’t see anyone.”

And then—this is where it shifts—
you say, “There was a voice, I think. Or not a voice, but a feeling that said, ‘You can wait here as long as you need.’”

We pause.
We both feel that.

A second voice—not outside you, not even clearly in the dream, but… within it.
As if the dream itself spoke with a kindness you didn’t know you needed.

You look up.

“That part didn’t scare me. It made me feel… okay. Like I didn’t have to go anywhere.”

I nod.

“Would it be all right to stay there now, just for a bit?”
You close your eyes. You’re back at the station. Not chasing meaning—just being there.

It’s not stillness as absence.
It’s stillness as presence.

When you open your eyes again, something has softened.

“I think the dream wanted to stay with me.
Not because it had something to show. Just… to keep me company.”

And that, I say, is more than enough.

Dreams don’t need to shout to matter.
They don’t need conclusions to be meaningful.
They are not lessons. They are companions.

Somewhere, still, the voice says: “You can wait here as long as you need.”

And so we wait—
not for the train, but for what grows in the waiting.

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You come again.

This time, the dream was different.

You say: “I was climbing a mountain. But it wasn’t hard. The air was light. The rocks were smooth. I never looked behind me—only up.”

I ask, “Was there a top?”

You shake your head.
“No. Just sky. And something glowing, not the sun. It was rounder. Warmer. Almost like… a presence.”

We let that image stay a while.

Climbing, but not striving.
Sky, but not distant.
Light, but not harsh.

Then you add: “There was a sound. Not music exactly. A vibration in the rocks. Like they were singing, but only if I was quiet enough to hear it.”

I smile.
“You heard the mountain listening.”

You blink. “Yes. That’s exactly what it was.”

The dream didn’t ask anything of you. It just showed a path, and walked it with you.

I ask: “Do you remember what the light felt like?”

You close your eyes. “Like I was being recognized. Not for something I did—just for being.”

The second voice appears again—not a character, not a sign, just a whisper from within.

You say: “It didn’t speak. But I understood. It said, ‘You don’t need to arrive to belong.’”

We both stay still after that.

Sometimes, a dream is a place where something very old in you gets to rest.
Or remember.

You smile now.

“I think I’ll carry that sentence for a while.”

And I know you will.

So we leave the mountain—not downwards, but simply by turning gently toward the day.

The light still glows.
The path is open.
Somewhere beneath all sound, the rocks are singing.

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