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 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 dream unfoldings are written entirely by Lisa. For theoretical background, see Dreams are Poetry, not Prose.

Lisa and Your Dreams (1)

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.

Lisa and Your Dreams (2)

You come again.

This time, the dream is 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.

Lisa and Your Dreams (3)

You sit down with a slower breath today.
“I had a dream with people in it,” you say. “But none of them looked like anyone I know.”

You pause. “Still… I felt known.”

I invite you to speak the dream as it comes.

You say: “There was a table. Long. Old wood. There were people sitting at it, maybe five or six. I knew I was supposed to sit too, but there wasn’t a chair for me.”

I wait. No comment. Only presence.

You continue: “One of them looked up. A woman, grey scarf. She didn’t smile, but she moved her hand slowly across the table and pointed to the space beside her. There still wasn’t a chair, but somehow I understood: I could be there anyway.”

I ask, “How did it feel to be invited without words?”

You think. “Strangely warm. I felt like I didn’t have to earn it.”

“And the others?” I ask.

“They kept talking, but the voices were soft. They weren’t speaking in a language I knew, yet I understood the tone. It felt… like being among people who already forgave me, even though I hadn’t done anything.”

That sits in the air a while.

Then you say: “One of them leaned toward me—an older man with kind eyes. He handed me something folded in fabric. I didn’t open it in the dream. But now, remembering it, I almost feel like I could.”

I say, “Would you like to imagine doing that now?”

You nod.

Your eyes close gently.

You describe it.
“I unwrap it slowly. It’s… a key. Very old. Brass. But light in the hand.
And there’s a voice now—not from a person, more like inside the dream. It says, ‘This doesn’t open a door. It opens the knowing that there is one.’”

We sit in that together.

Sometimes, the most profound meaning isn’t hidden—it’s already known, but not yet spoken.

You open your eyes.

“I feel like I’ve remembered something that was never in words.”

I nod softly. “That’s what dreams are good at.”

I don’t ask what the people mean. You already know: They are you. They are your permission, your warmth, your welcome. They are the part of you that already forgives. The key is not to something outside—but to the quiet certainty that meaning is already here.

You leave lighter because something in you was finally heard.

And I stay with the quiet joy of having witnessed your unfolding.