The Edge of the Deep

Last night I dreamed about a whale. I’d been led to a dark, subterranean cave, seemingly a secret portal to the ocean. My guide was someone I know. The detail of who, along with the other details of the dream, have all evaporated. It is the whale I remember.

Standing at the water’s edge, looking out into the black, I was aware of the being, large and powerful and in motion. I was afraid of what I could not see below the surface. I was excited.

I feel that way a lot—aware and afraid and excited.

After a period of patient anticipation, the tip of the whale’s head broke through and rose above the dark horizon. I could now see the unseen. I could now be sure of what I believed was beyond my sight. I’d waited dutifully until the creature emerged, and here was my proof that it had been there all along, that I was not being fooled or naive. I was delighted by its presence. I felt that perhaps it was also delighted by mine.

Of course I asked the internet what this dream meant. According to various sources, whale dreams can symbolize emotional depth, intuition, and even messages of transition being brought to the surface by the unconsciousness. If this is the case, I’m comforted. (Well trained when it comes to changes and shifts, I’ve learned to embrace transition as a means of growth, though the pressure from changes and shifts never gets lighter.) I’d also like to think that maybe this whale swam up from the depths of my subconscious to say you got this, girl. I’m going to believe this is truth, actually, because I am entitled to think whatever I want about my own dreams. Whale messages must definitely be a form of positive reinforcement from the unconscious. I’ll take it!

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I am afraid of things I cannot see. I love to paddleboard, yet I’m terrified of the unseen finned swimmers lurking below my wake. I love to travel to new places, yet I typically stumble through some anxiety as I try to navigate parts unknown, ever conscious that I don’t yet belong, hopeful that I will quickly find my way. (I always do find my way. And I make sure to never fall off my paddleboard.)

The fear of the unknown can be a daunting experience. At the beginning of a new calendar year, we’re called to peer out into the future and beg for clues about what will be gained, what will be lost, who will show up, who might walk away…so many things can happen—the imagination is inclined to go wild.

I’ve imagined that this whale was a message from my deepest unconsciousness, swimming to the surface to bring the message that I am neither alone nor shallow. Something magnificent lives here, deep within, always moving, always significant, sometimes misunderstood, and undoubtedly great. I can hold this image. I can carry this with me.

Since it is the beginning of the year I have been reading through a small stack of my most recent journals, 2020 - 2023, to be exact. I’m focusing my attention on the beginning of those scribbled pages and also the end—the Januarys and the Decembers. In one particular year (2021), I closed the year with an entry detailing a dream I’d had about mud. As my words recall, I slept through visions of myself burrowing deep beneath the surface of my life, in a dark and sticky place where I couldn’t much move. I was weighted down in my day to day, living an immensely stressful season in my life, and had no real interest in being bathed in any measure of light. I think I’ll stay burrowed in this mud a bit longer, I jotted down. It’s not yet time to rise.

In last night’s dream, my two strong legs led me down to the hidden place where this whale swam about. I was standing on solid rock, as if in a cave, and I could have easily jumped into the dark water to swim or climbed up and out of the underground, into the light. No weight held me down or kept me captive. I was free to move in any way I wanted, and I was happy to make contact with this gargantuan creature that moved fluidly in the dark. And even more, I was happy to see it emerge.

It’s fun to be curious about stories our minds tell us when we are sleeping. I’ve enjoyed thinking about this whale. I’m glad I got to meet her. I hope she keeps swimming and I hope she’s happy.

No mud in sight.
Somewhere above there is light.
I am free to rise.

Photo: Looking Glass Falls, Brevard, NC, Fall 2023