Dreamtime Dreamscape: Empty Closets

My dreams lately have been few, and hard to remember. This happens for long stretches of time. I'm on a new medication for my migraines, I wonder if this is partially to blame. I did have one dream of which I remember fragments.

I was at the house I grew up at in Minnesota. I was cleaning out my bedroom closet. This was a chore I had to do a lot as a kid. I was cleaning it out because we were going to do a garage sale. I got distracted halfway through cleaning it, and so everything in the closet was taken out and something happened to it.

Things happened, I don't remember what exactly. Some of it was important, but I don't know why. I went to this flea market to buy some things. It was behing held under a huge white circus tent. I needed to get a gift for my husband, who was having a birthday. I wanted to get him something he wouldn't expect.

I wandered through aisles of random tables of items until I got to a white room, tucked in the back of the tent. It had hardwood floors, and exactly like my bedroom back home, only it wasn't the bedroom I had been cleaning. The bedroom I cleaned had been as it was as I was a child, with blue carpet stained by too many art projects, a bunk bed, and closet filled with clothes half hanging all over the place. This was the bedroom as it was after I left the house, with white walls and hardwood floors, where the closet was as perfect as a Martha Stewart closet, with labeled matching boxes filled with unknown items that were never mine. It felt wrong to be in the room, looking at that strange closet that had once been mine. It was alien. Looking into a mirror and instead of seeing one's own face, a stranger's eyes looked back.

I turned away from that clean, pristine closet to see the white walls and hardwood floors stretched out far past the dimensions of my bedroom had plastic folding tables lined with plastic tubs filled with oil paintings. I looked in one of the tubs. The paintings were signatures of famous baseball players written in multiple languages. Each player had painted their signature in beautiful font in five languages, in a color of their choice. They were works of art.

I decided to find one of my husband's favorite baseball player and buy his signature. I started searching down the tubs.

At some point my dream must have shifted, because I don't remember much beyond this. I do remember a feeling of satisfaction that I found such a perfect gift for my husband, and a general sense of sadness about the closet that was no longer mine. I suppose I feel a general sense of sadness about that house. It's been sold, so I'll never see that bedroom again, but that room hadn't been my room for years.