I am in a huge builders merchants' yard. Workmen are milling around, busy on an important task - something has to be found out, uncovered.
I pick up a plastic bag with plumbing connections in it.
"Leave them alone," I am told, "don't want you meddling with that."
I just seem to be in the way.
Then I find a stack of old papers, all in handwriting that is not easy to decipher. It goes back years. I am convinced this has the answer to everything the men are searching for and I say to one of them,
"Let me look through these, I am sure I will find the truth here." The men are a bit dismissive, they don't share my conviction but they are happy for me to take this dusty heap away.
As I start to look through it my heart sinks, there is so much there and it's really hard to read, I'll never get anywhere.
Slowly I begin to sift through the paperwork, writing down each tiny detail. A woman (about 30-35 with long straight hair) sits with me.
"Let's work out what this is all about. Someone's life is at stake- its about someone's life, a record." (I see an image of Beachy Head cliffs.) The documents seem to be about this woman.
Now I find pictures and objects within this pile of papers- there are three knitting needles, maybe 2'6"long, and they are covered in knitted wool in soft,"feminine" pastel shades of flame. The needles remind me of bullfighting spikes or spears or something to do with electricity like lightning rods.
"This was the beginning - one of many projects that never led anywhere." The woman laughs and admits it was another fruitless project. (Am I slightly contemptuous of her? Do I think she doesn't have it in her to create anything deep, anything meaningful?)
There are receipts in this collection. She must have been working, she must have earnt this - sums like £320 and another for a bit less. Modest sums.
"Is there a date?" I ask the woman. We look and I arrange them in order.
The pictures I find are black and white newspaper cuttings collaged together and now a heap of old sepia family photos that I drop on the stone floor. I try to pick them up in order but muddle them a bit - never mind, I should be able to sort them out.
I am annoyed that I wake up before the puzzle is solved. There are pages of this novel, for that is what it is, that are maybe in german or russian. (So many times I start a book only to give up because the language is too hard.) This will be difficult language to decode but I know I can and must do it.
This dream has been interpreted by three eminent Jungian analysists - a very exciting process - the results of which can be viewed on Carla Young's excellent blogsite here.
