I have had an entire lifetime of unusual experiences. Over the years I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut about them unless invited by someone else to share. Sometimes even that personal code is tossed out the window. This is one of those times.

The other night I had a “dream”. I choose that word knowing it doesn’t fit the experience but since it happened when my physical body was sleeping, that’s the word we all will understand. Nothing in this dream offered any clue that it was a dream event, other than the fact that I could go forward and back in Time. Some of my friends will call that astral or soul travel, not dreaming.

They Find Me

A woman, whom I know only from my dream wanderings, has found me crouched in a corner of a room in her house. I know this woman. She has an enormous farmhouse with many wings and rooms situated on the outskirts of an even more gigantic property that consists of a huge horse stable, mall-like shops, and manufacturing types of businesses that employ hundreds of people. In return for free access to riding her horses and access to the entire enterprise, I clean her house and am an occasional Nanny to her children. She is a firm woman, but I’ve long ago earned her trust. I am devoted and loyal to her.

I already understand that I visit this place in my dreams many, many times, because it emulates how I grew up. From the age of ten I worked for the things I most wanted. We had our own horses growing up, but to show and train horses and teach myself to ride, I worked for several stables. The one I loved the most was next door to where I lived. So many life lessons, even the most harsh, occurred there and it is no wonder that my mind has created a version of it to visit to this day.

And so it is in the large house I am discovered in terrible condition. My clothes are more like shredded robes and my hair is a tangled mess. I’m weak and disoriented. Gradually I realize where I am and feel grateful to be in a place where I feel safe. I’m found in this condition by the woman who owns the house. She has no age or name but I always know her by her “presence”. Typically unflappable, she is upset to find me in such bad shape, and asks how I got that way.

Here is what I told her. As I did so, I re-lived it and experienced every emotion as if it was just happening.

Hostage Takeover

A group of friends and I are inside bar, location unknown. I’ve never seen it before, nor do I recognize anyone I’m with. Suddenly all hell breaks lose! Three men, obviously of Middle Eastern origin, brandish their guns and shout at everyone to get to one side of the room. There is a tall “leader” man, seething with hatred. A smaller man, who seems of little consequence, stands to his right. Another man, who appears to be less evil, is next to the smaller man. All three surround the cash register and shout orders. We are hostages in the bar, for reasons unknown.

The bar goes dark, so that the only light is a candle here and there. Time passes as we wait for something to happen. I think later that we were waiting for a demand to be fulfilled or rescue. I feel compassion (!) for these men, despite being absolutely scared out of my mind. I don’t remember what I said, but I made an attempt to talk to the men, and one of them responded by yanking me from the group and forcing to sit on a stool closer to the cash register. He stood behind me but answered my questions.

As the “dream” continued, the man and I talked to one another. The leader was annoyed as hell but didn’t interfere. To show that he wasn’t softening up, the man I was speaking with would periodically wave his shiny knife in front of my face. He would lean into my ear to tell me I could die. Each time he did that I froze in terror, thinking he would cut my throat at any minute. Eventually he sat on the stool to my left, put down his weapon and we carried on a casual conversation. He admitted to me that he liked me because I was willing to listen and hear what he had to say and that I had asked to learn what was making them so angry.

I remember we got to comparing customs and rights for women. I stood up for American women and he thought I was funny. I told him having so many wives would make me jealous and he grinned at that. His anger slipped away. I could feel him liking me and I was no longer afraid of him either. Meanwhile, around us, were terrorists and hostages. In a sudden flash of light and noise, a huge commotion erupted. The hostages were screaming and there was movement everywhere. As a show of force about how serious the terrorists were, the leader shot and killed the smaller man on the spot. This must have happened just before there was a rescue because in the chaos that happened after he did that, all I remember is being harshly grabbed and removed from the scene under cover of darkness and amid bullets and screaming voices.

Kidnapped

Time shifts at this point. It sped up and slowed down in spots where I may have needed to know something. I told the lady in the house that my hostage taker had compassion for me and didn’t want me killed or harmed. Against his leader’s wishes and going against their rules, he kidnapped me, took me home and I become one of his wives. I even bore him a child! He showed me respect and we educated each other as our relationship grew. I became comfortable with my new life, although I disliked being one of the wives. However, I also discovered it was not as horrible as I had imagined it would be because of how well I was treated by everyone. I found comfort in the Muslim way of life and adapt. My captor is a large man, with kind liquid brown eyes, but I never learned his name. There was no exposure to any type of cruelty.

Time leaps forward again. The USA had managed to rescue me from my captivity, brought me home and interrogated me. I refused to talk. If I admitted I had grown fond of my Muslim captor, I knew they would call it “Stockholm Syndrome” and I didn’t honestly feel that was the case. I had developed feelings for him and internally was confused about it. If I admitted I may have loved him, I knew I’d be crucified by everybody and called crazy. I knew that if I spoke about the experience, the media would try to find him and his family or try to find the child I had with him, so I refused to tell them about the baby or give any information about my life there. For that, I was mentally roughed up by the US interrogators who wanted information on where to go after terrorists.

In the end, I was dumped off at the lady’s house. I walked in to find the house was empty. I wanted to take a shower but was too weak to do so. I wound up choosing to sit on the hardwood floor in the lady’s own bedroom because it was the only place I found comfort.

After I told her my story, I woke up.

What the heck?

So, was this a dream? I woke up feeling as though I had been in a coma. It took all day to feel like I was here again. Was this just a very active dream from an overactive imagination? Was there a message for me? What would I have done if I had been in that situation? Would I have REALLY reached out to listen and try to have an open mind or would I have cowered in fear like everyone else?

I’d love to hear what you think.

Cre8pc says no topic is too strange or taboo at Akesana, so I decided to tell the story about how I became known as “Dancing Thunder”. Everybody thinks it’s an odd tale, but it is a true story, so here goes.

Sometime around 1993 I began having a series of dreams in which I was meeting my lover in a secret place in the mountains somewhere in the Carolinas of the United States. Ever since I can remember, I “felt Indian”. My ancestors are Cherokee. My grandfather told stories of a Cherokee woman in our family tree who married a French Canadian. In my heart, I always felt like I knew her, but of course, there was no sharing this with anyone.

In my dreams I was running off to see my lover. We’d meet at a certain rock that jutted out from the edge of a hillside thick with evergreen trees. From our meeting spot you could look out and see the valley below. It was incredibly beautiful. There were no houses, no buildings and no people anywhere. My lover was a tall Native American man. He was older than me and wise. I never understood why we seemed to be hiding. I did, however, get a sense that he was a warrior and in some of the dreams I was saying goodbye to him. I sensed that there were wars against the white man at that time and I was caught up in love with a man who fought them.

As the dreams continued, I began to “remember” bits and pieces about the Trail of Tears. I remembered the dread and agony of  saying goodbye to my home. In my waking state, during this time, I had tremendous urges to go to the mountains. I live near some and would often drive out to be in them. On one such trip I was driving along the highway and a huge thunderstorm rushed in. Lighting was everywhere and to my surprise, I could hear a sizzle of electricity near my rear view mirror. I believed the mountains had a message for me.

In my dreams, I learned my name was “Timid Thunder”. I loved this name! It described me perfectly! I’m very shy. I’m not comfortable around people unless I know them. But, if I come across anything unjust or unkind, I develop such fury. I can rebel and spin on a dime when I or someone I love is threatened.

Months of these dreams turned into years. By the time I got AOL and a computer, sometime in 1994 or ‘95, I was used to them. I had grown my hair long and studied Native American spirituality, metaphysics, and read everything I could on karma and reincarnation. Because by this time, as you may have figured out, I thought I was remembering a past life.

In those days, it was unusual to use your real name in AOL chat groups and places where like-minded folks gathered to discuss topics of interest. I had joined many spiritual and metaphysical groups to meet people from around the world who were also exploring and asking questions about religion, dreams, eastern traditions and so forth. I used the name “Timid Thunder” as my computer name.

That is, until my online friends got to know me! Before long, I was teased for the “Timid” part. It was clear I could be the “Thunder” part. I loved feeling like I had a dancing soul…free, non-judgmental, open minded, and oh, yes….loving laughter and sharing new ideas, no matter how ridiculous they may sound at first.

One day someone emailed me with a scolding that included the sentence, “And, by the way, you are in no way TIMID Thunder! You need to change your name to what you really are!” And with that, I switched it to “Dancing Thunder”.

The name became mine for years. Even my family stopped calling me by my birth name and called me “DT” or “Dancing Thunder”. All my friends at home and especially new friends called me Dancing Thunder. It was a name that just felt perfect.

In time, the dreams stopped. I kept my studies going and to this day, anyone who knows me is aware of my love for all things Native American. I connect, somehow, with the strong Cherokee woman who was respected by men and honored in her later years as a wise ancestor.

For now I am older, and while I no longer search for my lost lover and mourn my homeland, I am proof that a dancing heart lives on forever, lifetime after lifetime.

I am a house person.  I’m not sure what that means, but according to my dreaming mind, houses are the key to understanding me. I just wish I could understand house language.

Creepy House

In the 1980’s I had a series of nightmares. For weeks on end, I’d dream of this old gray farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere, with a long driveway leading up to it.  I’d enter the house and it would heave and bellow at me pure evil. The walls would threaten to crush me alive. The windows bled red oozing blood. It had a voice and that voice ranted and screamed and threatened to kill me.  I thought for sure I was losing my mind.

In my waking life, I was out of control.  I could trust no one.  I was engaged and that broke up. I dated again and found that guy in bed with another girl. I had no idea who I was but I believed that I would never be loved.  A series of events culminated in my making the decision to walk away from all the things that made no sense and were hurting me. And the bad house dreams ended.

Green Street House

Another house comes to my dreams and has never stopped.  It’s based on a real building, where I lived in poverty.  The landlord let me have an apartment in an unfinished section of a building, where light bulbs hung from the ceilings, there was no drywall so I looked at pink insulation and it was old and dirty.  I made my home there, went to work every day and never showed anyone where I lived.

I continue to return there in my dreams. Only now, the building is much larger and beautiful!  It has grand staircases, thick draperies, halls leading to rented apartments and always, there is a room for me.  In my dreams, I escape from wherever I am, drive to this building and stay in my apartment that awaits me.  I’m never expected to pay any rent. In some dreams, my landlord is a grandfatherly type.  In some dreams, he was my husband and we had a daughter. In other dreams I brought friends to my apartment.

I’ve been to see the building.  Indeed, it was renovated and is now a gorgeous apartment building in the city.  And to this day, when I’m under stress, I go there in my dreams to rest.

Parents House

Two houses have competed for my attention since I was 18 years old. One is the farmhouse I grew up in.  I always go there in my dreams. It’s been renovated so that the bathroom is larger.  It has more rooms and is filled with antiques and collectibles.  The house glows in a soft, reddish gold light.  Nobody ever goes there except for me.  Outside the house, in my dreams, I’m always alarmed because an entire town has been built around my house.  In reality, the house is not far from where I live now and I know for a fact it is as isolated in the countryside as it was when I lived there.  With this house, I’m always protective and usually uneasy.

The other very common house dream consists of a house that I’ve never lived in.  It’s always my parents house in my dreams and these houses change in appearance often.  Typically they have two kitchens. And always, these houses are gigantic!  They’re empty, hollow, dark and eerie.  Sometimes my parents are in them and they welcome me.  My mother always has flowers around. I seem to be invited to drop by anytime.  Every once in awhile the larger, more overwhelming house is replaced by a smaller, cozier house in the country.  Those versions also have many rooms.  These rooms tend to be decorated expertly and everytime I walk around them I marvel at their beauty.  When I visit a parents house, they seem out of reach.  They’re there but not.  But I’m always welcome to be in their house.

Some people have totems. Some can hold gemstones and get an inner message. Some people hear voices.

I dream in houses.  Real estate, in my dreaming mind, may be more than real.