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“I don’t know about dreams being ephemeral,” Jess said, by way of greeting as she shook the rain from her umbrella and settled into the seat opposite me on the cafe terrace. “Mine are sticky. They stick around at least until my first coffee, so – hey –,” she waved to the waiter, “a latte please.”

Jess is a friend, not a client, and – strangely – the second person in two days to casually mention a ‘dream hangover’ feeling.

“It’s like I need to get on with my day,” Jess continued, a little on edge compared to her usual self, “but I’m sidetracked by bits and pieces of the dream still floating around in my mind. Difficult to focus. Kind of foggy brained. Discombobulated. I want it to stop!”

Personally, I enjoy being in that liminal space between the dream world and whatever schedule requires me to be fully present in my day. I allow time for it. Even if that means getting up early. Time to transition, to float, to gently find the connection between my dream and my waking life. To let the gifts of the night lighten my day.

When I sense a dream has more to offer me than time allows, I write it down so that I can return to it later, breathe it back into life, step inside its beating heart, and listen.

Sometimes an element of the dream – a feeling, a symbol, a mystery – will slide alongside me during my day, inviting me to ask myself why it made itself felt at that moment. There’s usually a connection between what was happening, or what I was feeling, and the dream. Two worlds merge, reminding me that my dream world is not a separate entity. It is a greater and wiser part of my being.

So for me, sticky dreams are desirable, even if they’re dark and confronting. They are the call of my inner world, a tap on the shoulder, an invitation to listen and grow.

“Jess,” I said, reaching out to hold her hand. “So many people ask me how to remember their dreams because they’d love to have the opportunity to discover their wisdom. For you, it seems it never rains but it pours. Perhaps it’s time to see the dream deluge as an abundance of opportunity rather than a tsunami of overwhelm.”

“And practically speaking?” she laughed, pointing to the cascading ribbons of rain beyond our sheltered terrace.

“If you listen to one dream, you may discover your dreaming mind becomes less insistent. All those dreams are knocking heavily on your door, sticking around like glue, trying to get your attention. Instead of trying to flick them away, choose one. Honour it by writing it down. That single dream may stick with you, may walk beside you, may pull on your heartstrings, and when you let it in, the overwhelm subsides.”

“So, it’s a reframe,” Jess said. “A blessing not a curse.”

I’d like to say a rainbow appeared, but it didn’t. It was still raining. But wait. I’m a writer. I can introduce a rainbow, metaphorical or otherwise.

A rainbow appeared.

There, done. All tied up in a colourful bow.

One story prompted by two different people mentioning a ‘dream hangover’.

My message is simply this:

When there’s a big issue at stake, our dreaming mind can step up the drama to draw our attention. It may try to show you what you need to know by coming at it from different angles in different dreams, like a friend telling you one hundred stories to illustrate the same point when one story would suffice if only you listened.