In The Dark About Dreams

I don’t dream often.

And when I tell you that, I’m specifically referring “sleep” dreams.

On the other hand, I daydream constantly, and it generally comes with a good amount self-talk, which is often (correction: always) audible. So, I try to limit my daydreaming to times and places when and where I’m alone.

But dreaming, in the pure sense, has escaped me most of my life. Not that I don’t dream. Pseudo-experts in the field (i.e., friends and family I know who have vivid dreams they remember and sometimes try to decipher) tell me things like, “Everyone dreams, Dave. Your brain just doesn’t let you remember them after you wake up,” or “You must not sleep deeply enough to have memorable dreams,” and other such things. They’re probably right, and I’m fine with that.

Make no mistake: I don’t discredit the value of dreams and the data we can derive from them about ourselves and our lives. (More on that later.)

But I run between not wanting to know what my dreams mean (or what others tell me they mean) and not caring what they mean. That said, I have a recurring dream that first cropped up around age 5 and came and went throughout the next three decades. I won’t share too many specifics about it; again, because I have little need or interest to find out what it means. But here a few highlights.

I’m standing in my backyard (as a 4-year-old), leaning against a white picket fence smoking a cigarette and talking to my neighbor, George Block (a 70-something guy who looked a lot like Dwight D. Eisenhower). There’s a bright yellow house in the background, and in the distance, I can hear people gathering in my garage. I’ll stop there because I feel like I’ve already shared more than I should have for you dream analyzers out there.

OK, one more thing: the people are gathering “for me” (the quotation marks are intentional; I’ll let you try to figure out why).

So, 4-year-old smoking a cigarette, leaning against a white picket fence while talking with Eisenhower’s doppelganger with a yellow house in the background: What does that mean? (Rhetorical question, but I’ll answer it as the owner of said dream: I don’t care.)

Now, you can imagine how much I didn’t care about the latest dream I remembered: me (present day) sitting at the kitchen table at my mom’s house, clipping my fingernails. Swear to God, that’s the memory. Is it worth analyzing? Or even mentioning? I say no, except possibly for comedic effect.

Why do I tell you this? I’m not sure, but I know it came from something I heard recently on a podcast from an expert (I’m thinking a neuroscientist). She was discussing the value of dreams, how they can offer insights into our subconscious and help us understand unresolved emotions, inner conflicts, etc., leading to emotional healing, and personal growth.

That sounds good, and frankly, I could probably benefit from all of that. Thing is, I just don’t remember my dreams. And I’m thinking the ones I do (as represented by the two vignettes I’ve just shared) seem too absurd and inane to analyze. (I realize that’s a clumsy and closed-minded attitude; forgive me if I think my dreams––the ones I remember anyway––are simply comedy skits).

When I was a kid, I had nightmares, mostly because I was afraid my older brother was going to be conscripted into the war in Viet Nam. These were not absurd or inane; the scenarios that played out in these dreams were stripped right from the headlines and newscasts of the day. The only difference is that Mark (my brother) was smack in the middle of those stories.

Mark was drafted but luckily wasn’t called into battle. Nonetheless, as a little kid, even though my mom would assure me that Mark was safe and far from the fighting, I didn’t understand what was going on. All I knew is he was gone, apparently to a place where people were dying.

Then, two years later he came home and the nightmares stopped … eventually.

But I digress, though I feel like this entire piece has been one big digression; a stream of consciousness without a beginning, an end or even a point.

I guess I just wanted to use that first part as an introduction to telling you about my latest dream (the nail clipper/kitchen table mystery) because I am curious about that one. What significance does the nail clipper hold? And why was I clipping my nails at my mom’s house? And in the kitchen? Sound like someone solved a game of Clue: “It was Youngest Son Dave, in the kitchen, with a nail clipper.”

Not much to go on, is there? Or maybe there is, I just don’t know what to make of it all. Again, if you know, or if you think you know, you don’t need to share (though that recurring story from my early childhood was a doozy, and you’d probably think the same if I shared it in its entirety).

That said, I certainly support the folks who do analyze and derive meaningful data from their dreams or the dreams of others, especially if it helps resolve inner conflict or addresses trauma.

Maybe someday I’ll tell the whole “4-year-old, standing at a picket fence, smoking a cigarette while talking to George Block” story and let someone––maybe a neuroscientist––take a whack at it.

But for now, I’m OK being in the dark about all of it; even the nail clippers.

Here’s to pleasant dreams: both those we have at night and those we (or at least I) have all day long.

© 2026 David R. Haznaw