In my early forties I had a series of bridge dreams. In one of the most dramatic ones, I was on the verge of crossing in a car when I realized the bridge was incomplete. I had almost driven off the end of it, and had to back slowly away, heart in mouth.
Other dreams involved bridges that were half-underwater. In one I waded through soft sinking sand; in another I got soaking wet and ruined a white coat that I was fond of, knowing at the end of the dream that I would not be able to wear it again.
Then one night I received the dream vision of the completed bridge that I had seen partially constructed in earlier dreams. It was a high shimmering rainbow span and I marveled at it. That ended the series of bridge dreams.
Around that time, James Hollis was on CBC radio talking about the psychological tasks of maturing. Middle age, he said, raised new questions about our identity. Who are we, apart from our roles? He also said bridge dreams symbolized the transition from external authority to internal authority, and I liked that idea.
Recently I had another bridge dream. I was in Regina, though it looked more like Edmonton, bisected by a deep gorge with a river running through. To make the crossing, I had to climb down some steps that had been carved into the rocky wall of the canyon.
Venturing down, I saw that the bridge was just a river ford. The stones were jagged, slippery and half-underwater, and the current was fast. I woke before I could cross. Now I await the next bridge dream of what I hope will be a new series.
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