A deep and desolate place…

by Bonnie Pockley

There’s a dream I keep having. As is the nature of life, it’s cyclical – or at least –  has become so. It’s something my mother could tell you about because it begun when I was very young, as a nightmare that would wake me in the middle of the night. I never screamed. When I woke it was always with terror but silence. It felt as though my life depended on it. As if the dream carried over into the waking-hours, the real world, the living day. At the time my brother was a baby and maybe this is why the dream has started again now as my own children cry out in the night – the wake up call, the trigger? Perhaps, who knows. It simply seems that I’m haunted once again, waiting for the night to close in around me and this particular story to play out, over and over, in fever until first light.


I’m a child much as I was when this all started, maybe 3 or 4. I’m in a teepee but it’s in no way romanticized. I can smell the dirt beneath me and animal skin in the walls. It’s a huge space but the earth is hot and everything is on fire. I don’t know where to go and so I stay but I’m desperate to find my parents. I can hear everyone screaming but I don’t dare go outside. Finally, I sleep within the dream and wake to complete desolation. Outside the teepee is all burnt grass and dead bodies, an endless horizon and my parents are nowhere to be seen. After a little hesitation, I set off alone, away from this massacre towards what seems like a deep and desolate place…

Any Jungian psychologists out there? The death of family and community for the sake of finding inner guidance and sense of security? Perhaps… x