I've gotten into the habit of referring to my former incarnation (who I've been the last ten to twenty years) as a Hapless Bohemian, or, sometimes, a Reckless Bohemian. This is the persona that has been mostly at the helm of the ship that is my life. I feel certain that if I am to proceed on this journey in a way that will make the next twenty years meaningful, the Hapless Bohemian must step down. For a little while, I was having extreme thoughts like, "The Hapless Bohemian must die." That was the anxiety talking, I think. The Hapless Bohemian just needs to take a load off and realize she's not in charge any more.
So in the wake of these kinds of thoughts, I had a night filled with dreams, all of which seemed to be about crowded spaces and a big, ramshackle run-down historical house. In the part I most vividly remember, I found myself alone in a room full of relics and artifacts--a dress Joni Mitchell had worn on a record cover, and a suit of Neil Young's. I felt a sense of awe, excitement, and nostalgia upon seeing them. My three-year-old daughter was with me. As I was leaving the room to go back into the main part of the house where I knew there were other people, a man with long, straight brown hair, a mustache, facial stubble and a black leather jacket was suddenly there forcing me back into the room. A struggle began. I was trying desperately to cry out loudly enough to be heard by the other people I knew were out there, but I couldn't form a word or make a loud enough sound and as much as I pushed, I couldn't get him off me. I kept trying and trying and finally yelled loud enough that I woke myself up.
So who is this scary seventies dude who doesn't want me to leave the room of rock n roll relics? One possibility: he's a powerful force in my psyche--a constellation who wants to keep me in an idealized, outdated dream world, filled with other peoples' stage clothes; and I'm fighting hard against him. I love the costumes, and they fill me with awe, but I also want out. I have a daughter now. I can't get lost in here. In the dream, he's so strong. He's also humorless and seemingly heartless. He's trying to push me back into that room with all his strength. It just occurred to me that he looks a lot like Sonny Bono. It's entirely possible that this illicit masculine constellation may have formed when I was a young child, raised in a household that tacitly disapproved of Sonny and Cher.
The people our parents shunned, whether they said it or not, are prime source material for our Shadows. And I can feel that even as I recognize this figure, it's very difficult for me to imagine reasoning with him. I feel that he wants to kill me, in a weird way, but maybe he's just defending himself against my injunction that the Hapless Bohemian must die.
This dream reveals an inner conflict. As I stand ready to cross a threshold from my old dream of rock stardom into a new dream of being a counselor and teacher, Sonny Bono says, "Not so fast, chica. You have to deal with me first." So much of dream work demands that we honor our disowned parts. If I simply try to discard my rock n roll past, I will not be doing the hard work of integrating this essential aspect of who I have been into who I am.
In some ways, getting my masters and entering into a real life, actual, verifiable profession, feels to me like going straight--my last chance in life to say, "Okay, okay, I want in after all." I'm catching the last train out of the station leaving for the real world. That's how it feels anyway. I want to leave Sonny behind like some homeless guy panhandling in the station. But I can't do that. I have to own that part of myself symbolized by Sonny Bono, who represented the world beyond my parents' comprehension and approval, the rock and roll performer world I fell in love with and longed for, and worked at, so much of my life. Wherever I go from here, I have to take Sonny with me.
