I’ve told you before about my vivid dreams. They’ve followed me through my life. It may be because I was desperately lonely, or perhaps because of my childhood traumas, it’s hard to know.
But there’s always one thread, common to all my dreams, ever since the first.
When I dreamed of war. I had a role in it.
I fought in more than twenty throughout my life, all on different planets, with different people, but nearly always in the same situation. I was the captain of a team, orchestrating missions. Sometimes they were secretive stealth missions, like the one where we had to sneak into a pristine, white, futuristic building through its air system.
Others were larger, messier missions with thunderous spacecraft coming down from the skies to unload more troops. I can still feel the dry, hot air mixed with burnt, orange sand blowing hard onto my exposed face.
The wars spanned decades. I've woken up many times at the point of being killed. In battle, death was sudden. Sometimes I saw it coming, I was ready. Other times I didn’t, an unexpected bomb, gunfire, sacrificing myself for my team. In every instant, before the very second of death, I was at peace. Every time, it felt for those few moments as if I had fulfilled my life’s purpose.
Waking from those dreams in a lofted princess bed with dolls all around me was a jarring experience.
I reminisced about that powerful person leading a company of men and women into battle, thinking...was that really me?
Traveling back and forth between music, dance, ballet, tumbling, and tap lessons, nothing ever came close to the exhilaration I felt during my wartime dreams.
The closest I ever got was our trip to Russia. Playing on the floor of our hotel room in Moscow. We were staying at a run-down place that served cow tongue, apparently a delicacy there, and meeting Mikhail Gorbachev, although I had no clue who he was at the time. I only knew him as the bald man with a map on his head.
After Russia, I clearly remember thinking, “What is my life's purpose now?”