The Language of Aches and Dreams

Sometimes, I wake up feeling…off. It’s not a sharp pain, not precisely, more a general unease settled deep in my bones. Like a weight, or a persistent, dull thrumming just beneath the surface. It’s something I've noticed more since Bernard went back to work, the quiet of the house amplifying every little sensation. He always had a way of smoothing things over, you know? Not deliberately, just by being *there*. Now, those little hums and aches become much more insistent.

I read a fascinating study recently—or, well, an abstract of a study—that touched on something quite extraordinary. It seemed to suggest a direct link between physical discomfort, even when that discomfort has no apparent origin, and the content of women’s dreams. It’s easy to dismiss dreams as frivolous nonsense, mere echoes of the day’s events. But I've always suspected they hold something more, something deeper. I've long felt that dreams are the language of a part of ourselves we can’t quite reach when we’re awake.

I remember, years ago, a persistent ache in my shoulder. It would come and go, seemingly without reason. The doctor shrugged, suggested posture exercises. But I knew, somehow, it wasn’t about my posture. It was a heaviness, a burden I was carrying. And in my dreams during that time, I was perpetually searching for something lost, something just out of reach. A child's favorite toy, perhaps. A letter I needed to deliver. Always just out of reach.

Phyllis and I started having those little autumn equinox gatherings in the backyard. Just the two of us, a pot of tea, and a quiet hour or so of talk. I began telling her about these aches and pains, the dreams that felt so laden with unspoken sadness. She listened with that patient, knowing gaze she always has. She’s always had a quiet wisdom, a way of seeing past the surface. And she simply said, “Your body is speaking to you, dear. You need to listen.”

It sounds rather fanciful, I suppose. But what else *is* the body if not a speaker? We interpret its signals every day, from the pangs of hunger to the flush of embarrassment. Why should we dismiss the aches and the throbbing, the fatigue that settles in the bones? Perhaps they are trying to tell us something we are avoiding in the light of day. Perhaps they are a whisper of unresolved grief, of unspoken anxieties.

I find myself thinking about my mother, who suffered from a similar sort of persistent, nameless discomfort in her later years. She would brush it off, of course. “Just getting old,” she’d say. But I remember the shadows in her eyes, the weariness in her voice. I wonder now if her dreams were as troubled as mine seem to be. I wish I had asked her more, pushed her a little harder to talk about what she was feeling, both physically and emotionally.

The researchers, they seemed to be suggesting that women, in particular, are susceptible to this connection. I suspect it has to do with the way women are often socialized to carry the burdens of others, to absorb the pain and anxieties of those around them. We become repositories for emotional distress, and the body, poor thing, simply tries to find a way to release it, even if it doesn't know *how*. It resorts to this quiet, insistent language of discomfort.

It’s a humbling thought, really. To realize that our bodies, in their mysterious way, are trying to guide us, to warn us, to heal us. To pay attention not just to the things we *do*, but to the things we *feel*. Perhaps a little less doing and a little more listening is what we all need, especially now. I think I’ll go tend to the lavender. The scent always seems to settle the unease.