I dreamt that I was skiing, whipping down the slope with the wind cutting through my hair and stinging my cheeks. The powder beneath my feet was soft, forming a wake as my skis glided across the surface. Ahead of me, the open slope was untouched by other skiers. I let momentum take control as I flew down the mountain. Minutes later my flight was cut off by a cliff. I stopped short and peered over the edge. About thirty feet below me was the bluest, clearest water I had ever seen. Tucked in an alcove, the small lagoon created its own oasis in the middle of the frigid mountain. Steam floated off the surface of the water, fogging the brisk air at the high altitude. Hanging gardens stretched from the overhang towards the water, and instead of flowers, sapphire gems grew from the branches, the same color as the water. Icicles dripped from the cave’s walls, and I wanted more than anything to take off my snow gear and submerge myself in the hot spring. There were no other skiers on the trail, so I popped my boots out of their bindings and pulled them off my feet. I stepped into the snow, which was not cold, but rather soft and dry. A set of stones formed a staircase leading down toward the water. Breaking through the snow, I made my way to the first stone. I began to walk down the steps, bracing myself against the cave’s wall to keep myself steady. When I reached the bottom, I closed my eyes and inhaled the sweet-smelling fog. But when I opened my eyes, my oasis was gone. I had returned to my dark bedroom.
The Rapid Eye Movement (REM) cycle is the lightest cycle of sleep, occurring every ninety minutes in increasing increments depending on how long the subject is asleep. Within this period, the eyes move rapidly, as the name suggests, in all directions. It is said that when we dream, our bodies are paralyzed by the glycine chemical, preventing us from physically acting out our dreams. Our eyes, however, remain active. Looking to the left in a dream means looking to the left in your bed. This state only lasts about ten minutes until the current of deep sleep pulls us back under into darkness.
I was thirteen when I first heard the term lucid dreaming, which occurs when a person is aware that they are dreaming, therefore allowing them to control it. I was immediately hooked. I dreamed of escaping my life, which seemed to be spiraling rapidly, and wanted more than anything to create an alternate universe in which I could live free of fear, judgment, and the laws of physics. I wanted to be in control.
I had read about reality checks, the first step of a successful lucid dream. Becoming aware of the mundane things that are impossible in real life, but doable in a dream, was the most important step in realizing I was dreaming, giving me the ability to control it. In a dream a spinning top will never fall. I started carrying a coin around with me everywhere I went. I would spin it every time I found a flat surface, hoping that one day it would spin forever. I became addicted to spinning this coin until I had created a habit and I was spinning it in my dreams.
I became a pro. I spent each day just looking forward to going to sleep at night so that I could reenter my dream world. I inhaled for seven seconds, held it for four, and exhaled for eight. Repeating this process ten times, I began to slowly enter my dream. I felt my body become paralyzed, but I felt like I was awake. I began to conjure up the image of the oasis in my mind. I began to enter the Sleep Paralysis phase before I let go of my consciousness.
My heart rate tripled the moment I saw the dark, hooded figure out of the corner of my eye. I messed up. I let my subconscious take over too early. Night terrors occur when there is a mismatch in the timing of the slow entrance into the subconscious. I knew I was dreaming, but it felt so real. I didn’t even remember closing my eyes. As the figure approached me, I could not scream. I could not kick when it began to reach over my bed. I could not force myself awake because I was already in between waking and sleeping. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed to wake up.
Instead of waking up, I began to see swirls of colors that occur when we enter the hypnagogic state called phosphenes. Phosphenes form in two different ways: when we rub our eyes, and when we are on the verge of sleep. I repeated the mantra in my head: body asleep, mind awake. With telekinetic power, I manipulated the colors and shapes of the phosphenes into an elaborate, realistic dreamscape.
I found myself in a bedroom with a slanted ceiling. The lights were off, but I could see my suitcase and my ski gear exploded on the bed. The wooden walls stretched high above my head, and opposite the bed was an entire wall of glass that overlooked the village. The lights twinkled in what seemed like a Morse Code pattern that I could not decipher. It was dark outside even though the clock read 3:47 p.m.. The mountain was still open and I was still thinking of the oasis. I looked around for my skis so that I could ride the chairlift again and search for it hidden in the mountain. But before I could reach the doorknob, I woke up.
I had this recurring dream for weeks, but I never found the oasis again. I explored every mountain, skied every trail, but I could not remember where I had found it first. It was driving me crazy in my dreams. I searched for it as if my life depended on it, as if submerging myself in that water would make me invincible.
Each night I re-attempted my search, the outcome was the same. Starting in the cabin, I fumbled around for my skis and boots. I exited through the front door and herringbone-stepped up the trail on my skis so that I could make it to the chairlift before it closed. The thirty-foot journey seemed to take hours each time. By the time I made it, the lift was either deserted and closed, or I would make it, but then get lost on the hundreds of trail combinations to choose from at the summit. I began to panic, and although I did not know why I needed to go back to this place so desperately, the obsession began to take over. A coin appeared in my hand, and suddenly I knew what I had to do. I popped my skis off and raced for the cabin. Almost knocking down the chair at the kitchen table, I slammed the coin down on the table. With trembling hands, I balanced the coin on its edge, and flicked it so that it would spin. I waited. But it never stopped. My breathing deepened as I began to feel awake within my dream. I squeezed my eyes shut and pictured myself standing at the base of those stone steps again, feeling the steam of the crystal water warming my body. I imagined the soft snow beneath my socked feet and the contrast of the wind against the protection of the cave.
I was addicted to lucid dreaming. I spent my entire day researching lucid dreaming techniques, and practiced them every night. I kept journals of my dreams because I had learned that writing down my dreams each morning before getting out of bed was imperative to learning how to control them. I still have the two full yellow notebooks in the drawer of my nightstand. I started lucid dreaming every night, and oh, the adventures I had. I could do anything. I traveled to the mountains, I jumped off cliffs, I defied the laws of physics and I cheated death. Each morning I woke up feeling as though I had not rested at all, but I didn’t care because I had a new story to write in my book, a new exhilarating memory to get me through the day. I was in control and I felt powerful.
My best friend at the time was the only one who shared my obsession with dreams. We would sit and talk for hours about the times we hang glided over canyons, drove down highways at 300 miles per hour, and stayed in luxury suites in exotic new places every night. After the fifth time I had my oasis dream, I rushed to tell her about the place that seemed to be dragging me in from my waking life. Her face immediately lit up. She told me she could help me find it. That night, we began to try shared dreaming.
Shared dreaming occurs when both subjects are lucid and meet in a dream. Once both people agree that they are in a shared dream, their brainwaves synchronize and they can wake up remembering the same dream. This works best if both people agree on a meeting location, already preparing their dreams to synchronize in a contained space.
We prepared for days, talking for hours about where we would meet and at what time, and what we would do when we arrived. I drew pictures of the cabin and the oasis so that she would be able to visualize it, and I described the mountains nearby so that we would be able to find each other. By the end of the week we were ready. Before going to sleep, I sent her a text. “11:00 in the cabin?” She responded minutes later: “11:00 in the cabin.” I closed my eyes and slipped into my dream.
I found myself in the cabin almost immediately. I could see her across the room, but a barricade stood between us. It wasn’t long before a man appeared, chasing me down. I was trapped in the corner of the bedroom, with nowhere to run. That was all I remember before I woke up.
It was short-lived, but it worked a few times like this. Each time we would get closer to finding it, until something would block us from continuing. But each time I would describe my dream to her, she would fill in details that I didn’t mention. I told her about the bedroom with the slanted ceiling, and she described the knots in the wooden walls. I saw a wall of fire between us, preventing us from speaking and moving forward; she reminded me that it was blue. It was truly unbelievable. Most people don’t buy it when I tell this story, but I swear it’s true.
We never found the oasis, and I eventually gave up trying. My love affair with connecting my dreams and reality and the world I created for my subconscious is now just a faraway land that I revisit now and then. I began to shift my focus to my waking life. I started to let myself lose control, and I felt so much more alive. I finally woke up.