CHAPTER 7
Searching for Myself
This dream was unusual.
It was not simply a collection of images or events. It felt more like a process. As if, in the dream, I were going through something within myself – moving through a space where old feelings no longer held the same power.
I noticed that my old emotions no longer worked the way they once had. Things that had once seemed normal to me no longer affected me. The old patterns seemed to have run their course.
And along with this came another feeling – a sense of boundaries.
Not external ones.
Inner ones.
I suddenly began to feel where I ended and someone else began.
Before, I could adapt, endure, explain other people’s actions, search for excuses for them. But now, a quiet understanding had appeared inside me:
I could no longer live that way.
That night, before I went to sleep, I asked to be shown who I had been in the past and what my purpose was.
The answer came.
But not in the way I expected.
I dreamed of my grandmother.
She was in in the home of a woman who had once taken my first husband away from me.
My grandmother was lying in bed, smoking a strange, oversized cigarette. Instead of paper, it was wrapped in plastic. Thick smoke was rising from it.
I looked at the smoke and knew it was dangerous.
“Grandma, the plastic could catch fife.”
I took the cigarette away from her and gave her different ones.
She looked exactly as I remember her during the last years of her life.
But there was one difference.
She was remarkably active.
As if death had changed nothing about her.
In another room were the woman’s elderly mother and her son.
They were sleeping.
We were not allowed to make any noise.
I told the woman that I had forgiven her.
Once, the mere thought of her could have awakened completely different feelings in me.
But in the dream, those feelings were gone.
No anger.
No desire to bring back the past.
No struggle.
For a while, we even became lovers. I felt no aggression from her. On the contrary, I had the impression that she was attracted to me.
Everything was strangely peaceful.
There was only one rule.
We must not make any noise.
Don’t wake the sleepers.
Then I found myself holding bags filed with food and cigarettes. I kept going through them, and the bags rustled in my hands.
Once again, I was making noise in a place where I was supposed to remain quiet.
Then the scene changed.
I found myself in a hair salon where a woman I knew worked. She was quietly telling me something, and then she said almost the same thing:
Don’t make any noise.
You might wake the sleepers.
The words followed me from one place to another.
Then I found myself outside.
I had a baby stroller with me. I stopped to rest.
Across from me sat two elderly women.
And suddenly, I saw blood on the stomach of one of them.
Immediately, I wanted to help her.
She calmly told me:
“I don’t have a stomach. For me, this is normal.”
Someone offered her some soup.
I said:
“Eat some. You’ll feel better.”
She agreed.
I genuinely felt sorry for this woman. I wanted to help her so deeply that it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
And then the dream ended.
I woke up with the feeling that I had been shown something.
But what?
Before falling asleep, I had asked to be shown who I had been and why I had come here.
Instead of an answer, I was shown my grandmother.
A woman from my past.
Sleeping people.
Smoke.
Blood.
And an unknown old woman whom, once again, I was trying to save.
And around me, the same words kept returning:
Don’t wake the sleepers.
Why?
Who were the sleepers I was not supposed to wake?
And why, among all those sleeping people, was I the one who kept walking, speaking, searching and helping?
But now I think awakening is not a single moment.
It is a journey.
Sometimes the past returns not to hurt us again.
Perhaps it comes back to see whether there is still something there that belongs to us.
In the dream, the woman I once thought I should hate was no longer my enemy.
My grandmother, who has long since left this world, was beside me.
And once again, I was trying to help someone.
Maybe some answers cannot be heard in words.
They come differently.
Through dreams.
Through strange houses.
Through people who are no longer here.
Through words that keep returning.
Through the feeling that remains in the morning, when the dream itself has already begun fade.
I feel my roots more and more strongly.
Not as a past that pulls me backward.
More like something starting behind me.
I don’t know how far this connection reaches.
But I feel it.
And perhaps searching for myself is not about finally finding the answer to the question:
Who am I?
Perhaps it is about learning how to listen.
Not to everyone.
Not to everything.
But to that quiet voice within that somehow always know the way.
I let go of everything that is not mine, everything that was never meant for me.
With a pure heart, I accept health, love, peace, well-being, and everything God has intended for me.
I trust my Father.
I am in the hands of God.
And if this dream truly was an answer to my question, perhaps I have not understood all of it yet.
I am no longer asleep.
The light is here.
DIARY BETWEEN WORLDS 