Islands in heaven — Acryl - 75 cm x 115 cm

An island in the sky — or perhaps a heaven reflected in the sea.
In this painting, water and air meet and form a landscape that feels otherworldly, yet not detached from the earth.

The shapes breathe, move, emerge.
They evoke islands of stillness in an unbounded awareness.
Between blue and green, a living silence unfolds.

From here, a new journey begins.
The dreams in this section no longer belong to the intense recovery phase after my stroke on January 22, 2025 — that period has been recorded in my blog.
What you read here are dreams that emerge after that initial confusion, after the physical and mental instability.
A different phase. A different state of awareness.
They mark a continuation — a journey of deepening, insight, movement.
Not to explain. But to preserve what reveals itself.

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The Power of the Small

February 15, 2026

My dream faded this morning when my husband was not feeling entirely well. He had a slight fever and looked somewhat congested. We spoke about his condition — and the dream flew away.

This time it was a dream in two parts.

In the first part I am a police inspector investigating a fire. By burning innocent sparklers, a small spark begins to smolder between the ceiling panels. Heat spreads across the entire ceiling and suddenly everything bursts into flames. The whole building burns down, with several people still inside.

In the second part I am still that inspector. Now I solve one murder after another. Through an exceptional power of observation and a developed helicopter view, she is unrivaled in her field.

At least ten murders pass by, like scenes from a thriller. I am both participant and observer.

The clues I follow are each time so small and almost insignificant — like mustard seed.

Then I wake up.

How small may a cause be to change everything?
What smolders unnoticed until it becomes visible?
Which clues do I see that others miss?
And is insight sometimes greater than the drama it reveals?

When I Am Everyone

February 14, 2026

My dog barks loudly and I wake with a start from my dream. The context disappears almost immediately. What remains are images.

I see a family sitting at a table. A mother with two sons and a daughter. It is cozy. Small teasing remarks go back and forth. Loving, warm. I am an observer, as if watching a film.

Then suddenly there is war. The family is arrested and immediately torn apart. They lose sight of one another. I am still watching as an observer.

There is an enormous concentration camp. People are treated without dignity. They are forced to hurt others. Horrific. The entire family is in this camp, but without knowing it about one another. The terrain is so vast that you do not simply run into each other.

I follow each family member individually. Then something shifts. While I am watching, I also become the person I am following. I am no longer only an observer, but a participant.

I feel exhaustion, grief, shame, and guilt for what I have been forced to do to other prisoners under the pressure of the occupiers. I am the daughter who, despite countless rapes, remains inwardly defiant. She has taught herself to rise above her body.

A situation arises in which the youngest son must whip a man. It turns out to be his older brother. I am both brothers. The perspective shifts back and forth, allowing me to be each of them. The older brother has lost an eye through torture. The younger one delivers the lashes in a way that causes as little pain as possible.

Afterward he must return to his unit.

At that moment they hear a voice. Their mother.

Joy rises in both hearts.

She too now is missing an eye.

At that moment I am also the mother.

They see one another. And in that seeing, a piece of peace emerges.

Then suddenly the occupiers flee the camp.

My dog barks again.

I am awake.

What happens when I am both perpetrator and victim?
How much can a human being endure without losing their inner core?
What does it mean to see — when an eye is missing?
And can recognition, even in the darkest field, become a form of liberation?

How Changing Form Unfolds

February 13, 2026

Everything has faded. I remember very little of the context.
Once again there were three separate parts.
The theme remained clear: disguising.

In one film it was about concealing — about not being recognized.
In another it was about changing clothes at home — from sportswear back into ordinary clothing.
And in the last part it was about dressing up.
A chic environment. Choosing a beautiful evening gown.

Then I woke up.

Which layers of me reveal themselves — and which remain hidden?
When does a change of form protect — and when does it reveal instead?
Is clothing merely external — or also a language of identity?
And who remains when everything is laid aside again?

Incredulity

February 12, 2026

Another dream in three parts.

In the first part I see a man and a woman working together. Police detectives. The woman is me. We are infiltrated into a very dangerous criminal gang. I sit at a table in a restaurant dining with the leaders of this organization. They do not know who I really am. My partner appears disguised as an older man with a walking stick and takes a seat at a nearby table. His stick is red with black dots — the same brand as the one I own myself. One of the criminals notices him and senses something is off. The tension is palpable. Mortal danger lies just beneath the surface.

There comes a moment when everything aligns and we are able to dismantle the gang. I do not remember exactly how. I do remember that it escalates. That I — the woman — am nearly killed. Literally almost run over by a bus. My partner feels the shock stop his heart. After a short but intense battle, I stand on the other side of a wide road, smiling and waving. It worked. It ended well.

In the second part I walk through a large, beautifully finished house in the middle of a forest. Single-level, majestic without being ostentatious. I explore the right wing first, return to the central round hall with its glass dome, and then move into the left wing. Impressive yet warm. I think: I could live here easily. What a place.

Then the owner comes home.
My mother.

I tell her how beautiful the house is. I say that if I were ever unable to afford a place to live, I could stay with her. With a sharp voice she replies that I should put that out of my mind immediately. I have seen enough and should leave. She literally and figuratively shows me the door. I am not angry. Only surprised. I think: what bad luck to have a mother like this. I feel incredulity.

Then suddenly I am sitting in the stands in Milan at a speed skating event. I see Joep Wennemars being hindered by his opponent, losing a second — a second that could have meant a medal. Behind me stand his father and girlfriend, both in shock and disbelief.

Then I wake up.

When do I carry risk — and when do I carry distance?
What does belonging mean when doors remain closed?
Which battles are won without knowing the details?
And when I am only an observer — what do I truly see unfolding?

When Watching Is Enough

February 11, 2026

While I am dreaming, I dream dreams I have dreamt before. I think: a repetition of moves.

I discuss this with a male companion. How do we approach this? We decide to take the bus — it costs less energy and gives space to observe what the intention might be.

We sit on the bus and watch the landscape unfold. Layered. Roads above us, roads below us. Mountains, hills, valleys, small lakes and rivers. Everything moves past us as we watch.

The bus is still moving. I am still immersed in enjoying this landscape. And slowly I begin to understand something.

At that moment I wake up.

What repeats itself in order to be seen again?
When does movement matter less than observation?
Which layers unfold when I conserve my energy?
And what is the insight that exists just beyond words?

Inventive Collaboration

February 10, 2026

Two young people — a man and a woman — are sitting downstairs in the hall of an enormous building, waiting. It is a very tall building with endlessly many floors, a space so vast that it makes you feel small. They are waiting for a conversation.

The young woman is me.
The man is a friend — or my friend — I’m not entirely sure.

I am called inside. He wishes me luck.

When I return, he is still there, waiting for me. Around him stand four large water bags. Happily I tell him that I got it too. I can work together with him to secure the water bags on the roof of the building. I receive four of those enormous bags as well.

The elevators are no longer working, so it becomes a task requiring endurance, strength, and perseverance. With determination we begin. Step by step we carry the bags upward. We work day and night. Very soon we realize that cooperation is the only way forward. Individually it is too heavy.

Eventually, eight bags stand on the roof.

So high that you look out over the world.

I look around and say to him,
“I think we’re not finished. We need to build a solid storage space to protect these bags. This probably wasn’t thought through properly.”

He nods.
“I agree.”

Then I wake up.

What burden do I carry — and which ones do we carry together?
What asks to be protected once it has been brought to the top?
Is effort the goal — or the building that follows afterward?
And when I look out over the world — what do I see that still needs to be created?

Rediscovering What Is Mine

February 9, 2026

A dream in three stages — entirely different, yet flowing seamlessly into one another. I found myself with a small group of people at a vast expo, so large it felt like the RAI. Halls filled with movement, sound, impressions. There were four of us. A woman — an acquaintance of Ton — helped me search; I did not know the other two. We were looking for my paintings. Not to create them. Not to hang them. But to see whether we could find them again.

After wandering through the halls for a long time, we found three. We withdrew to a small back room that I apparently had rented — a place to catch our breath. Two paintings stood on the floor against the wall. Then someone asked, “Where is that painting with the tongue?” The woman walked to a table by the window and pulled it out from beneath a pile of coats.

At that moment I realized something. I do not have a painting with a tongue. And yet it existed there — in the dream — as one of mine. It was large, an enormous tongue, mirrored, constructed from countless tiny dots. The background was light salmon-pink; red dots formed the contours that revealed the tongue, with here and there a small accent of darker dots. The technique felt familiar, the execution did not. As observer I thought: I do not know this. As participant I knew: this is mine.

At that moment music began — Whatever you want, whatever you need… — ZZ Top — and suddenly the singer was simply there, in the same room, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And then, without transition, I was sitting in a car beside my husband. Not as we look, not as we once were, yet I knew it was us. I looked at him as he drove, ran my hand through his hair, and said, “I did that well.” He looked surprised. “What did you do well?” “Oh… last night I cut your hair.”

Then I woke up.

What do I search for when I look for my own work? What comes into being before it exists? What lies visible — and what hidden beneath layers? Which changes do I bring forth in love, before words appear? And when identity dissolves — what remains that says: this is us?

Between Graves and Movement

February 8, 2026

This dream jumps from film to cartoon, from seriousness to lightness, without warning.

I see a cemetery. Beautiful gravestones, sculptures, lots of greenery and blooming flowers. The sun is shining. It feels peaceful.
Then neon letters appear and I hear a voice in English: RENT.
I think: rent? To use something temporarily?
The scene shifts. Like in an animated film, coffins rise up from the graves. Not frightening — almost playful. Inside are animals, even prehistoric ones. I see a supersaurus. They emerge alive and healthy. I no longer see any people.
The voice returns, now in Dutch: FIGURE IT OUT.
Make a choice? Investigate?
In this part, I only observe.

Then everything changes.

I stand with Ton outside my childhood home. The surroundings look as they once did — country road, fields, a railway crossing. No flats, no tunnel. We are as we are now. His son approaches in the distance, speeding in a white Tesla. He drives past to turn around, and while I watch the car transforms into a scooter with a sidecar — open, unprotected. The safety belts lie loose on the ground. He is agitated, in a hurry. I give Ton a kiss before he climbs on. They drive away without helmets, without restraints.
It doesn’t feel good to watch this.
When he arrives, Ton sends me a message — as he always does. Relief. I reply and gently ask him to wear protection on the way back. He had already come to that conclusion himself after this reckless ride.
With that, I wake up.

What if life and death are only temporary forms that keep opening?
What truly asks to be explored — choosing or simply observing?
When past and present appear at once — where do I stand within time?
And when I do not only watch but care — does my place in the story change?

The Birdhouse

7 February 2026

Today there is little. No large images, no elaborate dream unfolding. My body is still working — fever that comes and goes, sweating, resting when it asks to be heard. Everything feels light, yet active beneath the surface.

Ton wakes me as agreed. The day begins simply.
A birdhouse has to be chosen. Each house is linked to a person. That person will take it on — what that actually means, I do not know. Perhaps building something. Perhaps caring for something. Perhaps simply choosing.

I look at it without needing to assign meaning.
A house for birds. A place where something may land. Where something may stay for a while without being held. Each with their own house. Each with their own gesture.

Today nothing has to be grand.
Only being present with what arrives.

What if even small moments carry their own symbolism —
not to be understood, but to be witnessed?
What if giving space sometimes begins with something simple —
choosing without knowing what may unfold next?

Crossing Over

February 6, 2026

I am asked if I would like to house-sit.
Not for a child. Not for an animal.
For a house.

I am a tall, slender, attractive woman, dressed in a shimmering silk gown.
The house turns out to be large — more a villa, set on an estate by the sea.
I am comfortable there. The space feels light and free.

Then I notice a photograph.
A classmate from primary school — or so it seems — married to Dr. Burke from Grey’s Anatomy, with their son.
I recognize the man immediately, yet I search my memory: from where again?
The answer does not come.

And then — out of nowhere — a thought appears:
“There are a thousand mice needed, boiled, to create the right tissue.”

At that moment, my waters break.
Yet I had seen no belly.

The dream continues to leap forward.
Scenes follow one another — strange, illogical — yet without confusion.

I sit behind the wheel of my car, in a small traffic queue at the edge of a village.
Behind me drives an impatient person in a white car.
I know that further ahead there is a roundabout — second exit, a bridge over a wide river.

I slow slightly, creating space in front of me.
Not for him.

When the road clears, I accelerate.
I lean into the curve, take the roundabout smoothly, and drive onto the bridge.
In my mirror I see the white car follow —
but remain far behind me.

I wake.
I feel better than yesterday.
Only the fever remains.

What asks to be carried without visibly growing?
What is forming in silence while I simply hold the space?
When impatience presses behind me — do I choose my own pace, or let myself be driven?
And once I have crossed the bridge — what have I truly left behind?

Rich — But Not As One Thinks

February 5, 2026

I am in a beautiful building. Organic shapes, clear light — everything feels open and calm.
A voice says, “You can go to work now.”

I walk through the building and begin cleaning the sauna. Apparently I am the cleaner here. Humming softly, I start my task. It is already fresh and clean; really, I am just maintaining what is there. The work flows easily, without resistance.

Then the scene shifts.
I am sitting on a balcony. Sun on my skin, an endless view stretching before me. My aunt joins me — my mother’s only sister. She sits on the ground, letting her legs dangle between the rails.
Together we look out. In silence.
The sky is clear blue.

The image shifts again.
I am in a garage where my car is waiting. A black Rolls Royce with a silver grille. The hood is open. The mechanic sees me approaching and closes it.
I step in and drive away.

On the road I smile.
I know how I am being seen. From the outside, people assume wealth.
They could never imagine that I have just been cleaning a sauna.

And I think:
Yes — I am rich.
But not as one thinks.

I wake up. My body feels warm — fever.
Within half an hour it fades.
I go to train anyway.
Good morning.

What if value is not visible in what I possess, but in how I move through what I do?
What if service and enjoyment are not opposites, but part of the same current?
Who am I when no one sees what lies behind the surface — and does it truly matter?
And when I smile at what others believe they see — where does my real wealth reside?

TAKE HIM HOME

4 February 2026

The dream is entirely in English.
Bam — a voice, loud and unmistakably clear: TAKE HIM HOME!!
I startle inside the dream itself, because before that I had been dreaming old dreams. I know this clearly while I’m dreaming: this belongs to it.
Only the word him makes me hesitate for a moment. Who is him?
I shrug my shoulders. Why would I need to understand everything?

A little later, the voice begins to sing.
The Logical Song by Supertramp.
I feel instantly happy — I haven’t heard this in such a long time.

I sing along. All of it.
I used to know the lyrics of Breakfast in America by heart — and apparently, I still do.
In my dream, I sing the entire song from beginning to end.

At the end, I start again.
But now I sing only the first verse.
Three times.

And then — pop.
I am awake.

What if “him” is not someone else, but a part of me that was once sent away?
What if coming home doesn’t mean going back, but being allowed to be who I was before everything became logical?
And what if repetition isn’t getting stuck, but a gentle way of letting something land — exactly where it once began?

MOVE

3 February 2026

MOVE! A voice shouts, loud and hard: MOVE. I am startled. Confused. Why such intense shouting? To frighten me? Or do I need to hurry? What, what, what?
Then suddenly I see a skeleton being unearthed. The obvious question is: who is it? After investigation, the police come to tell me that it is me. My rights are read to me. I am handcuffed and arrested. Because yes — who am I, then?
After further investigation and DNA testing, it turns out that I am also Annette. Now they can no longer hold me. I am allowed to go home. The question remains: how is this possible? It is a mystery.
I say nothing, but I do have my own idea. The world is not ready for that yet. Thank you, Universe, for showing this to me.
I wake up because of loud snoring beside me. My hand slides under the covers to touch Ton, but I find only a furry little ball — my dog. I am awake.

What if moving does not mean leaving,
but loosening myself from what has already been examined?
What if identity does not disappear when it dies,
but only becomes visible when it can no longer be held?
And what if silence is sometimes the only true movement,
because not everything can be shared yet —
but can already be lived?

What Has Remained

February 2, 2026

The dream shows me that something from the distant past has remained.
Or rather: that it has gently become present again — for a year now, perhaps two.

A holiday boyfriend from fifty years ago.
Always curious about how I would be doing. Through the internet he found me again. Since then, we have been in touch from time to time.

A holiday girlfriend from fifty-five years ago.
After the death of her mother, we spoke for the first time again after forty years. There is an appointment to see each other once more.

Renewed contact with a brother-in-law from forty-five years ago.
With him too, there is an agreement to meet sometime this year.

Like a film, my dream lets these people pass by.
Images from then.

Suddenly I also see myself again, sitting and watching The Deer Hunter. Perhaps that was forty-five years ago as well. The film made a deep impression on me at the time.

The friendships.
The surviving.
The choices.
And that which is meant to be.

The complexity of a life path.
How lives diverge and sometimes come together again.
The war.
The Russian roulette — for me an image of choices and chances.

Why do I need to see this again now?
Why do these particular people return in my dream?
And why does it all end with that film?

I wake up with a frown.

What if some connections have no destination, but serve as a reminder of direction?
What if what returns does not ask for repetition, but for acknowledgment?
How does it feel to see what has remained, without needing to go back to it?
And when life shows itself as a play of chances and choices —
what does that ask of me, here and now?

The Question Without an Answer

February 1, 2026

I dream extensively. During the dream I think:
Wow, I’ve dreamed this before — exactly like this.

Now that I’m awake, I no longer know which dream it was.
Only the final image feels familiar. The same ending as then.

Now something is added.

I hear a voice asking:
“Why do you have that crystal vase?”

In my mind I repeat that question ten, eleven times.
Do I need to know this?
Do I have an answer to that?

Then someone comes up behind me and embraces me.
I didn’t see it coming, but the hug from behind feels good and familiar.
It feels like having my back covered. Like protection.

The image seems to freeze —
yet it remains alive.

In the lower left corner, a large, drawn sun with sunbeams appears.
It takes up about one sixth of the image.

Then, separately, an image of me appears,
like on the tarot card The Hanged Man.
In the dream I already know: this is what it looks like.

Finally, in the first image, within the sun,
an equally large moon appears.

My dog nudges my leg like a little ram, again and again,
to literally push me awake.

And that happens.

What if not everything needs to be understood in order to be carried?
What if questions are allowed to keep sounding without an answer?
How does it feel to be supported without knowing by whom?
And when sun and moon are present at the same time —
what still needs to be chosen?

The Road Home

January 31, 2026

In my dream I am walking in a nature reserve with someone.
I am as I am now. There is a person with me, but I don’t know who.

Before we start walking, we have a drink on a terrace. After that we take a long walk. When we return, the terrace is packed.

My walking companion looks and says:
“Hey, look — there are your friends from before. You know, the people you once lived with. Shall we walk over to them?”

No, I don’t want that.
What has been is finished. It was a good time, but I don’t need to stir it up again. I don’t want to begin there again.

Then I continue walking alone along a road toward my house. It is clearly countryside. Higher up there is another road — a dike. People park their cars there to go walking.

I see a white station wagon. My former friend steps out. The friend I broke with after Michel’s transformation. She is dressed like a white yogi and now has long gray hair. Her husband is with her.

She sees me walking.
“Hi, how are you?” she calls.
“I see you’re still walking with a cane.”

She walks along the dike parallel to me and talks to me while I continue on the lower road toward my house.

Then I see the blue front door of my white house. The dike makes a sharp turn to the left just before my home. She walks as far as that bend and says she heard about my stroke.

I take the house key out of my pocket and confirm her words.
I’m doing well now. That’s what matters.

I am clearly not planning to continue this conversation or to renew the friendship.

With the key close to the lock of my front door, I wake up.

What if closing a chapter is not loss, but space?
What if walking in parallel is enough?
How does it feel to acknowledge the past without stepping back into it?
And when I already hold the key in my hand —
what am I still afraid of?

Sun Within and Around Me

January 30, 2026

The voice speaks to me.

It is time now to stop surviving.
It is time to be the child —
the one who enjoys, skips, laughs.
Especially laughing is important for you now.

Put a smile on your face every day.
Fake it till you make it.

Let the sun from within begin to guide your life.
That takes nothing away from being serious.
Laughing and having fun are not the same as being superficial.

Laughter and the sun are what you need now.
And what you can begin to breathe.

Once again:
go and find it.
call it up within yourself.

Fake it till you make it.

With those words, I wake up.

May the long-time sun
shine upon you.
May love surround you.
And may the pure light within you
continue to guide your way.

Guide your way on.
Guide your way on.
Guide your way on.

Sat Nam.

Just like flipping a coin

January 29, 2026

Very clearly, one sentence remains.
“Just like flipping a coin.”

This time, I dreamed in English.

I see a coin being tossed into the air. It spins fast. Very fast. So fast that it doesn’t seem to fall. It remains suspended in the air, without an outcome yet.

The coin is not round.
It has the shape of a thick comma — but upside down, with the point facing upward.
Yellow. Gold-colored.

It spins.
And lingers.

There is nothing more.

What if the decisive moment is not the outcome, but the spinning itself?
What if remaining suspended is not hesitation, but space?
When everything is still possible — where do I rest?
And do I dare to trust what will fall,
without wanting to shorten the moment before it does?

Not to repeat, but to understand

January 28, 2026
When I woke up, I still remembered.
I had been in the hospital again — just like yesterday.
But now, someone stood by the exit.
They said:

“Next time, we will relive it all properly.
Not by getting sick again,
but by investigating it thoroughly this time.
No mistakes will be made.”

The key word was clear.
Relive.

What if to relive is not to repeat —
but to see anew,
letting nothing be lost,
so everything can speak again?

Coming into Being Again

January 27, 2026

I am in a warm country.
In the streets, brightly colored birds roam freely — like pigeons and sparrows here, but more numerous, more vivid. Among the people, larger animals move as well: camels, long-haired goats, dogs of all kinds. Everything flows together, without tension. It feels natural. Harmonious.

I see a terrace and sit down to have a drink. People are seated at different tables, yet they talk with one another as if they are one whole. They talk to me as well. There is openness, no distance.

On the ground, I notice that there once was a large, colorful painting. I ask whether I might repaint the floor of the terrace.

“So large?” someone asks.
Yes, I say. Of course I can do that. I used to do projects like that. Large ones. That’s simply enjoyable to do.

Suddenly we are in a hall. I am showing a film that I made myself.
It begins in black. Very slowly, small lights appear. The birth of stars, planets, dust, clouds — the multicolored universe.

Then a world appears. A city built with rounded shapes and light-colored stone. I see Roman arch bridges. At first, you only see the stones. And once they are in place, the green begins to emerge. Plants and flowers literally sprout between the buildings. It is idyllic. Alive.

Then the dark clouds arrive.
The sun disappears.

First, nature vanishes from the city. Then the stones begin to crumble. Slowly, everything turns into a vast ruin. It does not feel like only a city collapsing — it feels like the world itself.

It grows dark.

Then I hear my voice.
My city.
It can begin again.
What passes can be built again — with the knowledge and experience we carry.

Slowly, light returns. The clouds dissolve. The sun begins to shine again. Stones stack themselves once more. And from the ground, I see the green emerging again. Life returns.

Then I wake up.

What if decay is not failure, but a necessary breathing?
What if remembering how things once were creates space for something new?
Where do I stand when worlds collapse — as an observer, a builder, or the one who remains?
And do I dare to paint again on the ground where people meet,
without knowing what it will become — only that it is allowed to come into being again?

January 26, 2026

No dream

No images, no voices, no story.
Only emptiness. Or perhaps: rest.
What if not-seeing is also a form of knowing?
A silent night that adds nothing — and by doing so, completes something.
There are nights that show nothing,
because it has been enough.
Or because what dreamed is not ready to speak.
I leave it as it is.

Tomorrow, perhaps, another world.

The Dream That Returned

January 25, 2026

I dream, and immediately recognize the place I’m in — because I’ve been here before, in another dream. Only now I can see that the building is round, spiraling endlessly like the curves of a Mandelbrot fractal. Arches everywhere, like an amphitheater. A structure with no beginning, no end. It feels like a new world: original, light, peaceful.

But then something goes wrong. Friction arises. Conflict. Gossip. I feel my disappointment grow and decide: I’ll restart the dream — to let it unfold the way I hoped. And it works. I return to the feeling I had on January 13 — a world where people are happy, radiant, living together with ease and openness. Still, I feel something’s missing.

So I begin the same dream again, for the third time. This time, I don’t just see harmony, but the creation of a shared structure. A form of governance emerges — a system that shifts and rotates. Each spiral-circle has its own council, with people taking turns to participate. The circles consult and collaborate, and once a year, there’s a celebration that connects them all — even the ones far apart. This world feels possible. Livable. Deeply familiar. Then I wake up.

I search for the earlier dreams where I had already visited this place — and now I recognize them as part of this larger movement.

January 13, 2026
I don’t remember the context, only what I saw. Young people. Groups. Movement. A building without beginning or end — you moved through it like a living stream. Everything was connected: bedrooms, dining areas, schools, workshops, gardens. No straight lines, but round shapes. Organic and soft. It felt like communal living, but not like a commune. More like a future already in the making — simple, attentive, peaceful. I saw playfulness, discussions, cooperation. So much color — mostly yellow and green. Light, alive. I walked through it, in awe. I absorbed it.

January 23, 2026
You’ve found your place. After many skating rinks, training sessions, and conversations with different coaches — it was there. Not large or impressive, but solid. True. A place that fit. I saw round stone arches, like in an ancient Roman amphitheater. Soft light. Stillness. Curves. Then I woke up. My husband spoke to me, and I felt the dream drift away — as if it gently slipped back into the night.

What if dreams aren’t repetitions, but deepening spirals? 

What if the circle you walk isn’t a loop at all

 — but a path slowly revealing its direction?

COLOUR PALETTE

24 January 2026
A voice speaks to me:
“The colour palette you use is special, but not unfamiliar.”
It’s conceptual, he says.
“Look.”
I see a long row of colours, like a ribbon, and I recognise them instantly.
They’re the colours of my home.
Beneath the strip, in tiny letters, it says:
conceptual.

Then I’m suddenly in a living room,
talking with someone.
It’s a special conversation.
Special in tone.
Special in theme.
But as I wake up,
it slips away.

What remains is the image.
As if from an old analogue camera —
a negative, in shades of grey, black and white.
No sound. No sharpness.
No colour.

And then, out of nowhere:
on the pavement,
my niece walks by.
Not in grey.
But vivid, warm, in full colour.

Perhaps some conversations are too precious to remember —
because their truth has already seeped into the palette of your soul.
What fades into grey, lives on in color.
And sometimes, a single passerby is enough to remind you.

FOUND YOUR SPOT

23 January 2026

You’ve found your spot.
After visiting many ice rinks, training,
working with different coaches —
there it was.
A place that feels right.
Not grand or striking,
but solid. Precisely that.

I see rounded stone arches,
like in an old Roman amphitheatre.
Soft light. Stillness. Curves.

Then I wake up.
My husband is speaking to me.
And I feel the dream drifting away —
as if it gently slides back into the night.

What if it’s not the dream that disappears —
but you who arrive just in time
at a place that’s been waiting all along?

THE SON

January 22, 2026
Not much stayed with me.
But this I know:

I saved the child of the man
who murdered my family.
The same man who, for years,
has tried to destroy me as well.

This child —
I raise him as my own.
He becomes my eldest son.
And he remains that,
even if I one day have children of my own.
I love him instantly.
Unconditionally.

What if love doesn’t ask who you are —
but who you dare to become, in spite of everything?
What if life gives you the child of the perpetrator,
because you’re the one who can break the chain —
and not him?

HEALTHY

January 21, 2026

My dream brought an intriguing perspective.
I am healthy. Have always been healthy.
In other words: I have never experienced physical discomfort or pain. Athletic, strong, and flexible.

Someone close to me — I don’t remember who exactly, perhaps a partner, child, or best friend — carries all my pains, my physical discomfort, and the lack of understanding that usually surrounds it. Since birth.

The dream wonders: how would I deal with that?

Well, it’s a dilemma of course.
Am I, the dreamer, still the disabled person dreaming of being healthy?
Or has that aspect of my waking life completely disappeared?
How does it work?

Or maybe the dream isn’t asking how a healthy person relates to someone with a disability —
but rather: how does the real me, the dreamer who is disabled while awake, view healthy people?

That’s as far as I got…

What if the dream didn’t ask me to choose —

but to learn to understand what I’ve never been?

What if it wasn’t about pain or health —

but about the mystery of truly knowing, without proof?

BACK TO THE LIGHT

January 20, 2026
In my dream, I am young. I don’t see myself, but I feel it in every part of me. My body is supple. My mind alert. My partner and I are dropped — right in the middle of a wild, merciless sea. Ahead of us: a long, narrow island made of black rock. Harsh. Inhospitable. We are soldiers. There is no explanation. No backstory. Just the urgent need to run.

We run. Further and further across the jagged rocks, toward the end of the island. Behind us, it erupts: heavy gunfire rains down. A deep trench carves itself across the spine of the island. We dive into the water — no time for fear, just instinct. In the water, they surface. Huge caimans. Dark, massive, threatening. They’re hunting. Us.

We make it. We reach another island. Bigger. Wilder. The rocks seem softer, but the threat is still there. The caimans follow. We crouch down in front of a white door. And then — suddenly — there’s a child beside us. Our child. He’s just there. In nothing but a pair of swim trunks. Small. Vulnerable. One of the caimans nudges his snout against the child. Ready to strike. My partner and I lock eyes. No words needed. We throw open the door, dive inside — the caimans right behind us. We slam the door shut. Locked. Left behind. Gone.

Outside, the world is still raw. Smoke. Fire. Other soldiers fall around us. My partner runs into an open field. A gunfight. He survives. The others don’t. Together — the child between us — we run toward the water. Heavy gunfire. But we make it.

And then — I’m home. Not the home I know, but it feels like home. My partner and child are there. I don’t see them, but I feel them. The doorbell rings. A friend is standing there. A beautiful Asian woman in a sleek white dress, a bright red blazer, high heels. Her bob haircut sharp, her presence calm. She sits down. Next to a toilet. And while we chat, I just sit down to pee. As if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Then I see myself again. Moving. In uniform. With him. Not in battle, but alert. Awake. And then... I wake up.

What if the light only reveals itself after the battle —
not because it was hidden,
but because I had to feel what it was guarding first?
What if the child in me wasn’t just saved,
but showed me where my strength had long been waiting —
quiet, unseen, and untouched by all that came before?

BEAM OF PASSAGE

January 19, 2026

There is a halo of light. Not holy, not mystical — but precise, technical, like a beam that activates something. Ton is standing beneath it. The light circles around his head. Still. Motionless. And yet, something is happening. As if he is being transported — not physically, but in another way. Just like in Star Trek: Mister Scotty, beam me up.
I know: I’m next.
Then a voice speaks:
“Tell me… is this God — or something else?”
At that moment, Ton wakes me up.
But the sentence keeps echoing. Not as a question, but as a doorway.

What if the divine doesn’t appear as an explanation,
but as a passage — a moment of still light that lifts you?
What if I don’t need to understand where I’m going,
but simply trust that I’m being called?
And what if witnessing another’s journey
is exactly what prepares me for my own?

BETWEEN LOVE AND EMPTINESS

18 January 2026

I dreamed about Ton and me. I don’t remember what the dream itself was about, but when I woke up, something lingered: a conclusion, and a few questions that would not let themselves be pushed away.

Do I see and experience the same things as I did back then?
How do I deal with that now?
And how do I do this — without losing myself again?

I met my first husband, the father of my eldest daughter, on holiday. We fell deeply in love. We married young. We were blessed with a sweet little girl, Renée. Then came a major operation and two years of rehabilitation. At the end of that period, Renée was born. My physical condition deteriorated so much that I was declared fully disabled.

At the time, it didn’t seem to matter. I was happily married and had a child. Life was difficult, which meant my parents took over part of the care for my daughter. I was often left alone in my small apartment. My car was adapted, I was given a wheelchair and a mobility scooter, and my world became a little larger again.

It was during that time that yoga crossed my path. I immersed myself in it completely. My energy returned. I was able to walk much better again — literally and figuratively. Much more happened in those years that shaped my life, but that is not the point today.

Through the deepening I was going through, through the way I had always related to life but now more intensely, I gradually drifted away from my husband. Until there came a moment when, to me, there was nothing left. No communication. No shared purpose. No love. Emptiness.

I met Ton eight years ago, after Michel had died two and a half years earlier. We, too, fell deeply in love. We quickly became inseparable. Ton is someone who takes care — or rather, he provides care. He cooks, does the shopping, takes over the household. For me, it felt like heaven on earth. It gave me space. Space to paint again. To be creative.

Until he entered my life, living and surviving had been more than enough. That was all my body could manage. Nothing wrong with that. I had nothing to complain about. But that space also reawakened something that had been dormant for a long time. The energy I received from painting was immense.

We moved in together into a ground-floor apartment, with a small studio. Perfect. We bought bicycles so we could go out into nature and I could keep moving. And then came the stroke. The rehabilitation. The awareness. And the reborn feeling of now.

Ton is so good to me. And yet we do not speak the same language. He cannot follow my way of thinking. He wants to rationalize everything. He enters into discussions about things that, for me, are not discussions at all — they simply are. I want the space to name them out loud, and again and again we end up in distance. In emptiness.

And then the questions arise.

What happens to me if things continue to go as well as they are now?
If my energy fully returns?
Do I let that emptiness emerge again?
Do I become loveless once more — not out of unwillingness, but out of survival?

I want to do it differently. Without repeating the past.

Having no expectations of sharing the same way of thinking.
Seeing what he does do for me.
Not overlooking the small gestures of love.
Not letting my love depend on being recognized, but on being acknowledged.
Giving love. Sharing love. So there is room for Ton to breathe as well.

That is where I stand now.
Not with answers.
But with a choice to remain present — even when it rubs.

Perhaps love does not always ask for merging,
but for standing beside one another
without leaving oneself behind.
Not for speaking the same language,
but for allowing each other the space
to keep breathing within those differences.

WHO SAYS I HAVE TO JOIN IN?

January 17, 2026

I hear myself say:
“I’m not playing along anymore.”

Another voice replies:
“That’s not how it works. You can reconsider,
but people need this.
Without structure, it all turns to anarchy.
It becomes ungovernable.
You need norms and values. That’s just how it is.”

I sigh. And say:
“Okay... then I’ll work with that.”

It was a detailed dream, full of scenes and meaning.
But now, sitting at my laptop, most of it has dissolved.
What remained:

A woman — me, but not the self I recognize.
Around forty, long black hair. Healthy.
She moves easily, like a bird.
And she’s in a world I don’t know.
With people I’ve never met.
Still... I heard myself there.
Saying that one clear sentence.

What if parts of me live other lives,
in other places, other times — and are still part of who I am?
What if not everything needs to be remembered,
to mean something?
And what if one decision — “I’m not playing along anymore” —
isn’t a rejection, but the quiet beginning of something new?
Something not yet visible, but already in motion?

A WORD

16 January 2026
Sometimes there is no dream — just one word.
Today, that word was: Completion.
I don’t know exactly what it means.
But it came to me with clarity.
And so I write it down.

What if one word is enough —
to set something in motion I don’t yet understand?

THE NEW HOUSE I HAVEN’T SEEN

15 January 2026

I wake up at the moment I’m sitting in the back of a car, my head resting against Ton. We’re being driven back to our own car.

We’ve emptied out our entire house because we’re moving. The new owners run a company that produces chips. They were kind enough to lend us a large company van for the move.

The company is huge — a brand-new industrial hall, light grey on the outside and inside. Their name is van Pelt. Once we’re finished and return the van, they give us a tour of the premises. What strikes me immediately is how sterile and clean everything is. Perfectly finished. The ceiling is made of textured panels. A few of those panels are still lying in the enormous hall. I’m intrigued by them. They are smooth, undulating mounds about 30 cm high, but since the hall is so tall, you wouldn’t notice it at first glance.

We enter a sealed-off area where people in white suits, hair covers and shoe protection are working inside large glass incubator-like chambers to process the chips. There’s a serene atmosphere. Behind a big glass wall lies another department, where the finished chips are stored. One of the workers explains what they’re used for.

Through the back door, I walk into a break area for employees, where a food cart is available with all kinds of snacks and drinks — free of charge. The people there are cheerful and clearly enjoy their work.

The owner — the one moving into our old house — brings us back to our car, still parked at the ‘old’ place. While I rest my head against Ton, I realise: I’m very curious about our new house. I’ve never seen it!
But I know for certain — it meets all my wishes.

What if the unknown is not an emptiness,
but a place already waiting for me —
filled with what I haven’t yet dared to dream?

What if letting go only truly becomes possible
when I trust in what I cannot yet see —
but already feel?

And what if every carefully constructed hall in a dream
is merely the herald of an inner home
that is finally ready to be lived in?

WORLDS OF CIRCLES

January 14, 2026

Sometimes it’s hard to explain, because in dreams you see things that don’t exist as we know them.
But I’ll try.

I see worlds.
Not maps or continents — but round disks, hovering above and below one another in random order. Together, they form a massive globe, a layered world.
On each disk, someone lives. I see people — I know they are people — but they look different: long hair, long robes, elegant. Stylish, but not from here.

Each disk is personal. Unique. And between those disks, you can move freely — floating, carried by an invisible current. You don’t need to walk. You move effortlessly.

Then something happens.
Someone leaves their own disk and glides through the space between. At the same time, another person steps onto their disk. The first sees it happen — and decides to go speak to someone who appears to be the leader of this world.

I hear the conversation:

“What was that — someone spying on your world disk?”
“Spying?”
“Yes. He was there, looking around.”
“But spying doesn’t exist,” the other replies. “It’s observing. And we are meant to learn how to observe…”

Then I wake up.

What if it’s not an intrusion when someone truly sees you —
but an invitation to reciprocity?
What if learning to observe means letting go of the boundary
between looking and being looked at —
and you begin to move between worlds, open, fluid, and without resistance?

A ROUND WORLD

January 13, 2026

I no longer remember the context — only what I saw.
Young people. Groups. Movement.
A building with no beginning or end — you walked through it like a living stream.
Everything was connected: bedrooms, dining halls, schools, workshops, gardens.
No straight lines, but round shapes, organic and soft.
A world breathing together.

It felt like communal living, but not a commune.
More like a future already taking shape — simple, attentive, peaceful.
I saw people playing, discussing, working together.
There was colour, mostly yellow and green.
Light and alive.
I walked through it, in wonder.
I took it all in.
And then… I woke up.

What if hope doesn’t lie in grand plans —
but in small, interconnected worlds
where living, learning, and caring go hand in hand?
What if this dream wasn’t just an image,
but a memory of something possible —
round, connected, and soft within?

LIGHT FROM THE PAST

12 January 2026
In my dream, I am both participant and observer.
I’m with my cousin — in the dream she is full of life, just like she used to be — and the feeling is warm, familiar, light. We’re giggling the way we did in our younger years. We’re hatching a little plan to sneak away for a while, just like that one time at Euro Disney. The idea is to steal a moment in the sauna.

We walk up to a small cart holding little packages: towels and some toiletries. They’re all a soft light aqua green/blue — except for two. Those two shine. They almost glow. I notice the difference from the corner of my eye. My cousin picks up four packages: two for her, two for me. Three are matte, one radiates. Without her noticing, I quickly swap them. I take the glowing one. Not because I deserve more — but because I see it.

A little later, we walk past two people. I can’t see who they are. My cousin looks up at one of them and says:
"I want to thank you for that night we spent together, but now I’m moving on."

Then we walk on, happy and carefree, heading to the sauna.
The dream repeats itself, like a film that keeps starting over.

Until I’m woken by my husband.
And slowly I realise: something in me wanted to hold on to that light.

What if I don’t need to understand why something fits me —
because I already see it, without looking?
What if choosing is not an act of will,
but a movement that arises on its own,
when something within me recognises what quietly resonates?

BETWEEN GUILT AND HUMANITY

January 10, 2026
In my dream I don’t see myself, yet I am there. I witness something extraordinary. Again and again I see two families seated around a large table — one surrounding the perpetrator, the other the victim. Clear agreements have been made in advance: no one may respond while someone is speaking. The space must be safe. And it works. The silence is tangible, respectful.
In one of the meetings, a young man speaks. He is the eldest son in his family. Blond curly hair, a mustard yellow sweater. Charming. He explains why he approaches women, how he manipulates them into sexual acts. But he speaks without hatred, without malice. His story doesn’t sound like that of a monster. More like a lost boy, caught in inner confusion. What he says is difficult, strange — but he speaks honestly.
Across from him, the victim. A woman. She speaks of fear, confusion, pain. Of guilt and shame. Of how her boundaries were blurred. And, surprisingly, also of the attraction — which she wants to understand. Everyone listens. Without interruption.
Later, there is a father. A kind man, on the surface. His secret: he secretly masturbates when his children’s friends come over to play. He’s never been caught — except by his wife. He speaks of what happens inside him. Of the uncontrollable urge. His words are raw, open. And strangely, I feel no revulsion — only a desire to help, to understand.
I witness five such conversations. Each painfully honest. Each transformative. No one shouts. Everyone listens. These are not meetings of judgment, but of revelation. Where perpetrators become human. Where victims reclaim their voice.
And then… I wake up.

What if healing only begins when the unspeakable is no longer avoided?
What if sharing that which brings the deepest shame actually opens space for humanity?
What if the line between perpetrator and victim is less defined than we think —
and listening without judgment is the first step toward true understanding?
No one at the table felt revulsion.
And perhaps that was the greatest strength of the moment.

A VISITOR NEARBY

9 January 2026

I see a young woman. She asks if she can stop by now and then. Since her siblings moved out, she’s been alone. She lives just around the corner.
Of course, I say — my door is always open.
But I add: I’m usually painting, writing, or working on something. I won’t stop what I’m doing when you come.
“Oh, may I make tea and just do my own thing near you?”
That’s fine, I reply.

A friend hears this and looks at the young woman.
“If she’s coming, I think I’ll stop by too…”
“That’s your choice,” I say. “As long as you behave.”
Then I feel someone stroke my leg.
“Sweetheart, are you slowly waking up — without forgetting your dream?”
And yes… still half-asleep, I open my eyes. The dream is still there.

Reflection
There was a time when people came by every day, seeking my attention. It drained me — emotionally, mentally, even physically. It was one of the reasons I left and never returned.
This dream touches that same edge: the tension between connection and self-preservation.
The door may be open… but now, the conditions are mine.

THE SPIRAL AND THE VOICE

8 January 2026
Why do so many people turn away the moment we mention mathematics? When life itself is made of it. Patterns, rhythm, structure — everything moves in calculations, spirals, systems. And still. As soon as the word ‘mathematics’ is spoken, something shuts down. As if thinking takes over from feeling. As if we forget that life itself is a puzzle, a formula with no solution. Someone asks me a question. Why do you want to be a part of the puzzle? Why not be the puzzle itself? I don’t answer. I don’t need to. I become the question. My form shifts. I show that my piece is not flat, not linear, not separate. It is a spiral. And the spiral knows. Each time a question comes toward me, I move. I turn, open, leap. One movement connects to the next. My motion makes meaning. My being is the answer. All these spirals together form the whole. And just before I can curve further, unfold deeper — Ton calls my name. His voice wakes me. Out of the mathematics of being. Back into the day.

What if my knowing is not a straight line, but a spiral deepening with every turn?
What if I understand the language of patterns — without ever learning a single formula?
Could it be that I was made to move between logic and mystery —
so my silence speaks where words fall short?

“Each spiral is unique, yet part of the whole — constantly changing, never finished, always alive.”

WHAT REVEALS ITSELF WHEN YOU LOOK DEEPER

January 7, 2026

Only two words drifted through my dream last night. In English: morality and immorality.
No story, no image — just those two concepts, as if they filled the space I was sleeping in. I don’t know why, but they lingered. Like an echo trying to stir something awake.

Personal note
I woke up around 3:30 a.m. with a pounding headache. The words morality and immorality kept repeating — as if they were etched into my mind. On my way to the bathroom I wondered: should I write this down now? But no, I knew I wouldn’t forget. After a paracetamol and a moment of stillness, I fell back asleep — until nine in the morning. The words were still there. And the dream that followed revealed what had been hiding, beneath a façade of apparent purity.

Later, as if a second dream begins, I find myself in my mother’s house. I’m cleaning, together with a young African man. Everything appears tidy. As always. My mother is known for her spotless home — everything in order, everything perfect. Until I begin to clean. Until I look beneath the surface. Behind the cupboards, in the corners, beneath the glossy layer… it’s dirty. Filthy, even. I’m shocked.

A bit later, my eldest daughter joins us. She’s cleaned outside and is just as surprised. We don’t say anything, but I can read her thoughts. “Wow, my place is way cleaner than this.” And I think the same. Only… something else follows. Even I didn’t know this about myself. Because for years, my mother made me believe that I was the messy one. That it was always me. And now I see… it came from somewhere else.

Then I wake up.

What if purity has nothing to do with what’s visible on the outside?
What if the image that was once projected onto me — of being less, of being unclean — was never mine to carry?
And what if I’m only now beginning to feel how clean my own being truly is,
because I’ve stopped reflecting it against a story that never belonged to me?
Maybe this dream was needed — to see clearly, quietly, and without judgment:
I was never that image.

THE QUESTIONS THAT WENT UNASKED

January 6, 2026

I find myself in a theater. Red velvet seats. Dark walls. A place that holds memories. But it's quiet. Only one fifth of the seats are filled. A conference, they say. The theme:
How do we bring the individual back into the collective? How do we rediscover a sense of community?

We’re asked to stand in line. One by one, each person is allowed to speak.
And they do.
But what I hear isn’t the question that was asked.
Everyone speaks about themselves. Their business. Their country. Their pain. Their pride.
Everything sounds like “I”.
As if the question never truly landed.

I listen. I wait.
And just before I might say something… I wake up.
All that remains is that final image. That single question.
Why did no one speak on behalf of the whole?

What if the key to community lies not in what we say — but in who we dare to be for one another?
What if the ‘I’ only truly blossoms when it recognizes itself in the ‘we’?
And what if the final frame of a dream shows exactly what I’m meant to carry forward?

What if we only truly come together
when the system we got lost in collapses?
What if connection doesn’t grow from ideals,
but from the raw realization that we need each other again?
And what if we must first feel that pain to its very depths —
before the collective heart can open once more?

TASKS AND FREEDOM

January 5, 2026

The details faded as I woke, but the essence remained. In my dream, I was subjected to an authority — perhaps my father, perhaps a boss, or simply a force that believed it had control over me. I was only allowed to leave once I had completed my tasks, not a second earlier. The atmosphere was strict, controlling, as if I was being tested. I recognized that tone from my youth. Still, I did what was asked — first obediently, then with growing skill, and eventually with a sense of joy.
The dream unfolded in cycles: again and again, I had to complete assignments before I was permitted to go. And each time, I succeeded. I could even hear what the authority was thinking — that tomorrow, he’d make it harder, to keep me stuck longer and away for less time.
But his plan failed. I became faster, more capable, more clever.
What was meant as oppression turned into a game of growth. The roles began to shift. The power faded. I could feel his respect growing — wordless, but real.
And then... I woke up.
As if the dream wanted to show me:
I’ve had the key to freedom all along.
Not despite the tasks — but because of them.

What if freedom doesn’t come from escaping obligations,
but from fulfilling them — in my own way?
What if the authority outside of me is only a mirror of the inner voice
that once believed I had to prove myself first?
Am I already free, as long as I move, learn, and stay true to myself, even in resistance?
And what if growth begins exactly where oppression ends —
in the quiet power of being faithful to who I am?

DOES TRUTH EVEN EXIST?

January 4, 2026
My dreams were overflowing again last night, but when I woke up, only a conversation remained.
No images, no context. Just voices.

“For you, it’s clear… what people call God.”
I replied: “Well… that’s quite an assumption. I’d rather call it ‘the Whole’.
Something we’re all part of. Everything we can see, touch, feel.
I believe in a Source — the place everything returns to.”

A moment of silence.

“But still… it remains belief, doesn’t it?”
And then, as if I remembered something:
“Besides… ‘the Whole’ changes. It moves. It’s alive.”
I added: “It’s nice of you to say this, but it’s just how I see things.
I could be completely wrong — I always keep that in mind…”

Eyes open. Awake.

What if the divine isn’t an answer, but a direction?
What if truth is only a perspective — one that lives and moves, just like we do?
And what if it’s not about being right,
but about leaving space for the mystery we exist in?

THE KEYS TO A NEW BEGINNING

January 3, 2026

I’m running a large company. Not as a memory or past life, but as the person I am now — my current age, my current self. Still, it has to shut down. Government, regulations, sustainability costs, boycotts — everything piles up. The decision has been made: it’s over.
Then the search begins. I start applying for jobs. Hundreds of them. Over and over again. Too old. Too much experience. Too expensive. Not the right fit. Letters don’t work. Emails disappear into silence.
So I start walking into places. Just asking. Just trying.

One day I’m sitting with someone at a table. It looks like another failed application. Still, we share a coffee. And I ask: “That building — the one at the end of the street — is it yours?” He nods. “Yes, that whole block. It used to be a hospital. Then a school. Now it houses an artists’ collective. About a hundred people. But it’s a bit messy. Lots of empty rooms too.”
I look at him and ask:
“Do you have someone running it? Someone who keeps track of things, organizes admin, leads projects, thinks from vision, brings it all into motion, makes it sustainable — and isn’t afraid to get their hands dirty?”
He says: “No, we don’t have the funds for that.”
Then I say:
“What if I start by cleaning? Literally. Let me get to know the building as I clean. And from there, a plan will emerge. Just pay me as a cleaner. But give me the freedom to restructure it — with heart and vision.”
He looks at me, surprised. “Would you really do that? I can’t say no to that offer.”
He hands me the keys.

I begin. The first building is bare, gray, abandoned. In the hallway, a closet full of wheeled privacy screens — like the ones you used to see in hospitals. But not white. Rainbow colors.
Behind me, a man appears. Watchful. He doesn’t introduce himself. Just steps into a room and keeps an eye on me. All the rooms have windows starting at wainscot height.
I take everything out of the closet. All the cleaning supplies. Everything out in the open. First, I need to see what’s there. Then I’ll put it back. The screens go in first. Then the rest.
Clarity begins to take shape.

As I clean, plans begin to form. Not in words. But somewhere deep in my mind. And in my heart.
Something is unfolding — something that already knew where it wanted to go.
I see — from above — how the building changes. The artists walk around beaming. They touch the polished tables as if they can’t believe the space is alive again.
I feel I’ve been working there for a while. Everything is different. It flourishes. It breathes. It feels right.

And me?
I’m not visible in the dream.
But I’m at the core.
I see with a helicopter view.
As someone who knows the film.
And knows exactly where it’s going.

What if my path only opens when I pick up the key myself?
What does it mean to begin again — not at the top, but from the ground up?
Am I the one who clears the old dust to make room for something new — quietly, invisibly perhaps, but with vision?
And is it maybe this, exactly this, that lets me flourish — service as strength, structure as a vessel for soul?
What do I see when I look at myself from above?

Dragon Coming Out of the Dark

January 2, 2026

This painting began its journey three years ago but remained unfinished — I didn’t know which way it wanted to go. Today, after a powerful dream and a clear inner voice, its message has revealed itself.

I dreamt I was driving through a maze of narrow alleys in a city that kept changing shape — first resembling my childhood hometown, then turning into sunlit southern towns in Spain, Italy, or France. I was looking for a place, perhaps a destination — although I didn’t quite know what I was searching for.
Next to me sat someone saying: “left… right…”
I felt uncertain.
And then came the realization:
Now I will listen to myself.
I took back the wheel — and arrived where I was meant to be.

A voice then said to me:
Look at yourself. Dare to be the dragon — when it’s needed.
Inside becomes outside. Outside becomes inside.
Do you see? You’ve already painted it. Finish it.
Remove the canvas from its frame. Add small rings. Place it in a floating frame with openings.
This painting should not hang against a wall — but against the light.
Without light, you’ll have to search for the dragon —
but in the light, it reveals itself.
THIS IS YOU.

Later I remembered something more:
The voice also spoke of the power of invisibility —
of humility —
and the courage to be seen
when your light needs to shine.

And I will finish it.

There’s a sense of direction emerging.
But the year is still young, and tremors remain.
Let me listen. No rushing.
Humility will show the way.

Dragon coming out of the Dark – work in progress

“I started this painting three years ago but left it unfinished — I didn’t yet know which direction it wanted to take.
After the dream of January 2, 2026, I see it differently: it wants to be seen.
The dragon is coming out of the dark. And I will complete it.
That’s why I’m sharing it here as it is: halfway — in transformation.”

About the use of colour – beyond my palette

I know my colours. I work effortlessly with a personal language of undertones and layering — my colour jargon. I instinctively know what to mix, feel where it’s going, how something comes into being.
But with this painting… I don’t feel that.
The colours are warmer, fuller, different. No cool undertone, but a glow I don’t recognise as my own.
The blue leans toward ultramarine violet, the orange is deep and fiery — a shade that reminds me of the colour of my marmoleum floor: “Asian Tiger”. Not exactly the same, but that intensity, that feeling.

I know I painted it — and I also know it came through me, outside my familiar palette.
As if something ancient introduced itself in a new way — and I could remember how to do it.

Maybe that’s exactly what this work is showing:
that there are moments when more aspects of myself can rise to the surface, as if it touches something new in me — because it has known me for a long time.

What paints through me, literally shows more layers, more colour.