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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Returning to the Place

 

April 1, 2026

In my dream I relive fragments of the series China Beach that I watched yesterday. This time I am not watching television, but I go along with the people who were stationed there. Back to the place where the trauma lies. There is also a film crew present, making a documentary about it. Suddenly I find myself again in a conversation from a few weeks ago. My training coach was beaten up by a group of men in Antwerp while he was there with his girlfriend. They literally and figuratively kicked him into a coma and he ended up in the hospital, narrowly escaping death. He said to me, “Antwerp is a terrible city, I will never go there again.” I asked him if he had received any victim support. Yes, it had been offered to him, but he had declined. Yet I could hear how he connected the city to his trauma. Then I see the Academic Hospital in Leiden, now some twenty years ago. I am there with my brother. For me, it is the first time after more than forty years. Back then it was like a small village, with separate buildings and streets. I knew every street and every building. Now, twenty years ago, that whole village has disappeared and there is one large white building, like a regular modern hospital. Interesting, the observer in me thinks, is this a piece of my own processing? I see three steps back in time. What is the effect of returning to the place where trauma originated? Can it also work the other way around? Does it work like that? Returning to a place where you were very happy? I laugh — I actually do not do that, too afraid it might disappoint. I slowly wake up with a headache.

What happens when I return to a place that has left something in me?
Does the past belong to the place — or does it travel with me?
And if memories can shift… do I dare to return to what was once beautiful?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stumbling Word

 

March 29, 2026

This time I am again with that large group of people. I think about a hundred. We are outside, in a park-like setting at the edge of a city. My voice says, “In order to move forward, we each have to dance.” One by one, they dance as if their lives depend on it. Some with joy, others with great effort and fear on their faces. In the end, everyone stands again in a circle, looking at me expectantly. At that moment, I start to dance as well, slowly, at a rhythm that works for me. Not beautifully executed, but truly me. I see doubtful faces around me, even judging looks. Then I ask the question: does anyone get eliminated? What I have seen is that you all danced as if you were in a competition. I did not say that. In this case, dancing was a stumbling word for “life.” Dare to live at your own rhythm, your own pace, your own way. I am part of this game of life. Try not only to be a follower, or an individual, but to communicate. The observer in my dream thinks: how interesting, all these elements are returning — things I have seen before and even dreamed before. Even one of my paintings, Vergezichten/Vistas, takes shape here. The word “stumbling” has found a place in my life. Stumble, stumbling… stumbling makes you more aware. Stumble, stumble… and I wake up.

When does movement become a competition — and when does it become life?
Do I dare to follow my own rhythm, even when it wavers?
And if stumbling awakens me… is that falling — or seeing?

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Coin

March 28, 2026

I see a role play. Two women, I think a mother and a daughter. We are in an old building with many floors and rooms. I watch it as if I am looking at a dollhouse. The women move from room to room, intimidating the people they find there. Those people become terrified. There is something very malicious about them. It also looks strange. I even see them kill someone. It feels almost mechanical, as if they are being controlled. I decide to enter the house and look for something. But what? My feeling tells me to go to the basement first. In the basement, there is a man sitting at a table. I see him and immediately say, “So, you are the real perpetrator.” And indeed, this man has the two women under such control that, out of their own survival fear, they carry out the tasks he assigns to them. By confronting him so directly, he dissolves and the women are freed. In a flash, I am sitting in a dark brasserie with a stage for theater. It is busy. Above are hotel rooms. In one of those rooms, there is a woman with my daughter. This woman has bad intentions toward my daughter. I do not know exactly what, but in the dream it is clear. I am downstairs and sense that something is wrong. I go to investigate and find my daughter with this woman in a room. My daughter is afraid. The woman attacks me and we start to fight. I gain the strength and courage of a lioness, causing the woman to flee. I take my daughter, who is no longer afraid because I am there. We run after the woman to arrest her, a citizen’s arrest. From the balcony, we see her below in the café. We stand at the edge of the balcony. I ask my daughter, “What makes you dare to jump now?” She says, “A coin.” And then I am fully awake.

What do I see when I dare to descend to the source?
Who is controlling what I perceive as threat — and what happens when I face it?
And what is that one small insight… that suddenly sets everything in motion?

 

 

 

 

 

The Game of Being Human

 

March 27, 2026

It is a game, but also an experiment. It involves a hundred people. I am leading the game, but I also feel what the participants feel and what they think. How important is it to be honest? How difficult is it not to be? Each person is assigned a behavior and a role. For a year, they must express and immerse themselves in that role. After a year, we stand on a grassy field in a large circle. What has happened? How difficult was it to lie? How difficult was it to steal? How difficult was it to be mean? How difficult was it to have an unpleasant personality? In the circle, you see people breaking under the pressure. Some begin to cry, others seem untouched. Step into the circle if you think you have hurt people. Everyone steps forward. If you have kept your friends, step out of the circle. If you have made friends, step out of the circle. Question after question, to see if something positive has remained. In the end, everyone is standing in the circle again. What have we seen? There are so many ways to express harmful behavior. It is personal, connected to one’s own circumstances. But what is most striking? No matter how deeply you went into your role, your core always remains good, loving, and beautiful. Some of you experienced resistance to being that way. In others, an inner devil was unleashed. Those who felt resistance are now standing here in tears. Those who lived out their inner devil will have a greater task ahead, to find themselves again. Can the conclusion be that a human being is not good or bad, but simply human? My dream ends with a participant who is deaf and had been given the role of a thief. To be able to do this well, she became an acrobat. She is happy that the game is finally over. Grateful that she discovered her passion through it. She stands upright on someone’s shoulders. Then I wake up.

Who am I when I live a role that does not seem to be mine?
How far can I go without losing my core?
And if everything I live teaches me something — is even what seems wrong part of the whole?

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Fifth Photo

 

March 26, 2026

I am talking to someone. I do not know who it is. I am explaining how the rules work. There is still a lot of nature, but it hardly bears any fruit anymore. Only if you have taken five different photographs are you allowed to eat something. Cheating is almost impossible. AI will notice immediately. Try to be attentive and you will manage to take that fifth photo. As an observer, I watch this scene in which I am explaining it. At the same time, I see close-ups of bushes with a single flower or fruit. An orchard with one or two apples in a tree. Different fruit-bearing trees and shrubs pass by. It is like a double focus. Then I see a close-up of a blackberry. After that, I wake up.

What does attention ask before it allows me to be nourished?
How much do I truly need to see before I may receive something?
And if there is only little fruit left — do I learn to look more carefully… or to desire differently?

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Chance Card

 

March 24, 2026

It feels as if I am dreaming a kind of repetition of the day. This has been happening for a few days now. Today again. The ending is what stayed with me. I am the observer of the dream. It is about me and I am being helped by another character. But that is also me. There are three Annettes. The Annette who helped me is sitting there, smiling at me, and says: “Do you see that you received that chance card and took it with you? It is a kind of exemption. What are you going to do with it?” I can only think: what am I supposed to do with that? As if an exemption would be a free pass to avoid a difficult experience in life. What difference would that make? If I do not go through one thing, something else will appear anyway. No, I will frame it and hang it on the wall, but I will not use it. It feels more like self-deception. Not around it, but through it — that is my motto. That is what ultimately makes me stronger. I wake up feeling fresh and clear.

What is a chance if I choose not to use it?
Is avoiding the same as winning, or do I lose something that asks to be lived?
And if I meet everything that comes my way anyway — why would I choose to go around it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Quote Dream

 

March 21, 2026

No dream today, just a sentence that lingered.

burning creates smoke

What continues to resonate long after it has struck?

 

 

 

 

 

Between the Whole and the Voice

 

March 20, 2026

My dream was a whole story. Unfortunately, I only remember the theme. 

Serving the whole versus having an opinion of my own. 

Is that possible? Is that allowed? Can it sometimes be better to serve the whole by going along with the voice of the whole, even if it is not necessarily my own?

When am I truly serving — and when am I simply adapting?
Is the whole something outside of me, or am I part of it?
And if my voice differs… do I disturb the whole,
or do I bring something that was missing?

 

 

 

 

 

Sakura

 

March 19, 2026

I dream of cherry blossoms. I see them, I smell them, I enjoy them. The pink petals slowly drift down after a gust of wind. 

Sakura, sakura, sakura.

What remains when everything is allowed to be this light?
When seeing, smelling, and enjoying become one single moment?
And if something is beautiful because it fades — can I fully let it land?

 

 

 

 

 

Eyes in the Green

 

March 18, 2026

I see myself sitting and writing. It is an image I am allowed to look at for a long time. Nothing else happens. It is a very calm image of someone sitting at a table, typing on her laptop. That is how it feels. The image fades and I see a large bush, completely covered with green leaves. Tiny berries light up in the bush. After a while I see that they are not berries but eyes. There are dozens of cats sitting in the bush, looking at me. A bush filled with gentle cat faces. I hear and feel my upper lip on the left side start to tremble uncontrollably. A strange sensation, like the snorting or neighing of a horse. It confuses me because it feels as if I am awake. I think I am awake, but at the same time I realize that I would never be able to make my lip tremble like this on my own. I decide that it is not real and that I must be dreaming in my sleep. The strange sensation in my trembling lip moves upward into my brain, to the place where the fontanel is. There I feel a kind of electric energy, like a tingling. Suddenly I am standing in a large house where I have been asked to hang all my paintings, as a kind of exhibition of my entire body of work up until now. It is a huge task to do this. Do I arrange them by color, by size, by theme, or chronologically? While unpacking, I see that a few of them are more or less damaged. I set these aside, because I realize that I will have to give them a new life, using whatever remains as a starting point. I am not upset about it; I see it as a challenge. The entire house, the halls, the rooms and the different floors are filled with my works. It will be quite a task to arrange everything, but fortunately no one is behind me with a deadline. At my own pace I can turn this into something beautiful and meaningful. Then I wake up.

What do I see when I remain still and simply look at what is already there?
Who is looking back from within the green, and what in me is being recognized?
What moves through the body before it becomes words?
And when everything I have created gathers in one space — how do I choose what remains, what transforms, and what is ready to be born again?

 

 

 

 

 

Sara

March 17, 2026

My name is Sara.
I am cycling home from Ouddorp.

Behind me, people are cycling along.
We move in the same rhythm, without anything being agreed upon.
A small baton is being passed.
From hand to hand.
Each time, something is peeled away.

I hear their thoughts.
Not fragments, but clearly.
How they look at the surroundings.
What they think of the road.
What they believe would have been better.

Someone thinks I should have taken a different direction.

I smile.
For me, this is a familiar route.
I know every paving stone, every shrub, every tree.
There is no doubt at all.

I keep cycling.

The voices remain, but they do not touch me.
They move around me, like the wind along my face.
Present, but without determining direction.

We ride along the secondary road beside the highway near Willemstad.
On the bridge.

That is where I wake up.

How many voices can be heard
without changing your direction?

When do you know a path is yours,
not because no one speaks —
but because nothing makes you deviate?

And what remains
when everything that is passed along
is slowly peeled away?

 

 

 

 

 

Sixteen Transformations

16 March 2026

In my dream I was sleeping and kept waking up. Each time I woke up I saw the same thing. My entire body was pitch black and covered with scales, like the skin of a reptile. Not a single millimeter was free.

The moment it dawned on me what I looked like, something strange happened. The scales began to slide off me in great numbers. Not one by one, but as a movement flowing down over my body. They disappeared completely. Where they went I do not know. When I looked closely I saw that they were actually May beetles.

After that, a photo was taken of me. Standing, facing forward.

Then I went back to sleep. I woke up again and once more my body was black and covered with scales. Again the scales began to run off me and turned into May beetles. This time a photo was taken while my face was turned to the left.

Then everything repeated itself again. Sleeping, waking up, the black reptilian body, the scales flowing away and turning into May beetles. Now a photo was taken with my head turned to the right.

Once more the same cycle began. Sleeping, waking up, scales, beetles. Only this time the photo was taken while I was lying down.

In this way, photos were taken four times. Sixteen images in total.

Each time the skin slid off me as if I were taking off a coat that no longer belonged to me.

The last time the scales ran off me as May beetles, I woke up. And I was immediately wide awake.

Perhaps there are moments when something old slips away from us.
No struggle, no violence — but like a skin that slowly lets go.
Perhaps the things that feel like armor are in reality movement.
Perhaps shedding is nothing more than making space for growth.
And perhaps that growth brings new insight each time.

The same person — but each time from a deeper layer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Journey by Water

 

March 23, 2026

We organize an outing with a large group of family and friends. Ton and I are the people we are now. In the group there are also people who have already passed away in real life, and people we no longer see.

We meet at a harbor where two small sloops are waiting for us. Each boat can hold about fifteen to twenty people.

We sail along a river through nature areas, passing villages and small towns, heading toward a large city.

At the edge of the river, near an old industrial harbor, a very unusual house appears. We dock there and go ashore to visit it.

Inside, the building is enormous. It is constructed almost like a cave. It is not dark at all — everything is very light, mostly shades of white. The walls are not made of stone, but they look soft and natural, not smooth. The whole place feels as if you are walking inside a cave with halls and rounded heights, everything uneven and organic.

Here and there there are windows, also in organic shapes. These windows are beautifully colored, almost like paintings. The daylight that shines through them casts soft, moving colors along the cave-like walls.

Eventually we arrive in a huge hall. The floors, the walls — everything remains organic in form. There are very tall pillars, almost like stalagmites and stalactites. At the far end there is an enormous glass wall, perhaps twenty meters wide and ten meters high. This glass is also organic in depth and height, with bright colors like a modern painting.

The whole hall reflects the daylight through the glass in a remarkable spectacle of colors. There are all kinds of artworks hanging and standing throughout the space. Being there is a very sensory experience.

When we go outside, everyone gets a few hours of free time to explore the industrial area. It is no longer used as an industrial harbor, but has become a kind of paradise for art, theater and discovery.

We agree to meet again later at the same place.

People leave in small groups. I see some disappear into the distance. A few people start doing water sports. Some of the younger ones climb on the iron ladders and industrial structures that are still standing there.

As a surprise, we have arranged a cruise ship to continue our journey — to spend the night, to play music, to dance with a DJ, and to enjoy a festive time together.

When it is time for everyone to return, we wait for quite a while, but unfortunately not everyone comes back. Eventually we decide to continue our journey without them and enjoy the trip with those who are present.

I wake up feeling very alert and well rested.

What happens when a whole life seems to gather in one journey?
Why do some people continue traveling with us while others quietly disappear from the path?
What is that luminous place we visit along the river — part cave, part cathedral, part gallery of colors?
And what does it mean when an old industrial landscape transforms into a place of art, play and discovery?
Perhaps a dream sometimes shows how a life moves forward: some companions remain, others fade away, and the journey continues on new waters.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forms that become visible

 

March 12, 2026

I see a boy standing beside a large painting lying flat on a table. It measures about 100 by 200 centimeters. Over the painting there is a grid, about ten centimeters high, like a kind of fence. Because of this, the surface is divided into ten by twenty compartments — two hundred small squares in total.

In each square there is a figure.

When you remove a figure from a square, a shape remains in the painting.

I keep showing the boy a tiny piece of hardened bodily fluid, about half a centimeter in size. Based on that small fragment, he has to remove a figure from the grid so that a shape appears in the painting — about twenty times larger than the little piece I showed him.

We continue like this. Again and again he removes a figure. In every square a shape remains.

When all the figures have been taken out and only the shapes are visible, we go outside. There we do the same thing again — but now on a much larger scale, with a work measuring about ten by twenty meters.

Then the scene changes.

Suddenly I am standing in a historic city center by a harbor. The atmosphere feels old and familiar. There I see two people I have known for a very long time. Friends who have been divorced for twenty years, but whom I still care about deeply.

They have come to surprise me.

They are carrying a baby.

The moment I see them, and it truly reaches me that it is Mats and Moni, I start to cry. They walk toward me and embrace me.

At that moment, I wake up.

What remains visible when the figure disappears?
What form does life leave behind in our bodies, in our memories, in our relationships?
Can something very small contain the key to a much larger pattern?
What happens when we learn to look at the imprint rather than what has vanished?
And why does new life appear at that very moment — carried in the arms of people who once shared another form together?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kittens Everywhere

 

March 7, 2026

Last night I lived in a house with several floors and a large garden. It was outside the built-up area.

We had five cats, three of which were pregnant. One after another they gave birth. I had my hands full.

First five kittens.
Then seven kittens.
And finally another five kittens.

In the end there were twenty-two cats walking around my house.

It was so much fun.

My living room slowly turned into a playground for cats. They were playing and climbing everywhere. This time I barricaded the stairs to the upper floor. It shouldn’t turn into a complete cat madhouse.

In my dream I called my youngest brother and my oldest sister to tell them that there were now twenty-two cats running through my house.

In the dream I saw them growing bigger. They played, ran around, climbed into everything. A cheerful animal chaos.

Suddenly I found myself in a shop talking to a very nice young girl. She was the sales assistant. A fresh, pretty girl with an open face and an easy, friendly way of talking.

She told me she lived in Roosendaal. Proudly she said it was the nicest city in the Netherlands. The city was booming.

Laughing I said,
“Well, then I’ll have to go and take a look soon.”

Back home I watched all the kittens playing.

I enjoyed it.

Slowly I woke up, feeling sleepy.

When does abundance simply become play?
How much life can actually fit into one house?
And when is busyness not chaos, but simply joy?

 

 

 

 

 

Scent, Movement and a Painting

March 6, 2026

Dreams can be such strange films.

First I smell ammonia. I see nothing, but the sensation is there. Later I smell cannabis. Ugh. And much later there is a persistent unpleasant smell of laundry detergent.

Suddenly the film begins.

I dream that I am a young man visiting his daughter in Veldhoven. She is the same age as my own daughter. He rides a motorcycle and plans to go to Amsterdam. During a conversation he decides to first include a stretch through Germany.

Then I see him riding along the road. At the same time I am inside his thoughts.

He thinks back to his doctor telling him he has bone cancer. Almost throughout his entire body.

So… what do you do with news like that?

Extend life with chemotherapy or something similar? What would I actually be doing then? What on earth would I be trying to hold on to?

No. I’m not going down that hospital corridor.

Right now I only have a little pain in my elbow and nothing else. I’ll ride my motorcycle for a while. Into nature. Visit people. Explore cities. Visit museums.

I’ll see where it leads.

At that moment I truly wake up. The unpleasant smell of the detergent is still there. My husband has moved close against me. It turns out to be his pyjama shirt. I tell him that his shirt has a smell I find unpleasant. He gets up to take it off.

Meanwhile I fall asleep again and continue dreaming.

I have arrived in Amsterdam on the motorcycle. In the Moco Museum I see a large painting hanging on the wall. Blue-turquoise, purple and magenta tones. Here and there gold peeks through, like fractures where the paint has burst open in cells.

I see movement and flow.

Across the whole painting lie full and half circles, translucent in the same colours as the painting. They soften, blur, and bring hidden colours to the surface.

Fascinating to watch.

I start a conversation with someone who is also standing there looking at the painting.

It feels like a dream full of symbolism without an ending, I think as a spectator.

Slowly I wake up.

Warm.

And soft.

Why does an image move me without my knowing why?

And how much of life is actually just like that —
a moment of looking, and then riding on?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maintenance – Liberating

March 4-5, 2026

Yesterday, after a night full of dreams, only one word remained:
maintenance.

I didn’t write it down. I was tired and went to bed early.

Last night I dreamed a lot again, but once more almost nothing stayed with me. Only one word.

Liberating.

At first I thought: liberation.
But that was immediately corrected. “No.” Not liberation — liberating.

I woke up wide awake, immediately untied my beads, and began the day.

When does the mind first ask for maintenance…
before something liberating can happen?

 

 

 

 

 

Contrasts

March 3, 2026

All night long I am watching the series Game of Thrones. I feel nothing. No tension. No involvement. I watch the way you watch television. Detached. Only an observer.

Then the dream shifts abruptly.

I am sitting in a large concert hall with good friends: Samuel L. Jackson and Whoopi Goldberg. We are listening to beautiful, calm pop music. It feels pleasant. Familiar.

Suddenly the music changes. Loud heavy metal, like Rammstein. The singer shouts intensely: “Jorgen, wie geht es?”

I stand up. Start jumping. Sing along loudly.

Sam and Whoopi look at me in surprise.

And then — plop.

I am walking through flower fields on Jeju Island. There I see Leeteuk from Super Junior. He is softly singing to himself, a gentle melody. “Jorgen, how are you doing?” He shifts into Korean: “Yoleugen, jal jinaeseyo?”

I wake up. The sun is shining into my bedroom.

When am I the observer — and when do I leap in?
How many shades can my energy hold?
Is distance sometimes as real as surrender?
And in which language do I actually ask myself how I am?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Loving Yourself

March 2, 2026

I dreamed a lot last night. I know that much. But nothing remained except one question.

What does loving yourself mean to you?

Goodness… what is that?

At first I began by explaining what it is not. It is not constantly trying to make yourself beautiful. It is not wanting to own everything you find beautiful or attractive.

And then I thought: why am I avoiding this question? Am I truly avoiding it, or do I simply not know how to answer it? What are you really trying to say, Annette? You are answering the way you see it in others. But what do you think?

Rewind.

Silence.

For me, loving myself means hygiene. For both my outer and inner world. Mentally and physically. A way of living in which the words must, have, and want are not leading.

A balance that makes me inwardly beautiful. Awareness.

I think that is the essence of loving myself.

Ton gently wakes me.

How quiet may love for yourself be?
When does care stop being a duty and become something natural?
And if nothing is required, nothing must be done, nothing has to be proven —
might I already be exactly where I am meant to be?

 

 

 

 

 

The Same Road, a Different Arrival

 

March 1, 2026

It began with a kind of course for young boys on how to court a girl. Delightfully old-fashioned — bringing a bouquet of flowers to a first date. The young man picks the girl up at her home and receives the flowers from me/us.

The last boy has already bought his own flowers. In a humorous way, I see him hiding the flowers he received from us.

Then the dream shifts.

I continue dreaming exactly the same as about eleven years ago. It was a journey with many young people that I made around the time of Michel’s funeral. A kind of survival journey. At the end of that journey is his funeral.

It is a repetition of then.

The only difference: I now arrive at his funeral not tired or exhausted.

The entire journey and the funeral feel tonight like an organic, calm, natural process.

I wake up with a slight headache.

Is a journey only over when it no longer exhausts?
Or when love is no longer a struggle?
What if grief ultimately transforms into rest?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No Noise

February 27, 2026

No film last night. No images. No story unfolding. Only a clear awareness: there is no noise.

That struck me. Not as a message with a voice or explanation, but as knowing. Quiet. Almost self-evident. And perhaps even more important: I know how to avoid noise.

For me, noise is everything that is not mine yet still asks for attention. Expectations, unspoken pressure, explaining what is not understood, repairing what once went wrong. Small disturbances that cost energy.

Last night there was nothing to repair. Nothing to process. No symbolism that needed decoding. Only clarity.

I did not feel empty. Nor excited. Just fine. And quietly amazed. That this too is possible. That silence does not come from exhaustion, but from alignment.

Perhaps this is not a grand insight. Perhaps it is simply hygiene of the mind. Like washing, getting dressed, training. Recognizing noise and not letting it in.

There is no noise. And I know when there is.

When does silence become presence rather than absence?
How much energy remains when nothing disturbs?
And what do I hear when nothing overpowers it anymore?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Quiet, Gently Moving Image

February 24, 2026

Everything has faded. No story, no context, no conversations. Only the final image remains.

I am with someone in a luxury sleeper train compartment.

That is all I know.

No destination.
No point of departure.
No reason.

Only that we are traveling.
Comfortable.
In motion.

When does the story disappear and only the journey remain?
Who sits beside me when I no longer need to understand?
Is luxury here comfort — or trust?
And how much does a dream need to tell in order to say something?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Through the Uninhabitable

February 23, 2026

All night long I went through a survival journey with a group. High in the mountains. Uninhabitable terrain. Wind and weather against us. The elements were harsh and nothing felt comfortable. Yet we kept going.

We were strangers when we started. Each with our own pace, our own strength, perhaps our own doubts. But somewhere along the way, something shifted. By walking together, carrying together, facing the cold and the altitude side by side, something else began to form.

When we made it — because we all made it — we were no longer separate individuals. We were a group. Perhaps even friends.

There were many conversations. I no longer remember what was said exactly. Only the feeling remains.

We made it. Together.

When does survival become connection?
What happens when resistance is no longer a battle but a shared experience?
How much strength arises when no one is left behind?
And which conversations remain in the body, even after the words have faded?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Humanity in Handcuffs

February 22, 2026

Last night I was a psychologist working with the police.
Two detectives — a man and a woman who always operate as a team — came to see me. I examined whether they live in harmony with those close to them. What are their conditionings? Where are they personally stuck? How do they see human beings? How do they see a suspect?

When they arrest someone, how do they handle that? Is there a difference between someone being a suspect and being one hundred percent certain that person is guilty? Do you treat them differently — or not?

If you do this kind of work, do you think in terms of right and wrong? Good and evil? And outside your work — are you milder then? Or do you carry that thinking home with you?

I gave them an example.

Suppose I am the suspect you are arresting. Before you put the handcuffs on me, I ask whether you can wrap a cloth around my wrists first, because metal edges cause my skin severe pain. Due to an illness, my skin is constantly sensitive. Hard seams in clothing or rigid accessories are painful.

What would you do?

Would it not matter to you? In your eyes, am I already condemned — and therefore is additional pain justified? Is it permissible to cause someone pain, even if that person has done something wrong?

And in a state that calls itself humane — is “an eye for an eye” truly a core value?

I mostly feel curiosity. I hope my questions open different perspectives within them.

In the middle of these questions, I wake up.

When does justice become rigid?
When does humanity remain intact, even under suspicion?
Do I see a perpetrator — or first a human being?
And how thin is the line between judgment and understanding?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Accepter

 

February 21, 2026

Last night’s dream may have been confusing. I remember fragments of images, but mostly the essence. What stands out most: despite everything, I felt no unrest. Disturbing images were experienced in complete calm.

I have been kidnapped and tied to a chair, my hands cuffed behind my back. My captor behaves in a threatening way, yet I feel no intimidation. With charming persuasion, I try to shift his thinking.

Then danger arises for both of us. He unties me from the chair and we decide to flee together. My hands are still cuffed behind my back.

We are chased across the ground and also from the air by a helicopter. We encounter a small boy who shows us an escape route — a dark forest with a muddy path. We hear the helicopter but do not see it.

My captor removes the handcuffs.

In the distance we hear dogs barking. The sound comes closer and closer. It is pitch dark. The police dogs find us and we are forced to lie on the ground.

I continue to look at the dog in front of me with love. Instead of growling, he begins to wag his tail. The other dogs follow his new behavior. My captor and I are able to flee deeper into the forest. We hear the police approaching, but they do not find us.

The mud in which we had to lie has made us as dark as the forest itself.

We are free.

After that I dream of various incidents from the past that did not go well. Or were wrong. I try to do them again. To repair them. But nothing succeeds.

Strangely, I still feel no unrest. I watch and see that it does not work.

Then all the images disappear.

I see only a long, rectangular sign with rounded corners. Its color is brick red, with off-white lettering in elegant script. In French it reads:

Accepter…

Yes, I think.

To accept that things once did not go well. I have learned from them. I do not need to redo them or change them.

The sign hangs in the air and remains there until I wake up.

When does fleeing cease to be a struggle and become a transition?
What happens when I stop trying to rewrite the past?
Can freedom arise without anyone losing?
And what changes when I no longer correct myself, but accept?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why Not Intervene

 

February 20, 2026

It feels as if I spent the entire night inside Naturalis. Not as a visitor, but as a thinker. In this dream, I can hear my thoughts.

A meteorite could also bring an end to our existence on Earth. No more paying taxes. An end to imposed rules.

Yes, climate change is very real. Would it not be better if humanity simply ceased to exist?

I see a mother walking with an unruly child. I see it again in my dream. When is she going to intervene? Why is there no intervention at all? Not by humanity itself — some kind of universal awakening? Or by the universe? More volcanic eruptions? More landslides? More species disappearing? More disruption of biodiversity? More… more… more…

The Earth is talking back. The Earth is grumbling. Listen!

WHY NOT INTERVENE?

That sentence keeps returning.

My little dog barks me awake.

What if my call for intervention is actually a longing for responsibility?

What if destruction is not the answer, but awakening is?

And what if the universe does not intervene because it is waiting for us to do so?

 

 

 

Fitting the Shadows

 

February 19, 2026

In the silence where nothing exists, I sing softly. Again and again. When you're down and troubled… I sing until it becomes still, until the sound dissolves into nothing. Then a figure appears. Not young. Not old. Neither man nor woman. No world. No space. Only presence. She sits in lotus position and I know: this is me.

Shadows arise. Hundreds of them. They do not emerge from anything; they simply appear in the void. The world wants to know whether I fit them, whether I can slip into enough forms to be allowed to enter. As if a certain percentage must be reached before access is granted.

Patiently, I begin trying them on one by one, the way you try on coats in a shop. Some slide around me almost effortlessly; others catch or tighten in places where I refuse to bend. I shift, turn, adjust, try again. There is no haste in my movement. Time seems irrelevant. It is an endless process, yet patience is a quiet virtue.

After what feels like eternity, the world grows restless. It is taking too long. I may remain seated, she finally says; we will fit the shadows onto you. That will be faster. As if efficiency matters more than truth.

I remain seated in lotus position. I do not move.

Sleep-dazed, I wake.

What if I no longer have to fit, but the world must learn to shape itself around me?
What if my center is stronger than the shadows?
And what if remaining seated is not waiting, but trust?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leading Without Words

 

February 18, 2026

In my dream I am still young. I live in the countryside, at the edge of a forest.

The farm has stables and barns. My dogs frolic around me. Chickens roam freely in the meadow. There are sheep, goats, and alpacas.

A young man, a journalist, comes to interview me about life in the countryside — and especially about the animals.

I send the dogs to their kennel for a moment. They immediately respond to what I say. When the young man and I walk together across the yard, they are allowed to roam freely again. The journalist asks how I managed to make them so obedient.

I tell him: first of all, with love. They sense that I am at the top of the pecking order. I give commands not only with my voice or sound, but also with images. Fortunately, I am someone who thinks in images. A visual thinker. Animals do that as well.

By creating a mental image to accompany a command, they can respond even without language or sound. The dogs circle around us. Without saying anything, I look at them and show in my mind that they should lie down. The dogs follow my silent instruction.

We walk across the estate while I speak and answer the young man’s questions.

My husband gently shakes my leg to wake me.

What happens when leadership is no longer a struggle?
Is love sometimes clearer than a command?
How much of what I see in images is already understood without words?
And when does authority simply become natural?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Roles in the Making

 

February 17, 2026

My book is being turned into a film. I am also the director.

I have selected about thirty people to take part, but I do not yet know which role each of them will receive. That is why I take them on a kind of two-week introductory retreat. I want to get to know them. To observe them. How do they behave within a group? How are they one on one with me?

Are there people who come close to the characters from my book? What is the mutual attraction between them?

We do many things together. Sports activities, cultural outings, long walks in nature. Campfire stories and games. All to place the right man or woman in the right role — and at the same time to create a healthy group dynamic.

This approach is unfamiliar to them. At first you can feel the tension. Will I get a leading role or not? But gradually that question fades into the background. The shared desire to create a beautiful film together begins to grow.

While we are enjoying ourselves, I wake up.

Who receives which role — and who actually chooses it?
What happens when the desire for the leading role gives way to the whole?
Is observing sometimes also a form of loving?
And when does a group become greater than any individual within it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inspector Annette

 

February 16, 2026

No new dream.
Only the same feeling as yesterday.

Inspector Annette.

As if something is still being investigated.
No fire. No murders.
Just an alert gaze that remains.

Perhaps not every night carries a story.
Sometimes it is a stance that lingers a little longer.

What continues to investigate itself, even without images?
And how long may a role remain before it dissolves?

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.