I don't know if it was a dream or not
I woke up accidentally in the middle of the night. I checked and it was 3 AM. I thought of going back to sleep when I thought of lucid dreaming. I tried FILD but it didn't work so WILD'd instead. This worked and soon I was in a dream BUT it didn't feel like one. I felt my real body and I think I was visualizing everything. If I opened my eyes, I would be afraid it was my bedroom. I took a glimpse and it was. I was also in a dream, and everything was played out in an alternate vision or second vision. I was lucid and I can control things, but I'm not sure if it's a dream or not.
IMO Gaea, You were experiencing Deep Reverie
Gaea
It has a name. It's called "Reverie"
Quote:
Originally Posted by
Gaea
I woke up accidentally in the middle of the night. I checked and it was 3 AM. I thought of going back to sleep when I thought of lucid dreaming. I tried FILD but it didn't work so WILD'd instead. This worked and soon I was in a dream BUT it didn't feel like one.
I felt my real body and I think I was visualizing everything. If I opened my eyes, I would be afraid it was my bedroom. I took a glimpse and it was. I was also in a dream, and everything was played out in an alternate vision or second vision. I was lucid and I can control things, but I'm not sure if it's a dream or not.
Old poets talked about it long ago. It is a Powerful state of mind. It is like a waking-dream. Here is an example:
♥♥♥
A Nocturnal Reverie
BY*ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA
In such a night, when every louder wind
Is to its distant cavern safe confined;
And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings,
And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;
Or from some tree, famed for the owl’s delight,
She, hollowing clear, directs the wand’rer right:
In such a night, when passing clouds give place,
Or thinly veil the heav’ns’ mysterious face;
When in some river, overhung with green,
The waving moon and the trembling leaves are seen;
When freshened grass now bears itself upright,
And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,
Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose,
And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows;
Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,
Yet checkers still with red the dusky brakes
When scatter’d glow-worms, but in twilight fine,
Shew trivial beauties, watch their hour to shine;
Whilst Salisb’ry stands the test of every light,
In perfect charms, and perfect virtue bright:
When odors, which declined repelling day,
Through temp’rate air uninterrupted stray;
When darkened groves their softest shadows wear,
And falling waters we distinctly hear;
When through the gloom more venerable shows
Some ancient fabric, awful in repose,
While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,
And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale:
When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads,
Comes slowly grazing through th’ adjoining meads,
Whose stealing pace, and lengthened shade we fear,
Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear:
When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,
And unmolested kine rechew the cud;
When curlews cry beneath the village walls,
And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;
Their shortlived jubilee the creatures keep,
Which but endures, whilst tyrant man does sleep;
When a sedate content the spirit feels,
And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;
But silent musings urge the mind to seek
[u]Something, too high for syllables to speak[/b];
Till the free soul to a composedness charmed,
Finding the elements of rage disarmed,
O’er all below a solemn quiet grown,
Joys in th’ inferior world, and thinks it like her own:
In such a night let me abroad remain,
Till morning breaks, and all’s confused again;
Our cares, our toils, our clamors are renewed,
Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued.
♥♥♥
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POETAnne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea*1661–1720
POET’S REGIONEngland
SCHOOL / PERIODAugustan
Here is the poet:
★
Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea : The Poetry Foundation
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It reads:
Although she has always enjoyed some fame as a poet, Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea, has only recently received greater praise and renewed attention. Her diverse and considerable body of work records her private thoughts and personal struggles but also illustrates her awareness of the social and political climate of her era. Not only do Finch’s poems reveal a sensitive mind and a religious soul, but they exhibit great generic range and demonstrate her fluent use of Augustan diction and forms.*
Descended from an ancient Hampshire family, Finch was born in April 1661, the third and youngest child of Anne Haselwood and Sir William Kingsmill. At the age of twenty-one, Finch was appointed one of six maids of honor to Mary of Modena, wife of the Duke of York, in the court of Charles II. Her interest in verse writing began during this period and was probably encouraged by her friendships with Sarah Churchill and*Anne Killigrew, also maids of honor and women of literary interests. It was during her residence in the court of Charles II that she met Colonel Heneage Finch, uncle of the fifth earl of Winchilsea and gentleman to the Duke of York. Finch fell in love with Anne and courted her persistently until they married. She resigned her post, although Heneage Finch continued to serve in various government positions. Their marriage was a happy one, as attested by his letters and several of her early poems. They led a quiet life, residing first in Westminster and then in London, as Heneage Finch became more involved in public affairs with the accession of James II in 1685. The couple wholly supported James throughout his brief and difficult reign and remained forever sympathetic to the interests of the Stuart court.*
Following the revolution and deposition of James in 1689, Finch lost his government position and permanently severed himself from public life by refusing allegiance to the incoming monarchs, William and Mary. The subsequent loss of income forced the Finches to take temporary refuge with various friends in London until Heneage’s nephew Charles invited them to settle permanently on the family’s estate in Eastwell in 1689 or 1690, where they resided for more than twenty-five years. It was during the happy yet trying years of her early married life that Anne Finch began to pursue more seriously her interest in writing poetry. She adopted the pseudonym Ardelia, and not surprisingly, many of her earliest poems are dedicated to her “much lov’d husband,” who appears as “Dafnis” in her work. Finch’s poetry to her husband connects passionate love and poetry in subtle ways. In “A Letter to the Same Person,” she makes explicit the intertwined nature of love and verse, insisting that one is dependent on the other:
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Shared dreaming (IMO) is the result of shared-reverie. This is an anthem to the power of Reverie
♥
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