Homeostasis, what our psychology and physiology percieves as normal.
True dreaming is remembering who you really are.
I have often wondered what it really means to dream.
We usually think of dreaming as something that happens when we sleep. Or perhaps we call our waking fantasies daydreams. But what if dreaming is something much deeper? What if true dreaming is not about creating an imaginary world at all, but about remembering something about ourselves that we have forgotten?
Perhaps it invites us to look at ourselves in ways that go far beyond how we ordinarily see ourselves—whether in our waking life or even in our night dreams.
We take on this physical body to experience something. To learn. To gain wisdom. Perhaps even to fulfil a purpose that we may not always consciously remember.
The body is fascinating in that sense.
It carries us through life, experiences everything with us, and yet it has its own intelligence. It knows how to breathe without being told. It regulates temperature. It heals a wound. It knows when something feels safe and when something doesn’t. Long before the mind has formed a thought, the body may already have responded.
Sometimes I think we are a little like snails.
We carry our house with us wherever we go.
And just like the snail retreats into its shell when it senses danger, we too tend to retreat into what is familiar. The familiar may not necessarily be pleasant. It may be anxiety, anger, loneliness, overthinking, people-pleasing, exhaustion or even a particular way of seeing ourselves.
But because it is familiar, the body recognises it as home.
The body is constantly trying to maintain a state of balance. Homeostasis.
And perhaps this is where transformation becomes interesting.
We often imagine transformation as changing our thoughts. We read something inspiring, make a decision, set an intention and believe that we have changed.
But then something happens.
The old reaction returns.
The old fear returns.
The old relationship pattern returns.
The old version of ourselves quietly walks back in and makes itself comfortable.
Why?
Because the body has its own memory of what is normal.
Perhaps what we call our personality is, in part, the accumulated memory of these patterns.
There is the electrical activity of the nervous system—the impulses, sensations and responses constantly moving through us.
There is the chemical and metabolic world of hormones, neurotransmitters, digestion, cellular activity and all the extraordinary chemistry that keeps this physical vessel functioning.
There is heat and movement—the kinetic life of the body as we breathe, walk, dance, touch, speak and interact with the physical world.
Then there is the less tangible world of emotion and thought. The feelings we carry. The stories we tell ourselves. The beliefs that quietly shape our responses, often without our awareness.
And beyond all of this is what many traditions have called prana, qi, life force or simply consciousness—the mysterious something that makes this collection of matter alive.
I don’t think we need to have all the answers about these different dimensions.
Perhaps the more useful question is: What is my body accustomed to experiencing as normal?
Because that can be surprisingly revealing.
If tension has been our normal, relaxation may initially feel uncomfortable.
If chaos has been our normal, peace may feel strangely empty.
If being unseen has kept us safe, visibility may feel threatening.
If struggle has become familiar, ease may even make us suspicious.
The body does not necessarily resist change because it is against us.
Perhaps it resists because it is trying to protect what it already knows.
So transformation may begin not with forcing ourselves to become someone else, but with becoming aware of what we are repeatedly teaching our body to experience.
What is my energetic baseline?
What emotions do I return to again and again?
What happens in my body when I imagine something new?
Where do I tighten?
Where do I withdraw?
What feels unfamiliar enough for my system to label it as unsafe?
Awareness is perhaps the first disruption.
And then comes the gentler work of creating a different experience.
Not merely thinking differently, but allowing the body to experience something different.
A different breath.
A different response.
A different emotional state.
A different way of moving.
A different relationship with ourselves.
Perhaps, over time, the nervous system begins to recognise this new experience too.
And what was once unfamiliar slowly becomes familiar.
The body begins to create a new homeostasis.
Maybe this is what we mean when we speak about rewiring neural pathways. Maybe it is also what some traditions describe as changing our vibration or aligning our energy.
Different languages. Perhaps pointing towards an experience that is not entirely different.
We cannot create a new reality simply by wishing for one.
We have to become capable of inhabiting it.
And that means teaching the body that the new reality is not a threat.
Perhaps true dreaming is this.
Not escaping from the life we have, but remembering that there are possibilities within us that our present state has not yet learned to recognise.
The dream then is not merely something we see.
It is something we slowly learn to become.
And perhaps the real question is not What do I want to create?
Perhaps it is:
What does my body need to learn to recognise as home?
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