Why Do We Dream?

Fen couldn't stop thinking about the dream.

She'd had it last night — the one where she was swimming through the sky above her neighborhood, doing a slow breaststroke past chimneys and treetops, and her cat Gerald was flying beside her wearing tiny goggles. She could still feel the cool wind on her face. She could still see the rooftops getting smaller below her.

But here was the strange part. She had never flown before. She had never even been on an airplane. And Gerald definitely did not own goggles.

So where did it come from?

Fen sat at the breakfast table, stirring her cereal in slow, thoughtful circles.

"Mom," she said, "why do we dream?"

Her mother poured coffee and smiled. "That is an excellent question. And I know exactly who you should ask."

The first person Fen visited was Dr. Kapoor.

Dr. Kapoor was a scientist who lived three houses down. Her garage was full of books and charts and a plastic model of a brain that you could take apart like a puzzle. Fen loved that brain. She had held the little rubbery hippocampus in her hand once, and Dr. Kapoor had said, "Careful, that's where your memories live," and Fen had almost dropped it.

"Dr. Kapoor," Fen said, sitting on the tall stool by the workbench, "why do we dream?"

Dr. Kapoor pushed her glasses up her nose. "Wonderful question. Let me show you something." She picked up the plastic brain and pointed to a spot deep in the middle. "When you fall asleep, your brain doesn't turn off. Not even close. It actually gets busy."

"Busy doing what?"

"Sorting. Filing. Organizing. Think about everything that happened to you yesterday. You learned new spelling words. You argued with your brother. You petted the neighbor's dog. You ate something delicious. Your brain takes all of that — every sight, every feeling, every little moment — and it sorts through it while you sleep. It decides what to keep and what to let go."

Fen leaned forward. "But what about the weird stuff? I was flying. With my cat."

Dr. Kapoor laughed. "Well, that's the thing. While your brain is sorting, it sometimes mixes pieces together in funny ways. A memory of your cat, plus a feeling of freedom, plus something you saw on TV about flying — your brain stirs them all up like soup. And the dream is what that soup looks like."

"So dreams are... brain soup?"

"In a way! Dreams are your brain practicing, sorting, and sometimes just... playing."

Fen thanked Dr. Kapoor. Brain soup. She liked that. But somehow she felt like there might be more to it. The flying dream hadn't felt like soup. It had felt like something important.

The second person Fen visited was Mr. Azul.

Mr. Azul was a poet who sat on his porch every afternoon writing in a green notebook. He had wild gray hair and paint on his shoes even though he wasn't a painter. Fen had once asked him about the paint, and he'd said, "I stepped in someone else's art," which she thought about at least once a week.

"Mr. Azul," Fen said, settling into the wicker chair across from him, "why do we dream?"

Mr. Azul closed his notebook slowly. He looked out at the sky for a long moment, as if the answer were drifting by on a cloud.

"Dreams," he said, "are letters you write to yourself."

Fen wrinkled her nose. "Letters?"

"Think of it this way. There are things you feel deep down that you don't have words for yet. Maybe you're scared of something but you don't know what. Maybe you want something but you can't explain it. So at night, when everything gets quiet, that part of you — the deep-down part — sends you a picture instead."

"Like a drawing?"

"Exactly like a drawing. Only you're inside the drawing. If you're worried, you might dream about being lost. If you're excited, you might dream about running fast or finding treasure. The dream is your heart's way of talking when your mouth doesn't know what to say."

Fen thought about this. She thought about her flying dream — how free she'd felt, how happy, how the whole world looked small and simple from up above.

"So if I dreamed about flying..."

Mr. Azul smiled. "Then maybe some part of you is ready to go somewhere new."

Fen sat with that for a moment. It felt true, the way a warm blanket feels true on a cold night — you can't prove it, but you know.

She thanked Mr. Azul and walked on, turning his words over in her mind like smooth stones.

The third person Fen visited was Nana.

Nana was in her kitchen, as she almost always was, making something that smelled like cinnamon and butter. Her hands were dusted with flour. Her reading glasses sat on top of her head, where they could not help her read anything at all.

"Nana," Fen said, hopping up onto the counter, "why do we dream?"

Nana wiped her hands on her apron and looked at Fen with those dark, gentle eyes.

"Oh, baby. People have been asking that question for as long as there have been people."

"I know. I've already asked two of them."

Nana chuckled. "And what did they tell you?"

"Dr. Kapoor said dreams are my brain sorting things out, like soup. And Mr. Azul said dreams are letters from the deep-down part of me."

Nana nodded slowly. "They're both smart people."

"But what do you think?"

Nana was quiet for a moment. She slid a tray of cookies into the oven and set the timer. Then she sat down across from Fen.

"When I was your age," Nana said, "I dreamed I was sitting under a tree with my grandmother — my own nana — who had passed away the year before. And in the dream, she didn't say anything. She just braided my hair, the way she always used to. And I could feel her hands. I could feel every single tug and twist."

Fen watched Nana's face. Nana was smiling, but her eyes were shiny.

"When I woke up," Nana continued, "I could still feel her hands in my hair. And I thought — maybe dreams are how we visit the people and places we can't get to when we're awake. Maybe dreams are a door that only opens at night."

"A door to where?"

"To wherever you need to go."

The kitchen was quiet except for the ticking of the oven timer. Fen could smell the cookies starting to bake. She could picture Nana as a little girl, sitting under a tree, feeling her grandmother's hands.

"So which answer is right?" Fen asked.

Nana reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind Fen's ear. "Maybe a dream is big enough to be all of those things at once. Your brain is sorting and practicing. Your heart is trying to tell you something. And sometimes — just sometimes — you walk through a door you didn't know was there."

That night, Fen lay in bed with Gerald curled up by her feet. She looked at the ceiling and wondered what dream would come.

Would her brain make soup out of the day — Dr. Kapoor's plastic brain, Mr. Azul's green notebook, Nana's cinnamon cookies?

Would her heart send her a picture of something she didn't have words for yet?

Would she walk through a door?

Gerald purred. Fen closed her eyes.

And somewhere between one breath and the next, she was flying again — but this time she wasn't alone. Below her, the whole neighborhood glowed soft and golden, and in every house she could see someone dreaming. Every dream was different. And every dream was real.

She flew higher.

Gerald adjusted his goggles.

And the night opened wide.