(Psychology Research Progress Series.) Krippner, Stanley - Joffe-Ellis, Debbie - Perchance To Dream - The Frontiers of Dream Psychology-Nova Science Publishers (2009)

PSYCHOLOGY RESEARCH PROGRESS
PERCHANCE TO DREAM: THE

FRONTIERS OF DREAM PSYCHOLOGY
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Perchance to Dream: The Frontiers of Dream Psychology

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2009. ISBN: 978-1-60876-123-4
PSYCHOLOGY RESEARCH PROGRESS
PERCHANCE TO DREAM: THE

FRONTIERS OF DREAM PSYCHOLOGY
STANLEY KRIPPNER
AND
DEBBIE JOFFE ELLIS
EDITORS
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Krippner, Stanley, 1932-

Perchance to dream : the frontiers of dream psychology / Stanley Krippner and Debbie Joffe
Ellis.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-61761-397-5 (E-Book)
1. Dreams. 2. Dream interpretation. I. Joffe-Ellis, Debbie, 1956- II. Title.
BF1091.K755 2009
154.6'3--dc22
2009028868
Published by Nova Science Publishers, Inc.  New York

CONTENTS
Dedication vii
Acknowledgments vii
Introduction xi
Stanley Krippner and Debbie Joffe Ellis
Part I: History
Chapter 1 The Evolution of Sleep and Dreams 1
Patrick McNamara and Paul Butler
Chapter 2 The Emergence of the Grassroots Dreamwork Movement
in the United States 13
Deborah Hillman
Part II: Theories 23
Chapter 3 A Neurocognitive Theory of Dreaming 27
G. William Domhoff
Chapter 4 Daylife, Dreamlife and Chaos Theory 43
Allan Combs and Stanley Krippner
Part III: Applications 61
Chapter 5 Dreams and the Body 65
Stanley Keleman
Chapter 6 Working with Dreams: A Cognitive-Experiential Model 71
Clara E. Hill and Aaron B. Rochlen
Chapter 7 Use Your Dream To Be the Whole New Person
You Can Be 81
Alvin R. Mahrer
vi Contents
Chapter 8 Lucid Dreaming: History and Practice 97

Fariba Bogzaran
Chapter 9 The Neuropsychology of Nightmares Reported
by Iraq War Veterans 113
Daniel B. Pitchford
Chapter 10 Transcultural Strategies For Working with Dreams 133
Daniel Deslauriers
Part IV: Research 149
Chapter 11 Gender Differences in Dreams 153
G. William Domhoff
Chapter 12 Pregnancy Dreams 167
Marena Koukis
Chapter 13 Dream Reports of Animal Rights Activists: A Case
For the Continuity Hypothesis 181
Jacquie E. Lewis
Chapter 14 A Content Analysis of Color in Dreams 193
Robert J. Hoss
Chapter 15 Evidence For Extrasensory Perception in Dream Content:
A Review of Experimental Studies 211
Chris A. Roe and Simon J. Sherwood
Chapter 16 Video Game Play: Waking and Dreaming Consciousness 241
Jayne Gackenbach, Ian Matty, Beena Kuruvilla,
Ashley Nicole Samaha, Alexis Zederayko, Jordan
Olischefski and Heather Von Stackelberg
Index 257
DEDICATION
For Albert Ellis, Ph.D.
A beloved and respected friend and colleague (S. K.)

An adored husband, partner, and soulmate (D. J. E.)
Even in one's wildest dreams it would be hard to envision a man so remarkable. He was a
bold, brave, brilliant, caring, eloquent, masterful, and witty humanitarian. Albert Ellis devoted
his life to helping others by reducing their suffering and enhancing their enjoyment.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The preparation of this book was supported by the Chair for Consciousness Studies,
Saybrook Graduate School and Research Center. The editors would like to express their
appreciation to Rosemary Coffey and Steve Hart for their outstanding editing services, and to
Fariba Bogzaran, Ph.D., for her contribution of original artwork.
INTRODUCTION
Stanley Krippner and Debbie Joffe Ellis
Shakespeare‘s Hamlet was contemplating suicide when he uttered the famous line, ―To
sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there‘s the rub: For in that sleep of death what dreams may
come ….‖ While Hamlet seeks comfort in the idea that death is a kind of sleep, he does not
find it. On the contrary, he is disturbed by the thought that, if death is a kind of sleep, then it
may contain its own frightening dreams, dreams that would haunt a new life, part of a
terrifying unknown. Hamlet might even have recalled that a high proportion of his own
dreams had been unpleasant and frightening, a realization that kept him from taking his life.
Hamlet‘s soliloquy is a dramatic illustration of a topic discussed by the pioneering
psychologist Albert Ellis (2010), namely, that dreams and other non-verbal cognitions can
contribute to emotions, behaviors, and thoughts. Albert Ellis, Ph.D. (1913-2007), was the
founder of cognitive therapy. He developed a particular approach that he called Rational
Emotive Behavior Therapy (REBT), which he first presented to the psychological community
in 1955. He was also a great humanist, a prolific writer, and a forceful presenter, whose
theory, wisdom, and wit transformed and enlightened millions of people in his lifetime – and
are still doing so.
Dr. Ellis taught that it is not what happens to us in our life that creates our emotional
difficulties, but how we think about what happens. We have the power to construct our
emotional destinies. When we think in rational and realistic ways, we experience appropriate
and healthy emotions; when we think in irrational ways, we create unhealthy, debilitating
emotions that can thwart the attainment of our goals, disable our lives, and evoke intense and
preventable misery.
The REBT approach fits nicely with the words of another pioneer, the psychiatrist
Montague Ullman (1993): ―Our dreams serve as corrective lenses which, if we learn to use
them properly, enable us to see ourselves and the world about us with less distortion and with
greater accuracy‖ (p.12). REBT is a powerful tool enabling us ―to use them properly.‖
This book, Perchance to Dream: New Frontiers in Dreams and Dreaming, presents
valuable research-based information, which encourages us to explore the powerful potential
of dreams to contribute to growth, self-actualization, and stability in our waking lives.
xii Stanley Krippner and Debbie Joffe Ellis
Recognizing and utilizing the insights and lessons that may be found in our dreams may be
one of the most enriching and life-enhancing actions we can take for ourselves.
Let us consider how we can use the healthy understanding of dreams, coupled with
Ellis‘s REBT, to benefit our waking lives. Frightening dreams and nightmares will torture us
only if we allow them to; we may even double that self-torture by irrationally saying to
ourselves something like: ―It is terrible and awful to have nightmares; I can‘t stand it; this
shouldn‘t be happening to me.‖ So we suffer first from our fearful response to dream images
(our primary disturbance), and then we create more suffering by (i) obsessing about them; (ii)
insisting that we shouldn‘t have them; and (iii) fearing having a fearful response, all of which
make up our secondary disturbance of experiencing fear about the fear.
We can let ourselves become preoccupied with the bad dreams and nightmares, dread
their recurrence, analyze and overanalyze any doom and gloomy indications we interpret (or
misinterpret), and waste our time and energy – or not! We have a choice: to allow the
upsetting dreams to haunt us, or to learn from them.
Let‘s look at the case of Henry. In his life there were challenging circumstances. He had
serious health issues and was dealing with difficulties and injustices at his workplace. He
frequently woke in a panic, at times shouting, ―No, No, No!‖ or ―Stay away from me!‖ He
was terrified, his heart was pounding, and he had trouble getting back to sleep. Henry
remembered the dreams from which he had awakened, in many of which he was being chased
by people with knives, people who wanted to hurt, maim, or kill him.
Before applying REBT, Henry interpreted his dreams as demonstrating that ill health and
adversaries at work were out to ―get him,‖ that he would be destroyed, and that all of this was
too terrible to contemplate. Dwelling on these dreams and his interpretations of them
increased Henry‘s fears of loss of health, loss of job, and, ultimately, his fears that he would
lose of life. In addition, it intensified his hatred of his adversaries at work. Before long, in
addition to suffering from these anxieties and fears, he was feeling depressed.
Henry dreaded having these dreams. Moreover, he told himself that panic would stress
his body and would worsen his already poor health. So he panicked about his panic, and made
the stress worse. It became a debilitating vicious cycle.
After learning about REBT and applying it, Henry felt and saw remarkable changes.
When he had one of his typical nightmares and awoke in panic, he would write down his
dream. Soon he was able to realize that it wasn‘t ―awful‖ or ―terrible‖ to have such a dream,
but (as McNamara and Butler point out in Chapter 1 of this book) that the dream was an
important source of information about him, others, and events in his world. His dread of
having nightmares lessened, as he accepted them as natural and possibly helpful sources of
insight.
Then Henry looked at the issues in his waking life that the nightmares were presenting.
While it was rational to be concerned about his poor health, escalating that concern into fear
was hurting, not helping, him – and probably even making his health worse. Henry reminded
himself that he was doing what he could to get better, that he had competent doctors guiding
him, that others with his condition had improved and lived many more productive and
fulfilling years, and that – if he stopped unnecessarily stressing himself – there was great
probability that his health would improve and he could live a happy and worthwhile life.
Henry reconsidered his fear of death. He told himself that, sooner or later, every human
being dies, so he would be wise to focus on living well in the present and maximize his
enjoyment during the time he had left on this earth. Contemplating his work situation, he
Introduction xiii
reminded himself that, in the worst case scenario, if he did lose his job after decades of loyal
service, while this would be sad, unfair, and disappointing, it wouldn‘t be the worst thing in
the world. Henry had sufficient savings to support his fairly modest lifestyle for years to
come, and he could find a new job or activities that could bring him much more joy. Henry
also stopped hating the people who acted cruelly to him at work. He began thinking of them
as fallible humans who were acting badly due to their own ignorance, fears, and insecurities.
After applying REBT to himself, Henry stopped having terrifying dreams. He had
allowed himself to benefit from the fears that his scary dreams and nightmares were
highlighting by refusing to stay stuck in fear and panic. By using REBT principles and
thinking his way through the fears, he was able to reduce, and ultimately remove, the volley
of nightmares that had plagued him for so many years.
Two psychologists, Carey Morewedge and Michael Norton (2009), surveyed over one
thousand dreams from college students in three countries, asking them how much significance
they attributed to dreams that they recalled. Their responses indicated they surmised that
dreams can be indicators of people‘s emotional state; for example, nightmares could be
indicative of stress. It is helpful to remember that, if we feel upset following unpleasant
dreams, it is not the dream itself that troubles us after we wake up. Rather, it is our tendency
to dwell on the disturbing aspects of the dream, sharpen them, and torture ourselves with
them again and again, that scares us. In other words, it is not the dream but our perception of
it that‘s the rub. Indeed, Morewedge and Norton indicated that the way people attribute
meaning to their dreams was the salient finding of their study.
So let‘s welcome all the aspects of our dreams, both pleasant and unpleasant. In that way,
we can learn, not burn, from them!
Chapter 1, ―The Evolution of Sleep and Dreams,‖ by Patrick McNamara, Ph.D., and Paul
Butler, Ph.D., points out that people across most of human history have thought of dreams as
important guides to behavior or important sources of information that can be used in making
decisions. Costly Signaling Theory (CST), which examines communication between
individuals with conflicting interests, may provide insights into why dreams may become a
source of unity and cohesion for groups whose members depend on each other for care and
support.
In Chapter 2, ―The Emergence of the Grassroots Dreamwork Movement in the United
States,‖ Deborah Hillman, Ph.D., notes that, since the late 1970s there have been signs of a
growing interest in dreams in American culture. Her chapter presents a brief report on the
dream work scene in Manhattan between 1979 and 1982 – a scene that has continued to
evolve in subsequent decades, both in the New York City area and elsewhere.
In Chapter 3, ―A Neurocognitive Theory of Dreaming,‖ G. William Domhoff, Ph.D.,
presents findings suggesting that there are far more parallels between dreaming and waking
thought than were imagined in the Freudian, Jungian, and similar theories that dominated
speculation about dreams in the 20th century. A cognitive approach to dreaming and dream
content, which has developed gradually since the 1950s, has the potential to be extended into
a neurocognitive theory.
Chapter 4, ―Daylife, Dreamlife, and Chaos Theory,‖ by Allan Combs, Ph.D., and Stanley
Krippner, Ph.D., examines the self-organizing properties of the sleeping brain, finding that it
offers a step towards the reconciliation of brain-based and content-based attempts to
understand the nature of dreaming. The hyper-responsiveness of the brain during dreaming
allows it to undergo psychophysiological changes, including active alterations in the brain‘s
xiv Stanley Krippner and Debbie Joffe Ellis
dominant neuromodulatory systems, bombardment of the visual cortex with bursts of activity
from the lower brain, increases in limbic system activity, and a reduction of activity in the
prefrontal cortical regions.
In Chapter 5, ―Dreams and the Body,‖ Stanley Keleman, Ph.D., writes that dreams, which
he describes as the ways we speak to ourselves, inform us about what is seeking to be
embodied in the conscious world of daily living. Working formatively with our dreams is a
key to the growth and development of a personal world based on emotional truth.
Chapter 6, ―Working with Dreams: A Cognitive-Experiential Model,‖ by Clara E. Hill,
Ph.D., and Aaron B. Rochlen, Ph.D., describes how doing dream work ourselves, training
others to do dream work, and investigating the process and outcome of dreaming have
resulted in a feedback loop that they term cognitive-experiential. The evidence from this
relatively simple and teachable model suggests that dreamwork can be used in therapy and
perhaps in self-help as well.
Chapter 7, ―Use Your Dreams to Be the Whole New Person You Can Be,‖ by Alvin R.
Mahrer, Ph.D., asserts that the steps and methods of an experiential session can be used to
enable the person to undergo a virtually transformational change into becoming a whole new
person. The steps and methods are case-illustrated with verbatim excerpts from a person‘s in-
session work with a recent dream.
Chapter 8, ―Lucid Dreaming: History and Practice,‖ by Fariba Bogzaran, Ph.D.,
examines the history, phenomenology, and application of being aware while dreaming. Lucid
dreaming can be used for creative problem solving, dealing with nightmares, facilitating self-
healing, and attaining closure with the deceased; it may also be considered a spiritual practice
for cultivating ―lucid living‖ and preparing for the onset of death.
In Chapter 9, ―The Neuropsychology of Nightmares Reported by Iraq War Veterans,‖
Daniel Pitchford, Ph.D., examines the neuropsychological foundations of Iraq war veterans‘
experiences of fear and memories related both to nightmares and posttraumatic stress disorder
(PTSD), a condition that commonly affects people who have been exposed to an event
outside the range of usual human experience. Studies of veterans of the conflicts in Vietnam,
Iraq, and Afghanistan indicate that early intervention and treatment of PTSD and nightmare
distress are important.
Chapter 10, ―Transcultural Strategies for Working with Dreams,‖ by Daniel DesLauriers,
Ph.D., describes four main strategies that form the core of an emerging transcultural approach
to working with dreams: dream cultivation; dream awareness; dream understanding; and
dream enaction. The integration of these strategies, including their spiritual dimension, can
reinforce the transformative power of dream work as it affirms the central role of mindfulness
and presence across various states of consciousness.
In Chapter 11, ―Gender Differences in Dreams,‖ G. William Domhoff, Ph.D., observes
that, to the degree that some of the differences in the dreams of American men and women
are significant, they resemble differences found in waking life in terms of concerns, interests,
the content of autobiographical memories, and behavioral tendencies. This general finding fits
with a neurocognitive theory of dreams, which asserts that dream content is ―continuous‖
with waking thought and behavior.
In Chapter 12, ―Pregnancy Dreams,‖ Marena Koukis, Ph.D., notes that, whereas women's
dreams during pregnancy have been studied for decades, it is only in the last few years that
expectant men‘s dreams have begun to be noticed. Prior research was taken one step further
by her own 2007 study, which found measurable differences in the dream content of pregnant
Introduction xv
women and expectant men that diverged in some ways from the differences previously
established.
Chapter 13, ―Dream Reports of Animal Rights Activists: A Case for the Continuity
Hypothesis,‖ by Jacquie E. Lewis, Ph.D., informs us that animal rights activists reported
animal dream characters at a much higher rate than the general population. In addition, they
had more friendly animal dreams than did the general public, again supporting the
―continuity‖ hypothesis.
Chapter 14, ―A Content Analysis of Color in Dreams,‖ by Robert J. Hoss, Ph.D.,
describes how content analyses were performed for the presence of dream color in thousands
of dream reports, revealing a nearly identical pattern in the colors reported for both the large
composite databases and for individuals‘ long-term journal data, but with a wide variation
among individuals. This suggests that dream color recall may be influenced by a common
factor, either neurological or psychological, which, in turn, is influenced at an individual level
by personal factors.
Chapter 15, ―Evidence for Extrasensory Perception In Dream Content: A Review of
Experimental Studies,‖ by Chris A. Roe, Ph.D., and Simon J. Sherwood, Ph.D., reviews the
experimental studies of anomalous dreams that have been conducted to date, beginning with a
substantial and influential series of experiments conducted at the Maimonides Medical Center
(by Montague Ullman and Stanley Krippner) and continuing with those conceptual
replications that have followed, termed ―post-Maimonides studies.‖ The authors conclude that
home dream ESP research has been productive enough to offer a cost-effective and less labor-
intensive alternative to sleep-laboratory-based research, although it is premature to draw
conclusions from these studies because they are not easily replicable.
In Chapter 16, ―Video Game Play: Waking and Dreaming Consciousness,‖ Jayne
Gackenbach, Ph.D. and her co-authors describe how much of the research and media attention
into the effects of video gaming on hard-core players has focused on the negative
consequences. However, there are numerous positive effects as well, including those on
various aspects of the consciousness of game players; indeed, video game play was found to
affect dreams, although there are still more similarities to the dreams of non-players than
differences.
Macbeth, another Shakespearean character, poetically dismissed dreams as experiences
―filled with sound and fury, signifying nothing.‖ This statement served a dramatic purpose,
but it portrays a view that is not consistent with 21st century dream science – as this book
clearly demonstrates. J. Allan Hobson (2002) described the scientific study of dreaming as ―a
true renaissance, a genuine revolution … that can be seen as a crucial part of a larger project,
one that will shake the foundations of philosophy, psychology and psychiatry‖ (pp.160-161).
Certainly, there are still many unanswered questions about dreams. Granted that dream
images are evoked by the brain‘s random neural firings, is there a point at which the brain‘s
mind takes over and brings in other memory fragments to round out the narrative?
Furthermore, if dream reports actually contain meaning, is it hidden or obvious? Is it
deliberately obscured (representing the dreamer‘s defenses) or is the message accessible to
those who will take the time to associate the dream to those images, activities, and emotions
that they have recalled, and who will apply appropriate REBT or a similar framework to their
own dream work? It may be the case that the dream sometimes creates its own meaning,
pulling insights from the dreamer‘s experiences and life issues and applying it to the recalled
xvi Stanley Krippner and Debbie Joffe Ellis
material. If so, the dreamer is able to take an amorphous lump of clay (that is, the images
evoked by neural firing) and create something meaningful from it.
Motivated by Hobson‘s visionary declaration, scientists and practitioners, laboratory and
field researchers, writers driven by research and others bound by data, may continue to
provide more evidence that will put the nail in the coffin of past commentators on dreams
who, like Macbeth, claimed that dreams are meaningless random images, ―signifying
nothing.‖
All of us who work with dreams, aided by the knowledge provided in this book, will
benefit from wholeheartedly welcoming our dreams, boldly embracing their images, and
creating significant understandings from them that will enhance the drama and delight of
being alive.
REFERENCES
Ellis, A. (2010). Rational emotive behavior therapy. In R. J. Corsini & D. Wedding (Eds.),
Current psychotherapies (9th ed., pp. 187-222). Belmont, CA: Thomson Brooks/Cole.
Hobson, J. A. (2002). Dreaming: An introduction to the science of sleep. Oxford, UK: Oxford
University Press.
Morewedge, C. K., & Norton, M. I. (2009). When dreaming is believing: The (motivated)
interpretation of dreams. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 96, 249-264.
Ullman, M. (1993). Dreams, the dreamer, and society. In G. Delaney (Ed.), New directions in
dream interpretation (pp. 11-40). Albany: State University of New York Press.
PART I: HISTORY
In: Perchance to Dream: The Frontiers of Dream Psychology ISBN 978-1-60876-123-4
Editor: Stanley Krippner and Debbie Joffe Ellis © 2009 Nova Science Publishers, Inc.
Chapter 1
THE EVOLUTION OF SLEEP AND DREAMS
Patrick McNamara and Paul Butler
ABSTRACT
People across most of the history of humanity have thought of dreams as important
guides to behavior or important sources of information that can be used in making
decisions. This may be due to the fact that dreams involve a very distinct form of
information processing, one marked by bihemispheric integration without anterior-
posterior integration. REM sleep, which is never unihemispheric, might play a role in
memory consolidation and learning, suggesting that species with greater cognitive
abilities of a certain sort would require more REM sleep. In addition, Costly Signaling
Theory (CST) may provide insights into why dreams have distinct cognitive
specializations. CST examines communication between individuals with conflicting
interests. Given that honest and costly signals have evolved in countless species, similar
behavioral and structural strategies are probably present in humans as well. If dreams are
a source of costly, hard-to-fake signals, including emotional signals, and such signals are
crucial in producing and maintaining the reliability and honesty of systems of
communication among human beings, then the dream becomes a source of unity and
cohesion for groups whose members depend on each other for care and support.
INTRODUCTION
Recent cross-cultural studies and surveys of very large numbers of people and of
representative samples of the population (e.g., Morewedge & Norton, 2009) show that people
the world over treat dreams as important sources of strategic information about themselves,
other people, and even events in the world. If we can take the practices of pre-modern tribal
groups as partially indicative of practices of ancestral populations, then we can infer that
these populations also treated dreams as sources of vital information about themselves, others,
and their world. People in traditional societies frequently share their dreams with others in the
group (Gregor, 2001), which leads us to assume that dream sharing was a common practice in
early human groups as well. Even today young adults in modern societies recall and share one
2 Patrick McNamara and Paul Butler
to two dreams per week, with 37% of these reporting that they recall a dream ―every night‖ or
―very frequently‖ (Strauch & Meir, 1996). In representative samples of the general
population, between 40% and 75% recall 1-5 intense and ―impactful‖ dreams per month
(Stepansky et al., 1998). Once recalled, a dream is typically shared with another person. For
example, Vann and Alperstein (2000) reported that 98% of the 241 individuals they
interviewed said that they told dreams to others, particularly friends and intimates.
Dreams can indeed be considered very important experiences that are to be shared.
People across most of the history of the human race have thought of dreams as important
guides to behavior or important sources of information that can be used in decision-making
processes. Why is that? Why have dreams been considered so important? Why are they still
considered so important? Our provisional answer to that question is that dreams are believed
to carry important and privileged bits of information because they involve a very distinct form
of information processing. From an anatomical point of view, that form involves
bihemispheric integration without anterior-posterior integration. The two hemispheres ―talk‖
to one another during dreaming, but they do so without prefrontal (anterior) and parietal
(posterior) input. Although many animals are capable of REM (rapid eye movement sleep
during which most dreams occur), very few of them – possibly none besides human beings –
display this type of bihemispheric integration of information sources. In what follows we
review what is known about the evolution of REM sleep as well as the evidence for our claim
concerning distinct forms of REM in humans.
DEFINITION OF SLEEP
The criteria for defining sleep fall within four categories: behavioral, functional,
physiological, and electrophysiological (Moorcraft, 2003; Schulz, 2008). To define organisms
other than primates that do or do not sleep, researchers utilize behavioral and functional
criteria. Behavioral aspects of sleep include a typical body posture, a specific sleeping locale,
pre-sleep rituals (e.g., yawning, circling), physical quiescence, increased threshold for
arousal, and circadian organization of rest-activity cycles. To gauge functional aspects of
sleep, organisms must compensate for sleep loss by either increasing sleep time or
intensifying sleep processes. The only method to demonstrate enhanced sleep processes is
through electroencephalogram recordings [EEG]. Not surprisingly, it is only possible to
measure organisms‘ reaction to sleep deprivation by noting increased sleep times.
In primates, we can measure physiological and electrophysiological changes during sleep
by dividing sleep periods into those featuring rapid eye movement [REM] and those
characterized by non-rapid eye movement [NREM]. EEG measurements of gross brain wave
activity, electro-oculogram [EOG] tracking of eye movements, and electromyogram [EMG]
recordings of muscle tone allow the researcher to differentiate REM from the sleep stages of
NREM. The physiological signs of REM sleep are associated with autonomic nervous system
instabilities: changes in heart rate, breathing, body temperature, and penile tumescence.
Physiological changes during NREM sleep induce a body temperature drop of approximately
2° C along with reduced metabolic activity. EOG tracking during NREM exhibits slow
rolling eye movement, while REM exhibits rapid eye movement. There is a progressive loss
The Evolution of Sleep and Dreams 3
of muscle tone detected by EMG as sleep stages progress from wakefulness to NREM and
then REM.
Rapid eye movement (REM) sleep accounts for about 22% of total sleep time in adult
humans, who are about average among placental mammals in the amount of such sleep in
which they engage. Although the cortex is activated in REM, arousal thresholds are higher in
REM than in the waking state. The phasic aspects of REM, such as intermittent muscle
twitching, ANS discharges, and rapid eye movements, occur in some mammals in association
with bursts of pontine-geniculo-occipital (PGO) waves. These PGO spikes have been
conceptualized as orienting phenomena, as if the animal were being stimulated and then, after
stimulation, turning towards the stimulus.
PHYLOGENY OF SLEEP
Phylogeny is the study of evolutionary relatedness between differing groups of
organisms. Metaphorically, evolution is thought of as a branching process. Charles Darwin
spoke of a ―tree of life‖ in his 1859 publication Origin of Species, and the metaphor persists
to the present. Populations change over time under varying selective pressures, speciating into
new branches, hybridizing with other species, or reaching extinction. Theoretical
phylogenetic trees are constructed based on fossil data, genetic relatedness, and behavioral
phenotypes.
Sleep in varying forms is present in all mammals and birds in addition to some modern
reptiles and invertebrates. Although bird and mammalian lineage diverged from reptiles 250
million years ago, nonetheless all birds and reptiles are believed today to have descended
from a common ancestor (Dawkins, 2004). Thus assessing the function and pattern of
reptilian sleep might hold clues about the evolutionary usefulness of sleep.
Reptiles
Electrophysiologic signs of active/REM sleep appear to be absent in most and perhaps all
reptiles (Frank, 1999). Early studies by Flanigan and others (Flanigan, 1973) reported an
association between behavioral sleep and intermittent high-voltage spikes and sharp waves
recorded from various brain structures in crocodilians, lizards, and turtles. Other
investigations found no such association between behavioral sleep and high-amplitude spikes
and sharp waves in the same animals. With respect to REM, the consensus at this point is that
reptiles do not exhibit REM sleep (Rattenborg & Amlaner, 2002).
Avian Sleep
Birds appear to exhibit a special form of non-REM sleep (SWA, or slow wave activity)
and very little REM-like sleep. In addition to this unusual form of SWA, birds also display
sleep states that simultaneously combine features of both wakefulness and SWA. As in
aquatic mammals (see below), unilateral eye closure and unihemispheric slow wave activity
also occur in birds (reviewed in Rattenborg, Amlaner, & Lima, 2000a, 2000b). Avian REM-
like sleep states are associated with desynchronized EEG, impaired thermoregulation, and
higher arousal thresholds, but they last only seconds and are cumulatively only one-quarter
the amount typically reported for mammalian species. Moreover, there appears to be no REM
rebound following REM sleep deprivation.
Mammals
Monotremes
Monotremes are considered ancestral to mammals. Composed of three extant species
(two species of echidna and the duck-billed platypus), monotremes are thought to have
diverged from the main mammalian line prior to the divergence of marsupials and placental
mammals. The short-beaked echidna (Tachyglossus aculeatus) demonstrates unequivocal
SWA but no EEG evidence for REM. Siegel et al. (1996) found irregular reticular discharge
patterns during SWA in the short-beaked echidna (i.e., a mixture of REM and NREM signs).
Rapid eye movements were also later recorded in the duck-billed platypus despite no overt
EEG signs of REM. Thus, the monotremes appear to exhibit a mixed, indeterminate form of
sleep containing elements of both REM and NREM mammalian sleep states.
Nicol, Andersen, Phillips, and Berger (2000) reported REM characteristics in short-
beaked echidnas, based on evidence for concurrent cortical activation, reduced tonic EMG
activity, and rapid eye movements under low, thermo-neutral, and high-ambient temperatures.
Some investigators have suggested that the REM sleep episodes reported by Nicol et al.
(2000) actually reflect a quiet waking state in these animals. These studies of REM in
monotremes have led some researchers to acknowledge that some REM-like
electrophysiologic activity occurs in these animals, but the work also confirms previous
impressions that REM without signs of SWA does not occur in monotremes.
Marsupials
REM as we know it in most mammals appears to have first emerged among the
marsupials, which show definite signs of REM sleep. Affani, Vaccarezza, and Abellone
(1967) and Van Twyver and Allison (1970) were the first to document abundant signs of
REM in a marsupial – the opossum. Cicala, Albert, and Ulmer (1970) found evidence for
REM in the red kangaroo. Walker and Berger (1980) obtained sleep and wakefulness
recordings from infant opossums, aged 48-79 days, while they were still in their mothers‘
pouches. As in other mammals, active sleep (from which REM emerges) was high initially
and then declined as the animal got older; specifically, active sleep decreased from 87% of
total sleep time to 45% by day 79.
Aquatic Mammals
Members of three different orders that contain aquatic mammals – cetaceans (dolphins,
porpoises, and whales), carnivores (seals, sea lions, and otters), and sirenians (manatees) –
typically engage in unihemispheric sleep (Manger, 2006), meaning that electrophysiologic
signs of sleep occur in only one hemisphere. That is, REM does not appear to occur in these
aquatic mammals. Cetaceans exhibit a clear form of unihemispheric slow wave sleep or SWS
(USWS), while EEG signs of REM are absent. The two main families of pinnipeds, Otariidae
(sea lions and fur seals) and Phocidae (true seals), show both unihemispheric and
bihemispheric forms of sleep. Phocids sleep underwater (obviously holding their breath),
while both hemispheres exhibit either REM or SWS. Amazonian manatees (Trichechus
inunguis) also sleep underwater, exhibiting three sleep states: bihemispheric REM,
bihemispheric SWS, and USWS. Both hemispheres awaken when the animal needs to surface
and breathe.
Interestingly, when REM occurs in marine mammals, it is always bihemispheric. The
bilateral nature of REM may be considered one of its distinctive features, and the brain
structure of certain marine mammals apparently cannot mediate this feature. As in birds,
unihemispheric sleep in aquatic mammals is associated with keeping one eye open during
sleep, which is typically the eye contralateral to the hemisphere that is asleep.
Land-based, or Terrestrial Mammals

In terrestrial mammals, the amount of time devoted to sleep per 24-hour day
varies greatly, from three hours in the donkey (Equus asinus; Ruckebush, 1963) to 20 hours
in the armadillo (Chaetophractus villous; Affani, Cervino, & Marcos, 2001). REM sleep is
believed to be beneficial to the brain in terrestrial mammals, since EEG patterns during REM
indicate that the brain is in a highly activated state. Specifically, REM sleep might play a role
in memory consolidation and learning, suggesting that species with greater cognitive abilities
of a certain sort would require more REM sleep (Zepelin, 2005). A different hypothesis
proposes that the amount of REM sleep depends on brain maturation. This idea is supported
by the decline in REM sleep from birth to adulthood, indicating that REM sleep might act as
an endogenous stimulus that aids the development of the neonatal brain (Jouvet-Mounier et
al., 1970). Comparative investigations have only partially supported these hypotheses, with
REM sleep quotas increasing along with larger brain size (Zepelin & Rechtschaffen, 1974)
and with surrogate measures of neonatal brain development (Zepelin, 1989). Despite these
overall trends related to REM and brain size, the relation is not simple. There are many
examples of species (e.g., the marsupials) with limited cognitive abilities and abundant REM
at the same time. REM per se probably does not yield higher cognitive abilities. Rather, a
particular form of REM might be implicated in greater neuronal computational resources.
Summary of the Phylogeny of REM
The foregoing, very brief review of the evolutionary history of REM suggests that the
REM began with the evolution of birds, emerged definitively among the marsupials, and
reached its highest state in terrestrial rather than aquatic placental mammals. Avian REM is
peculiar in that it is brief and shows reduced rebound effects. Avian NREM, furthermore,
appears to be unihemispheric. With the appearance of the monotremes, clear signs of REM
begin to appear in the EEG, although they are mixed with signs of NREM. Following the
evolution of marsupials, clear electrophysiologic signs of REM emerge, but it is not clear
whether one or both sleep states are uni- or bihemispherically expressed. Finally, with the
emergence of placental mammals, we get the derived state of bihemispheric REM sleep.
Recall that our review of comparative patterns of REM expression revealed that REM never
occurred in the unihemispheric state. Only NREM or SWA occurred when unihemispheric
sleep was present in a species.
We, therefore, tentatively conclude that the occurrence of REM requires bihemispheric
activation, and that this pattern of activation must decisively influence the form of mentation
that occurs in REM.
REM SLEEP: WHAT WE KNOW AND DO NOT KNOW

Although REM engages both hemispheres, it does not activate all brain regions in both of
them, instead selecting only certain brain regions. Brain activation patterns in REM
demonstrate high activation levels in limbic/amygdaloid sites and portions of medial
prefrontal cortex, but hypoactivation of dorsolateral prefrontal cortex sites (Hobson,
Stickgold, & Pace-Schott, 1998). This set of findings has been confirmed and extended by
Nofzinger et al. (using rCMRglc), who found a consistent anterior paralimbic REM activation
area that extends from the septal area and hypothalamus into the ventral striatum,
hippocampus, insula, anterior cingulate cortex, and orbitofrontal and supplementary motor
area (Nofzinger et al., 2004). Reactivation of this midline and ventral anterior paralimbic
area, as well as deactivation of dorsal prefrontal regions with the transition into REM, has
now been widely replicated (Pace-Schott et al. 2008).
Thus, REM-related mentation experiences are the expression of intense activation of the
limbic and amygdalar centers as well as integration of right-left hemispheric sources, along
with de-synchrony in frontal-parietal areas. This bihemispheric integration of information
processing resources yields additional computational power and new emergent forms of
attentional capacities (Banich, 2003). When coupled with anterior-posterior de-synchrony, or
dis-connection, bihemispheric cross-talk produces the new form of consciousness we call
dreams, the purpose of which is still unknown.
Dreams
Dream reports can be elicited from any stage of sleep, although reports from NREM
stages of sleep tend to be shorter, less emotional, and less visually vivid compared to reports
from REM. And yet, even though REM sleep stages are more reliably associated with dream
reports, REM is neither necessary nor sufficient to produce dreams. To illustrate, while
children experience abundant REM sleep, they do not reliably report dreaming until after
certain visuospatial and cognitive skills mature to support the narrative phenomenon of
dreaming (Foulkes, 1982). Adult patients with lesions disconnecting the ascending
mesolimbic-cortical dopaminergic tracts, which are associated with instinctual drives and
motivational states, from the ventral medial frontal lobes tend not to dream (Solms, 1997).
These patients have intact memory systems and continue to experience REM sleep as
evidenced by their EEG sleep patterns, so the deficit of dreaming is not due to lack of REM
physiology or recall dysfunction.
REM is the brain state most consistently associated with dreams. McNamara (2004)
reported reliable differences in dream content between REM and NREM. Interestingly,
aggressive social interactions were more characteristic of REM dream reports. Dreamer-
initiated friendliness was most characteristic of NREM dreams. Together, both REM and
NREM dream reports rated higher than wake reports in frequency of social interaction.
Why would Mother Nature paralyze our bodies for eight hours every night, and then
activate our brains and engage our minds in social interactions both friendly and aggressive?
From a metabolic perspective REM sleep is extremely costly, when one considers the energy
required to maintain active cognition, not to mention the autonomic storms with increased
heart rate, vasomotor tone, and glandular sexual excitation. If dreams are merely
epiphenomenal experiences skating across the minds of quiescent individuals, then why do
they exhibit persistent specializations in social cognition? Or, if dreams are recent memory
discharges reflecting the concerns of the individual, why do REM and NREM dream reports
reliably differ in social, aggressive, and altruistic content? No current model of dreams can
account for this increased focus on negative social interactions in REM and positive
interactions in NREM. However, the evolutionary theory of costly signaling offers some
promise.
Dreams as Costly Signals
Costly Signaling Theory (CST) may provide insights into why dreams have distinct
cognitive specializations. Signaling Theory, which examines communication between
individuals with conflicting interests, refers to a collection of theoretical work begun by
Amotz Zahavi (1975) over three decades ago. Mathematical models that depict individuals
communicating ―honest‖ signals show this approach to be an evolutionarily stable strategy.
Signals are defined as any trait, structural or behavioral, that has evolved to transmit helpful
information to receivers that also proves beneficial for the signaler. Mutual and conflicting
interests of signalers and receivers shape the system. Honest and costly signals have evolved
in countless species, and it is likely that humans evolved similar behavioral and structural
strategies. For instance, the human neonatal cry serves as an example of CST. It is costly for a
neonate to exert forceful cries to demand maternal resources, but this behavioral strategy is
ultimately beneficial to the fitness of the maternal-offspring dyad. Another example of the
impact of costly signals demonstrates that increases in autonomic nervous arousal signals
promote change in group social dynamics through mood contagion, verbal and postural
mirroring, promotion of trust and empathy, and assessment of risk and reward. Applied to
dreams, CST is a powerful explanatory device to potentially illuminate our understanding of
the evolution of sleep and dreams.
Because REM sleep and dreams furnish the individual with costly, hard-to-fake signals, it
is plausible to reason that REM dreams must inform daytime social behavior. CST predicts
the metabolical and psychical wastefulness of REM dreaming, replete with vivid social
interactions and laced with strong, often negative, emotional involvement. In general,
emotions are considered hard-to-fake signals (Frank, 1988). Even though REM physiology is
metabolically handicapping, it may have evolved as a handicap to the self as part of sending a
costly signal to others of good genes. REM brain states involve periodic activation of the
limbic system, a major emotional system of the brain. As REM stages increase in length
throughout the night, peaking before morning arousal, amygdalar activation increases. In a
standard 8-hour sleep cycle beginning at 11:00 p.m., an individual will experience strongest
emotional activation and REM dreaming from 5:00 to 6:30 a.m., shortly before arousal for the
day. If the sleeper consciously recalls an emotional dream, wakeful activities and mood are
impacted (Kramer, 1993). Moreover, long-term temperamental and affect regulation is
allegedly modulated by REM- associated dreaming. Nightmares occur in REM; they may be
unequivocally unpleasant and predict suicidal ideation in some depressed patients
(McNamara, 2008). But not all REM dreams are unpleasant. The unpleasant dreams may
indicate merely that REM is capable of supporting intense emotions and information-
processing functions in general, both pleasant and unpleasant.
If one of REM‘s specializations is emotional processing and mood regulation of daytime
experiences, then REM brain activation patterns are under selective pressures to produce
honest, costly signals. Since emotions are hard-to-fake signals relevant to the survival of both
sender and receiver, REM-related dreaming is pivotal for modulation of social cognition. The
social circuitry of human interaction is largely supported by emotional, nonverbal, and subtle
signals. As we interact with others throughout a given day, face-to-face encounters feed us
with invaluable information about the internal states of individuals in our social circle. It is
not surprising that the emotional fine-tuning of affective states during REM sleep can slip into
pathologies of mood, such as depression or bipolar disorder. Beyond mere mood regulation,
the subtleties and power of sending and receiving nonverbal information guide our decision
making at levels of deliberate, conscious awareness. How confident is this communicator
speaking to me now? Do I want to believe the advice of this individual? What level of
attentional engagement does this individual have with me? Indeed, many decisions shaping
the course of a life are based on the ability to receive and send reliable social signals.
Some previously puzzling aspects of REM expression across the life span make sense in
the light of evolutionary theories of costly signaling. REM sleep amounts are higher in
juveniles than in adults in both mammals and birds, suggesting a role for REM in the
development of the young. Obviously, mammalian young depend on care by a mother to
survive. So do avian young. When a mother bird brings a worm back to her chicks, she finds
herself faced with an array of apparently needy babies, all of which vocalize loudly as if
demanding the morsel for themselves. It is in her interest to identify the chick most likely to
benefit from the meal (typically the hungriest). But it is in the interest of each chick to feign
need in order to obtain the morsel. How does the mother discover true need in such a
situation? Better, how does the mother identify her best bet: which chick is most likely to
survive to reproductive maturity if given the morsel? Once again, costly signals can provide
the mother with the requisite information. Loud begging is costly both because of the energy
required to squawk forcefully and because of the increased likelihood of attracting the
attention of predators. Thus, only truly needy chicks will squawk loudly. For chicks that are
not hungry, the risk of predation will outweigh any potential gain from begging.
In human infants, a similar process may take place. The mother uses the signaling
displays of her offspring (e.g., crying, smiling, babbling, vocalizations, etc.) to help make
investment decisions about them (Parker, Royle, & Hartley, 2002). To reach their own
investment optima (to maximize their fitness by bringing offspring to reproductive maturity),
parents need accurate information on the needs of the offspring in order to effectively allocate
resources to their young. There is, thus, an onus on offspring to accurately signal need and
viability in order to receive a consistent level of parental investment. Given that mothers must
use the signaling displays of their offspring to make decisions about their care, the
physiologic system in the infant that produces these signaling displays would come under
strong selective pressures – that is, those juveniles not producing strong displays would
receive less investment and therefore not survive to maturity or not reproduce at maturity.
Since the infant spends a large part of its life asleep during the critical first year of life when
these maternal decisions are made, there would be pressure to produce effective signaling
displays even in the sleep state.
As it turns out, the sleep state most likely to play this role is active sleep, or REM.
Juvenile REM physiology in many mammalian species would have, therefore, evolved to
specialize in facilitating production of signals to elicit optimal care from the mother. Juvenile
REM is, in fact, associated with telltale physical signs that can be distinguished by visual
inspection (e.g., muscle twitches, rapid eye movements under closed eyelids, etc.). Early
bouts of crying are known to occur while the infant is in REM (i.e., is asleep; see Wolff,
1987). Infant REM is not a passive state: the infant suckles, cries, coos, babbles, and smiles in
REM. In addition, facial grimaces, grasping, clutching, head turning, and distal limb twitches
can be observed during this period. In contrast, NREM sleep is characterized by behavioral
quiescence. Thus, mothers should be able to use REM-related signs and signaling to assess
the infant state and to help them make decisions concerning the investment of resources in
particular offspring.
If we suppose that one function of REM dreams is to produce the feeling states,
memories, perceptual biases, intentional states, and behavioral goals that allow for display of
costly signaling during waking hours, then deprivation of REM dreaming would impair such
displays. Given that their ultimate purpose is to facilitate cooperative social interactions,
people deprived of REM dreaming would eventually suffer in the quality of their social
interactions. To the degree that REM itself is suppressed in a REM-deprivation paradigm,
people would initially actually feel better than usual, as they are no longer producing
behavioral dispositions that are costly handicaps. This may be one reason why antidepressants
that suppress REM help in elevating mood.
One neglected area of research in dreams that might be impacted by costly signaling
theory is the cultural uses of dreams. We know that dreams and the sharing of dreams were a
vitally important part of the lives and cultural practices of many pre-modern societies. The
Jesuit missions to the North American Indian tribes in the 17th and 18th centuries described in
detail the centrality of dreams to these cultural groups. The Jesuit fathers, claiming that the
only true divinity that some of the tribes (particularly the Iroquois and Seneca) recognized
was the dream, marveled at what they considered to be the ―utter folly‖ of the Indians who
took their dreams so seriously that they would insist on acting out or following up on the
dreams‘ messages the next day, no matter what the cost. The Jesuits told stories of, for
example, a man dreaming about purchasing a dog from a tribe hundreds of miles away and
then setting off the next morning to buy that dog, despite the fact that the journey was
perilous and in the dead of winter, or of tribes holding the dreams of elders as sacred and
using the images produced in these dreams to design the tribe‘s clothes, dwellings, and tools.
Most of the tribe‘s religious rituals were derived from dreams that their ancestors had had,
and so forth. We can surmise that, if dreams were of such prime importance in the cultures of
these pre-modern North American tribes, then they may have been equally or more important
to our direct ancestors, the hunter-gatherers. As is well known, anatomically modern humans
have been around for a couple of hundred thousand years; throughout that (relatively) long
expanse of time, humans lived in tribal societies that likely practiced a hunter-gatherer
lifestyle. It is reasonable to suppose that dreams and dreaming were important to these
peoples just as they seem to be to contemporary tribal cultures.
Why is the dream so important a cultural force among these tribal societies? The theory
of costly signaling may help us understand why. If dreams are a source of costly, hard-to-fake
signals, including emotional signals, and such signals are crucial in producing and
maintaining the reliability and honesty of systems of communication among human beings,
then the dream becomes a source of unity and cohesion for these tribal groups. Pre-modern
societies apparently often used the dreams (frequently, lucid dreams) of shamans in much the
same way. The dream‘s ability to produce forms for costly signals made it an extremely
valuable cultural tool, with the images in the dream providing the forms for healing
ceremonies and religious ceremonies. Costly signaling appears to be a common and powerful
evolutionary strategy for development of systems of reliable and honest communication; it
may, therefore, not have been excluded from the realm of sleep biology. Both REM sleep and
dreaming involve costly physiologic processes and signals. If, indeed, REM sleep and dreams
are a primary source for the formation of hard-to-fake emotional and costly signals, then
REM sleep and dreams are crucial to all forms of human communication that involve costly
signals. REM sleep and dreams are, therefore, central to human behavior, well-being, and
culture.
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Chapter 2
THE EMERGENCE OF THE GRASSROOTS

DREAMWORK MOVEMENT IN THE UNITED STATES
Deborah Hillman
ABSTRACT
In the late 1970s I began to meet weekly with a dream group in New York City,
where, from my broadening vantage point, I began to see signs of a growing interest in
dreams in American culture. From 1979 to 1982 I explored that incipient movement,
visiting groups and workshops and conducting interviews with dreamers, primarily in and
around Manhattan (where I lived). This chapter presents a brief report on the dreamwork
scene in those days—a scene that has continued to evolve in subsequent decades. I‘ve
kept the ―ethnographic present,‖ despite the passage of time, mindful that the movement
has changed and grown in ways I followed closely.
INTRODUCTION
As a graduate student in anthropology in the late 1970s, I had the good fortune to meet
Montague Ullman. For several years he had taught and developed his small-group approach
to dreams (Ullman, 1979, 1999a; Ullman & Zimmerman, 1979), so that, when I attended a
public talk that he gave one night at my school, I knew I wanted to explore his method
further. A lively exchange of letters led to a workshop on Ullman‘s approach, following
which I embarked on a year of participant observation in one of his dream groups, which met
weekly in New York City. From 1979 to 1982 I explored an incipient movement of interest in
dreams in American culture, visiting groups and workshops and conducting interviews with
dreamers, primarily in and around Manhattan (where I lived). This chapter presents a brief
report on the dreamwork scene in those days—a scene that has continued to evolve in
subsequent decades. I‘ve kept the ―ethnographic present,‖ despite the passage of time,
mindful that the movement has changed and grown in ways I followed closely.
Elsewhere I wrote of the dreamwork movement in relation to anthropology―a field
whose history embraces the study of dreams (Hillman, 1999). Here I draw on those earlier
14 Deborah Hillman
reflections to outline a context for dream groups, which play a central role in the dreamwork
movement. I speak of dreamwork‘s early roots within the United States, although its scope is
increasingly international. Indeed, in light of the cultural link between dreams and the concept
of ―reality,‖ this gradual shift in Western dream ideology is not surprising (Tedlock, 1987).
HISTORY
For twenty-some years (alongside the upsurge of popular interest in dreams), the West
has witnessed a flowering of scientific research on the nature of consciousness (e.g., Dietrich,
2007; Locke & Kelly, 1985; Sperry, 1988). Evidence exists that the underlying move toward
a unified view of reality (one that gives due weight to subjective phenomena) applies ―not
only to all the sciences, but also to the humanities, and to contemporary thought in general‖
(Sperry, 1988, p. 53). Thus, as conventional dualism—stressing objectivity and reason—is
challenged by a more holistic model, dreams (and inner experience in general) take on new
value and meaning. The dreamwork movement, by fostering public and scholarly attention to
dreams, reflects and supports the cognitive revision taking place in the culture at large.
―Dream groups,‖ said one of my fieldwork contacts returning from a trip to California,
―are popping up like pottery classes out there!‖ Soon thereafter, in 1982-83, the term
―dreamwork movement‖ began to surface. Several different paths, including the human
potential movement, have inspired their adherents to pay more attention to dreams. Some
people first explored their dreams in the context of a spiritual group—one whose teachings
highlight the value of dreamwork for personal development. Others have found that the
feminist movement supports an interest in dreams, which shed much light, both personal and
social, on aspects of gender identity.
Moreover, psychotherapy has led some people to begin to appreciate dreams, simply
because of the insights they gained from examining their dreams in that setting. Although it is
not designed to encourage the ―public‖ discussion of dreams, therapy can open a magical
door to the dream world. Similarly, as the dreamwork movement itself continues to grow and
expand, awareness of dreams is increasingly developed through exposure to this new social
trend through such activities as workshops, classes, and dream groups, as well as through
various published materials on dreams (Hillman, 1999, pp. 72-73).
The advent of Dream Network Bulletin (now Dream Network) in 1982, established the
visibility of the grassroots movement. The journal, through many incarnations, has served as a
lively forum, with information and ideas about dreamwork, tips for starting dream groups,
and a ―networking‖ presence to introduce dreamers to each other (Hillman, 1999, p. 73). The
founding, a year later, of The Association for the Study of Dreams (now the International
Association for the Study of Dreams, IASD), was not a welcome event for many
dreamworkers. Some were concerned that a professional focus would harm the grassroots
cause, undermining its nonhierarchical spirit (Hillman, 1999, p. 79).
Despite an initial uneasy alliance between the two parts of the movement, a closer
relationship seems to be evolving. Professionals write for and read Dream Network, and
figure among its advisers (Hillman, 1999, p.79); in fact, IASD draws dreamers from many
backgrounds. Thus, as the dreamwork movement starts to gain more social momentum, the
very meaning of dream-related ―professionalism‖ is changing.
The Emergence of the Grassroots Dreamwork Movement in the United States 15
DREAMWORK PROFESSIONALS
In dreamwork circles, the word professional is commonly used in two ways. In one
sense, it refers, collectively, to clinicians and dream researchers—scholars, scientists,
therapists, and others whose work encompasses dreams. It is also used, however, to refer
exclusively to therapists, thus distinguishing clinicians from non-clinicians. This latter
meaning is the one implied by the phrase ―de-professionalizing the dream‖ (Ullman, 1982).
There is an element of irony, then, that, as dreams become more ―public,‖ a new, non-
clinical dreamwork professional is emerging. This new breed of practitioner
(―nonprofessional,‖ in traditional parlance) engages in some form of fee-for-service
dreamwork. Included in this category are dream-group leadership, one-to-one dreamwork
counseling, and dream education in classroom and workshop settings. Since formal
dreamwork training programs were entirely nonexistent, the role took shape in peer-guided,
self-styled ways. Most—if not all—of these dreamwork practitioners have college (or
graduate) degrees, and all are experienced with dreams on a personal level.
Dream groups are frequently organized and led by these new professional dreamworkers,
but other kinds of arrangements exist, as well. Along with dream groups led by members of
the new professional genre are groups whose leaders do have clinical training. Both of these
types of dreamwork can involve a fee, but many dream groups do not—instead they are
offered by a layperson, free of charge. Furthermore, one can find leaderless peer groups
meeting without fees, as well as groups that rotate the leadership role. With all of these
permutations in form, the question necessarily arises: What do we mean when we speak of a
grassroots dream group?
I would suggest that community-based dream groups, organized by and for laypeople,
constitute grassroots efforts within the movement. A ―layperson‖ is a dreamwork practitioner
who has not had clinical training, even if she or he practices dreamwork professionally. Such
groups run the gamut from those that are leaderless, informal, and free, to those that are led
for a fee by the newly defined professionals. Still, reserving the ―grassroots‖ label for groups
that fit this description is not to deny that clinicians have helped to further the grassroots
cause.
Among the clinical professionals who have encouraged and inspired the movement,
Montague Ullman played a prominent role. His systematic approach to dreams, which is
widely recognized by dreamworkers, has helped to shape the principles and ethos of the
movement. Aspects of Ullman‘s contribution are touched on in the following section, which
outlines some the features of grassroots dream groups.
GRASSROOTS DREAM APPRECIATION GROUPS

So wide are variations in the structure, composition, settings, goals, and methods of
dream groups that one must conclude, ―a dream group is not a dream group is not a dream
group.‖ I have noted several patterns in the sphere of leadership and fees, but have yet to
consider other areas of diversity.
16 Deborah Hillman
Composition
Dream groups vary in regard to size, age, gender make-up, and the nature of members‘
relationships with each other. The patterning results, in varying degrees, from circumstance as
well as design, especially since ―groups can come about in a number of different ways.
Natural groups can spring up among friends, members of a family, people at work, or even
among strangers who find they share a common interest in dreams‖ (Ullman & Zimmerman,
1979, p. 243). Some groups arise spontaneously or develop from personal networks, while
others grow by means of recruitment efforts conducted through churches, schools, and other
community auspices, or simply by means of local advertising. Also, Dream Network informs
its readers of regional organizations as well as local dream groups seeking new members.
Dream groups range in size from three or four people to upward of twenty. Sometimes
members join together on the basis of common experience, thus creating a particular group
identity. There are, for example, artists‘ dream groups as well as women‘s dream groups, and
Dream Network [Journal] once announced a group for ―12-Step People‖ (i.e., those in
recovery programs based on Alcoholics Anonymous).
Some groups weather years of growth and enjoy a stable membership; others face a
steady rate of turnover. Jenny Dodd‘s (1999) engaging account of a suburban ―mothers‘
dream group‖ provides a good illustration of group longevity. Originally seven women, they
eventually totaled nine and, four years into their project, still met weekly. In contrast, I talked
with a person who left a group after several weeks because, apart from a common interest in
dreams, ―there [was no] other thread.‖
Settings
Grassroots dream-appreciation groups take place in a variety of settings. Some are held in
community buildings such as churches and schools; others gather in various workplace
venues. The most common location for dream groups, however, is in participants‘ homes, be
they urban apartments or rural dwellings. Some groups, like Jenny Dodd‘s, rotate the role of
host; others meet in a regular, fixed location. Other groups have been known to gather in
ritualized settings, such as tepees, where dreamers not only share their dreams, but actually
dream them together.
Goals
Dream group members often express their goals in simple terms, such as ―working on,‖
―talking about,‖ ―getting in touch with,‖ or merely ―sharing‖ dreams. The dreamwork
movement as a whole, however, cites many purposes of dreamwork, and all of them serve to
motivate grassroots dreamworkers.
The primary goals of non-clinical dreamwork are to foster an appreciation of dreams and
to make them available as useful resources for waking. Differences exist in the ways that
sense of appreciation is engendered, and in how the dreams are accorded significance and
meaning. The personal and spiritual dimensions of dreams receive considerable attention, but
even when the dream contains a wealth of social and cultural information those aspects are
rarely explored in dream group settings, at least not explicitly (Hillman, 1999, p.78).
Along with ―general‖ dream groups, there are specialized groups as well, exploring
particular aspects of dreams and dreaming. Some groups focus their attention, for example, on
the subject of lucid dreaming (a state in which the dreamer knows that she or he is dreaming)
(Hillman, 1999, p. 77). Others are devoted to examining the extrasensory (or psi) dimension
of dreams, and some groups look to dreams for creative guidance.
Methods
Two broad styles of group interaction are found among grassroots dream groups. They
are not mutually exclusive—and are often combined in some way—though one or another
tends to be predominant. The first style might be termed the study-group approach, where the
group provides a forum for sharing and discussing dreams, and the format is largely
unstructured and conversational. Attention is given to skills like remembering dreams and
keeping a dream journal, as well as to building a repertoire of techniques for practicing
dreamwork. However, while various hands-on methods are sometimes sampled in such
groups, the focus is more didactic than experiential.
In the second approach, the group members act primarily as catalysts for the dreamer,
using skills that help to illumine the nooks and crannies of the dream. Groups that take an
experience-centered approach are often more structured. Members may focus attention on one
particular method or technique, or opt to incorporate several different practices.
Ullman‘s (1979) experiential dream group process exemplifies the second approach, and
many current dream groups have adopted it. Avoiding adherence to interpretive theories, it
treats dreams as metaphors for feelings, and assists the dreamer in connecting the imagery
with the life situations that induced it. Ullman maintained that dream appreciation ―requires
work and takes energy.‖ He designed his method to enable, as fully as possible, the necessary
work, while preserving the emotional safety of the dreamer (Hillman, 1999, p. 75).
The heart of the experiential dream group method is a kind of projective exercise. In it,
participants imaginatively try to make the dream ―their own,‖ exploring the images aloud
while the dreamer listens. By thus considering the various feelings and metaphors suggested
by the dream, they generate a pool of possible meanings to stimulate the dreamer inwardly.
The dreamer is then invited to give a response to the group‘s projections and finally to engage
in a dialogue with the group that might focus the imagery still further.
A principle underlying Ullman‘s method, and shared by most grassroots dream groups,
upholds the exclusive authority of the dreamer in determining the meaning of the dream.
Accordingly, the various methods are used to inspire the dreamer‘s insight, rather than
impose a particular meaning or make an interpretation. This chapter cannot begin to examine
all of the dreamwork practices, since grassroots dreamwork is heterogeneous in nature. Faced
with such richness, Jeremy Taylor (1983) suggested an inclusive attitude. He believes that
―virtually all of the theories, styles of work, religious beliefs, community dream sharing
practices, etc., of various cultures and periods of history have been born out of and are
focused on some aspect of the multiple, whole truth about dreams‖ (p. 117). In his book
Dream Work, Taylor encourages dreamers to embrace this abundance, and to look for the
myriad threads of meaning contained in the tapestry of a dream.
18 Deborah Hillman
CULTURAL IMPLICATIONS OF DREAM GROUPS

In mainstream American culture, to the extent that it values dreams, the dominant view is
largely therapy-centered. Looking to various technical theories of dream interpretation, it
calls on an expert (the therapist) to decipher the dream. It views the dream as a useful tool for
generating therapeutic insight, but does not consider it a valuable resource beyond the
consulting room.
Grassroots dream groups share the basic assumption that dreams have meaning, but
actively assert that the value of dreams transcends the clinical context. They hold that
dreamers themselves can learn to appreciate the significance of their dreams, without relying
on interpretive guidance from experts. Indeed, by widening the social framework within
which we make dreams important, dream groups strengthen contemporary efforts to broaden
dream‘s cultural significance.
Furthermore, the cultural function of dream groups extends to our everyday lives by
fostering and supporting more positive social relations. Alexander Randall‘s (1978) study of
group cohesion in a dream-sharing context, for instance, suggests that dreamwork encourages
group wellbeing. Randall worked with fifteen people engaged in a month-long residential
conference on themes related to dreams, shamanism, and the legacy of the healer Edgar
Cayce. Narrating dreams was part of participants‘ daily conference routine, and dreams were
the primary focus of group discussion. Randall (1978) discovered that, ―not only did the
reflective nature of the dreams help to iron out interpersonal differences, but the very act of
sharing dreams put the members on a personal level of intimacy‖ (p. 106).
Dream groups are also a fruitful place to explore the nature of consciousness and to learn
about the phenomenology of dreaming. Those who devote their attention to dreams become
more sophisticated dreamers, often developing a wider experience of the range of sleeping
consciousness. Dreaming is not a ―unitary phenomenon,‖ as popular thinking would have it;
that is, lucid dreams, out-of-body experiences, and other distinct states of consciousness must
all be accorded a place on our cognitive map (Hunt, 1989; Tart, 1970). In addition, by
learning to value dreams, and by broadening our knowledge of dream states, we challenge the
narrow cultural focus on ordinary waking consciousness (Hillman, 1979, p. 78).
Dream groups provide opportunities, too, for tapping the wisdom of dreams, including
the dimension of social and cultural awareness. In one of his many contributions to that
theme, Ullman (1999b) noted:
Cultural anthropologists have long viewed dreams as useful instruments for studying the
mores and value systems of [other] cultures. Logically, they should be as useful in the
examination of our own society. Social in origin, our dream imagery has an intrinsic
bidirectionality that points inwardly and outwardly to the innermost and often hidden aspects
of our personal being and outwardly to the source of their origin and to their possible
connection to prevailing social realities that otherwise tend to be obscured from view. (p. 259)
An eloquent expression of how and why we should tend to this ―social intelligence‖ of
dreams is provided by political scientist John Wikse (1999). In a social environment in which
our dreams are customarily suppressed, we tend to lose touch with our inner awareness of
how that environment shapes us. However, by sharing dreams ―in a context in which it is
possible to become reflective about the conditions and circumstances of social life‖ (p. 147),
we reconnect with that liberating knowledge of our socially situated psyches.
Part of the process of tapping the social and cultural dimension of dreams is facing the
outmoded myths and images we find there. As beings on which the social environment
impinges, emotionally and spiritually, we need, at times, to dismantle our outworn constructs.
Such an endeavor takes place, for example, among some feminist dreamworkers, who seek to
abolish the gender bias set forth in the Jungian archetypes (Hillman, 1999, p. 78). As pointed
out by psychologists David Feinstein and Stanley Krippner (1988), ―gaining a measure of
autonomy from the limiting mythic images of your culture and from other early influences
increases your psychological freedom and strengthens your ability to cope with a rapidly
changing world‖ (p. 8). Such a loosening of the personal effects of individual conditioning is
necessary, too, for the nurturing of genuine change on a cultural level.
CONCLUSION
Broadly, dreamwork helps to heal the deep, collective wounds that result from social
fragmentation and prejudice. Jeremy Taylor (1983) describes his extensive experience along
these lines, highlighting dreamwork‘s radical possibilities:
As a community organizer I realized that dream work could bring people together across
all the barriers of race, age, sex, class, et al. to join in the work of changing society. I came to
understand that dream work has the potential to be deeply ―radical,‖ not only in the original
sense of radix, getting to the ―root‖ of things, but also in the political and social sense of
dramatic transformation of collective fears, opinions, attitudes, and behaviors. (p. 117)
Finally, just as people in therapy often dream of the process, so do dream-group

participants dream about dreamwork. And just as dreams can offer new insights into social
life, in general, so can they help to reveal the role of dream groups. Here, in closing, is a
personal dream from my early fieldwork days, one that captured my sense of dreamwork‘s
potential.
Our dream group met in a cozy corner of a spacious Manhattan apartment, which sported
a nice but undistinguished carpet. Steeped in comfortable physical surroundings, I gave them
little thought, turning my attention, instead, to our group interaction. Then one night I
dreamed that defining the area where our dream group met was an Oriental rug of
extraordinary subtlety and richness. Clearly, that transformative image reflects my personal
experience, but it also points to a wider frame of meaning. For, as the dreamwork movement
teaches, dreamwork is socially enriching. Sharing dreams not only increases attunement to the
world within, but also helps to mend and enliven the fabric that binds us together.
REFERENCES
Dietrich, A. (2007). Introduction to consciousness. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.
Dodd, J. (1999). A mothers‘ dream group. In M. Ullman & C. Limmer (Eds.), The variety of
dream experience (2nd ed., pp. 49-61). Albany: State University of New York Press.
20 Deborah Hillman
Feinstein, D., & Krippner, S. (1988). Personal mythology: The psychology of your evolving
self. Los Angeles: Jeremy P. Tarcher.
Hillman, D.J. (1999). Dream work and field work: Linking cultural anthropology and the
current dream work movement. In M. Ullman & C. Limmer (Eds.), The variety of dream
experience (2nd ed., pp. 65-89). Albany: State University of New York Press.
Hunt, H.T. (1989). The multiplicity of dreams. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.
Locke, R.G., & Kelly, E.F. (1985). A preliminary model for cross-cultural analysis of altered
states of consciousness. Ethos, 13, 3-55.
Randall, A. (1978). Dream sharing and shared metaphors in a short-term community.
Unpublished doctoral dissertation, Teacher‘s College, Columbia University, New York.
Sperry, R.W. (1988). Structure and significance of the consciousness revolution. ReVision,
11, 39-55.
Tart, C.T. (1970). The high dream: A new state of consciousness. In C.T. Tart (Ed.), Altered
states of consciousness (pp. 171-179). Garden City, NY: Anchor Books.
Taylor, J. (1983). Dream work. Ramsey, NJ: Paulist Press.
Tedlock, B. (1987). Dreaming and dream research. In B. Tedlock (Ed.), Dreaming:
Anthropological and psychological interpretations (pp. 1-30). New York: Cambridge
University Press.
Ullman, M. (1979). The experiential dream group. In B.B. Wolman (Ed.), Handbook of
dreams (pp. 406-423). New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold.
Ullman, M. (1982). On relearning the forgotten language: De-professionalizing the dream.
Contemporary Psychoanalysis, 18, 153-159.
Ullman, M. (1999a). The experiential dream group. In M. Ullman & C. Limmer (Eds.), The
variety of dream experience (2nd ed., pp. 3-29). Albany: State University of New York
Press.
Ullman, M. (1999b). Dreams and society. In M. Ullman & C. Limmer (Eds.), The variety of
dream experience (2nd ed., pp. 255-274). Albany: State University of New York Press.
Ullman, M., & Zimmerman, N. (1999). Working with dreams. Los Angeles: Jeremy P.
Tarcher.
Wikse, J. (1999). Night rule: Dreams as social intelligence. In M. Ullman & C. Limmer
(Eds.), The variety of dream experience (2nd ed., pp. 141-159). Albany: State University
of New York Press.
PART II: THEORIES
Chapter 3
A NEUROCOGNITIVE THEORY OF DREAMING
G. William Domhoff
ABSTRACT
A new cognitive approach to dreaming and dream content, which has the potential to
be extended into a neurocognitive theory, has developed gradually since the 1950s due to
four different types of unexpected research findings from inside and outside the sleep
laboratory. These findings cast doubt on the Freudian, Jungian, and activation-synthesis
theories that dominated thinking about dreams in the 20th century. Those three theories
started with the idea that there were major differences between waking cognition and
dreaming, but the findings presented in this chapter suggest that there are far more
parallels between dreaming and waking thought than they realized (Domhoff, 2003b).
INTRODUCTION
Research on dreaming and dream content in the past 60 years suggests that there are
many parallels between dreaming and waking thought. In fact, if there are more similarities
than differences between dreaming and waking cognition, this means that the key issue is not
the activation of a ―primary process‖ and ―repressed‖ wishes, as in Freudian theory, nor the
expression of ―archetypal symbols‖ lodged within an inherited ―collective unconscious,‖ as in
Jungian theory. Nor is there a need for allegedly random stimulation from the pontine
tegmentum within the brain stem or for the unique neurochemical state that is part of REM
sleep, as in activation-synthesis theory (Hobson, 2002; Hobson, Pace-Schott, & Stickgold,
2000b).
Instead, dreaming can be seen as the ―default‖ position for the activated brain when it is
not forced to focus on physical and social reality by (1) external stimuli and (2) the self
system that reminds us who we are, where we are, and what the tasks are that face us. This
possibility is supported by laboratory studies revealing the dreamlike nature of thinking
during the transition from waking to sleeping (Foulkes & Vogel, 1965; Vogel, 1991; Vogel,
Barrowclough, & Giesler, 1972). It is also supported by systematic observations
28 G. William Domhoff
demonstrating that dreaming can occur during relaxed waking states when lying quietly in a
darkened room, with wakefulness monitored by the EEG (Foulkes, 1999; Foulkes & Fleisher,
1975; Foulkes & Scott, 1973). There are also strong cognitive connections between waking
fantasy and daydreaming (Levin & Young, 2001-2002).
Based on the evidence for parallels between dreaming and waking cognition, a cognitive
approach begins with concepts derived from laboratory studies of waking thought. The
emphasis is on the fact that thinking and imagining develop as part of a "conceptual system,"
that is, a system of schemas and scripts, which is the organizational basis for all human
knowledge and beliefs. Drawing on the same conceptual system that underlies waking
thought, dreaming occurs whenever there is (1) an intact and fully mature neural network for
dreaming; (2) an adequate level of cortical activation; (3) an occlusion of external stimuli; and
(4) the loss of conscious self-control, i.e., a shutting down to the cognitive system of ―self‖
(Foulkes, 1999).
From a cognitive perspective, dreams express people‘s ―conceptions,‖ which are also the
basis for action in the waking world. Dreams are a dramatic and perceptible embodiment of
schemas, scripts, and general knowledge. They are like plays that the mind stages for itself
when it doesn‘t have anything specific to do. In particular, most dream scenarios express
several key aspects of people‘s conceptual systems, especially self-conceptions, which can be
defined as a set of cognitive generalizations about the person that guide the processing of self-
relevant information and events. Dreams also express conceptions of family and friends; they
rarely involve politics, economics, or other current events. Starting with the idea that dreams
usually reveal highly personal conceptions, it is possible to build a complex picture of a
dreamer‘s overall conceptual system because people usually have more than one conception
of themselves and the important people in their lives.
A cognitive approach also contains a way to assess the weight to be given to the
conceptions expressed in dreams: by determining the relative frequency of their occurrence.
Numerous studies show that the frequency with which a person, action, or activity occurs in a
series of dreams reveals the ―intensity‖ of the "concern" with that person, action, or activity in
waking life, which means that dreams are dramatized enactments of both "conceptions" and
"concerns‖ (Domhoff, 1996, 2003b). The emphasis on ―concerns‖ links dreaming with the
fact that the drift of waking thought is shaped to a great extent by underlying concerns
(Klinger, 1978; 1999)
I now turn to the evidence that led to this theory. It comes from (1) laboratory studies of
the Rapid Eye Movement (REM) and non-REM (NREM) dream reports of adults; (2)
laboratory investigations of the development of dreaming in children; (3) studies of large
samples of dreams collected outside the laboratory from groups and individuals; and (4)
neuropsychological studies of patients who experienced changes in their dreaming as a by-
product of brain lesions.
LABORATORY STUDIES OF ADULTS

The many laboratory studies of adult dreams in the 1960s and 1970s, now often forgotten
or ignored, led to a very surprising result: the dreams reported from REM awakenings are
usually reasonable simulations of the waking world that deal with everyday topics and
A Neurocognitive Theory of Dreaming 29
contain relatively few fantastic or bizarre aspects. Moreover, the speech acts included in
dreams are as well executed and context-appropriate as in waking life (Foulkes et al., 1993;
Meier, 1993).
The most comprehensive study of REM dream content in the sleep laboratory was based
on 635 dream reports collected ―for a variety of experimental purposes‖ in a series of
investigations over a period of seven years between 1960 and 1967 (Snyder, 1970, p. 127).
The 58 young adult men and women who participated in these studies were awakened on 250
nights in two different laboratories. Although there were some small differences due to word
length, the overall finding was that ―dreaming consciousness‖ is a ―remarkably faithful
replica of waking life‖; thus, a prototypical REM dream report is a ―clear, coherent, and
detailed account of a realistic situation involving the dreamer and other people caught up in
very ordinary activities and preoccupations, and usually talking about them‖ (Snyder, 1970,
pp. 133, 148). Overall, as many as 90% of the dream reports ―would have been considered
credible descriptions of everyday experience‖ (Snyder, Karacan, Tharp, & Scott, 1968, p.
375).
This conclusion is based primarily on a series of ratings for coherence, dramatic quality,
credibility, and bizarreness. Sixty to 80% of the reports were highly coherent on a three-point
scale, as compared with less than 5% that were rated as low on coherence. Three-fourths had
a ―nil‖ or ―low‖ degree of drama on a four-point scale, and fewer than 10% were high on
drama. Fully 65% of the dream reports were rated as highly credible and another 25% as of
medium credibility; about 8% were rated as low on credibility and 2% as having no
credibility. In keeping with the findings on credibility, the dreams were rated as having a low
degree of bizarreness. Fifty percent of the longest reports were rated as having no bizarreness,
30% as having a low degree of bizarreness, 8% as having a medium degree, and 2% as having
a high degree (Snyder, 1970, pp. 145-146).
The apparent lack of highly unusual dream content in REM reports was investigated
in more detail in a study of 16 young adult women who spent two consecutive nights each in
the lab and answered questions about the familiarity and likelihood of specific dream
elements after an average of four REM awakenings per night (Dorus, Dorus, &
Rechtschaffen, 1971). The investigators concluded that their results ―emphasize the rarity of
the bizarre in dreams‖ because major distortions of actual waking experiences reached a high
of only 16.7% of all the activities and social interactions, and of 6.2% and 7.8% for all
characters and physical surroundings (Dorus et al., 1971, p. 367). The figures for the most
improbable category of events that were never experienced by the dreamer in waking life
were 4.9% of all physical surroundings, 1.3% of all characters, and 6.8% of all activities and
social interactions. When the investigators carried out global ratings of each dream for overall
novelty, they found that 25.8% contained large but plausible differences from previous
waking experiences, while 8.9% were highly improbable by waking standards.
In general, then, REM dreams are a more realistic enactment of everyday life than is
suggested by the psychiatric tradition from which the Freudian, Jungian, and activation-
synthesis theories derive. However, this does not mean there is no bizarreness in dreams, just
far less than these theorists assumed. But this finding also raises another question: What about
bizarreness in waking thought? Studies of waking thought samples suggest that there are far
more jumps in thinking and thoughts out of nowhere than is implied by a juxtaposition of
bizarre dreaming with rational waking thought (Kane et al., 2007; Klinger, 1999; Klinger &
Cox, 1987-1988).
Still other studies reported that NREM dream reports do not differ very much from REM
reports, especially late in the sleep period when participants are awakened from Stage II
NREM (Antrobus, 1983; Antrobus, Kondo, & Reinsel, 1995; Cicogna, Natale, Occhionero, &
Bosinelli, 1998). This conclusion was first denied and then downplayed by activation-
synthesis theorists because of their emphasis on REM sleep as the basis for the allegedly
bizarre nature of dreams (Hobson et al., 2000b). More recently, activation-synthesis theorists
have found it more difficult to defend their REM-based theory of activation, since results
from one of their own studies demonstrated that REM and Stage II NREM reports are
increasingly similar after the third REM period, as earlier studies also showed (Fosse,
Stickgold, & Hobson, 2004). They now cling to the fact that two studies using their database
of home-collected REM and NREM dream reports found differences in the frequency of
aggression in the REM and Stage II NREM reports (McNamara, McLaren, & Durso, 2007;
McNamara, McLaren, Smith, Brown, & Stickgold, 2005). In the first of these studies, 24% of
100 late-night REM reports contained at least one hostility or aggression, compared to only
12% for the 100 NREM reports, but that leaves 82% of the dreams in the combined sample
similar in that they contained no aggression. Moreover, there were no differences in terms of
friendly interactions in this study. In the second study, there were more similarities than
differences for reports from the two stages of sleep.
Taken together, the important point is that all these studies show that ―real‖ dreaming can
take place in REM and Stage II NREM. The finding that the frequency of aggression varies in
dreams from the two different states, which still needs to be replicated with another database
before it is accepted as gospel, is an interesting subsidiary finding that fits with the fact that
aggression is the element in dreams that differs the most by age, gender, culture, and method
of dream collection (home vs. laboratory) (Avila-White, Schneider, & Domhoff, 1999;
Domhoff, 1996; Domhoff & Schneider, 1999; Foulkes, 1979).
Thus, the activation-synthesis theorists are refuted on this key issue because slight
differences in actual content, which activation-synthesis theorists usually dismiss as a
secondary issue, are not enough to defend their weak claim that REM activation is the only
basis for vivid dreaming. Nor does it make sense to resort to the claim that ―covert REM
sleep‖ is causing the Stage II NREM dreams (Hobson, 2000; Hobson, Pace-Schott, &
Stickgold, 2000a; Nielsen, 2000). It is more accurate to say that common sources are
activating the brain in REM and Stage II NREM to a level where dreaming can occur. This
broader view fits with a cognitive theory of dreams, which emphasizes the level of brain
activation, whatever its source.
DEVELOPMENTAL STUDIES OF CHILDREN

Longitudinal and cross-sectional studies of children ages 3 to 15 in the sleep laboratory
reveal that dreaming gradually develops beginning late in the pre-school years in steps that
parallel waking cognitive development (Foulkes, 1982, 1999; Foulkes, Hollifield, Sullivan,
Bradley, & Terry, 1990). The median recall of pre-school children from REM awakenings of
anything that could reasonably be called a dream was only 15%, and the content of the few
reports that were obtained was static, undeveloped, and lacking in any emotion. The REM
reports became more ―dreamlike‖ (in terms of characters, themes, and actions) in the 5 to 6-
year-olds, and the dreamers themselves began to play a more central role in their dreams by
ages 7-8. Dreaming became adultlike in its cognitive complexity at ages 9-10, but it was not
until the children were 11-13 years old that their dreams began to resemble those of adult
laboratory participants in frequency, length, content, and emotions, or to have any
relationship to personality.
Detailed studies of the waking cognitive abilities of the children in these studies showed
that verbal and linguistic skills do not play a role until dreaming is fully developed. They also
reveal that the lack of dream reports cannot be attributed to a failure to recall or an inability to
communicate. The one good and consistent predictor of the frequency of dream reporting in
children ages 5-9 is visuospatial skills, which leads to the hypothesis that mental imagery may
develop gradually and be a necessary cognitive prerequisite for dreaming. This idea is
supported by studies revealing that those who are born blind or who become blind before the
age of 4 have no visual imagery in their dreams, whereas those who become blind after age 6
continue to have visual imagery in their dreams (Kerr, 1993).
Based on the results of these laboratory studies, dreaming appears to be a gradual
cognitive achievement that depends upon the development of cognitive abilities that are also
important in waking life. These results are compatible with a cognitive theory of dreams and
call into question the claims about pre-school children‘s dreams by Freudians and Jungians,
who rely on retrospective reports from adults or on home dream reports that are now suspect
as possible confabulations due to pressures from adults to report a dream (Domhoff, 2003b,
pp. 23-24). In addition, these findings were completely unanticipated by activation-synthesis
theorists, who have refused to accept them. As if to underscore their scorn for a cognitive
theory, the activation-synthesis theorists have stated that ―we specifically suggest that the
human neonate, spending as it does more than 50 percent of its time in REM sleep, is having
indescribable but nevertheless real oneiric experiences‖ (Hobson et al., 2000b, p. 803). This
shows that their theory begins and ends at the neurophysiological level, whereas a cognitive
theory begins with phenomenal experience and dream reports—or the lack thereof.
STUDIES OF HOME-REPORTED ADULT DREAMS

Thanks to several studies demonstrating that dream reports collected in the laboratory are
similar in most respects to those collected from home recall, except for the greater frequency
of aggression in home dream reports (Domhoff, 2003b), it is possible for a cognitive approach
to draw on studies of home dream reports using a rigorous and comprehensive coding system
for dream content to quantify home-reported dreams developed by Hall and Van de Castle
(1966). This system of 10 general coding categories for settings, objects, characters, social
interactions, activities, emotions, misfortunes, successes and failures, food and eating
elements, and descriptive elements rests on the nominal level of measurement, uses
percentages and ratios to correct for differences in dream length, and has good reliability
(Domhoff, 2003b). Studies using this system reveal that the dream lives of college men and
women in the United States remained about the same throughout the second half of the 20th
century. College students from several other industrialized democracies, including India and
Japan, have patterns similar to those of the American students, as do teenagers and young
adults in Argentina, Mexico, and Peru (Domhoff, 1996).
Despite the generally realistic nature of these home dream reports, the studies
demonstrate that dreams are not a perfect simulation of everyday life, as has also been found
in the laboratory studies. For example, in the Hall and Van de Castle (1966) normative
samples of 500 male and 500 female dream reports, 7% of the familiar male settings and 14%
of the familiar female settings were in some way different from the way they actually were in
waking life, and almost 2% percent of the characters were dead, imaginary, or turned into
another character. It is also noteworthy that about one-third of all dream reports contained
―misfortunes‖ that ranged from being lost to illness to the death of a loved one, and that the
negative emotions of sadness, anger, confusion, and apprehension, when taken as a whole,
greatly outnumbered the expression of happiness.
In contrast to the changes in dream content from early childhood to adolescence that
were uncovered in the sleep lab, the dream content after age 18 is extremely stable in terms of
characters, social interactions, and most other dream elements according to cross-sectional
studies in the United States, Canada, and Switzerland, except for a possible decline in
physical aggressions and negative emotions. Dream content thus seems to parallel the
stability of adult personality (Domhoff, 1996, Chapter 5).
Within the context of these many well-established group findings, blind analyses of
dream journals kept by individuals for personal, intellectual, or artistic reasons are useful as
nonreactive measures not influenced by the purposes of the investigators who code and
quantify them. Conclusions drawn from such nonreactive archival data are considered most
reliable and useful when they are based on a diversity of archives likely to have different
sources of potential biases. Studies of dream journals reveal an individual consistency in
dream content that stretches from the late teens to old age, which is further support for a
cognitive theory of dreams because of waking evidence that people‘s personalities change
very little once they are adults. People‘s dream lives vary from day to day and week to week,
but consistency in both themes and quantitative categories manifests itself through
comparisons of hundreds of dream reports within time spans of months and years (Domhoff,
1996, 2003b).
Blind analyses of dream journals also have made it possible to do detailed studies of
specific aspects of dream content and their relationship to waking thought through the
formulation of inferences that can be accepted or rejected by the dreamer and other
respondents. Such studies lead to the conclusion that much, but not all, dream content is
continuous with the dreamer‘s waking concerns and interests. The most direct continuities
involve the main people in a dreamer‘s life and the nature of social interactions with them.
There also is considerable continuity with many of the dreamer‘s primary interests and
activities. This continuity is not with day-to-day events but with general concerns, which
provides yet another parallel between dreaming and waking cognition. However, there are as
many as 20-25% of dreams that do not seem related to waking concerns (Domhoff, 2003a;
Domhoff, Meyer-Gomes, & Schredl, 2005-2006).
In concluding this overview of findings on dream content inside and outside the sleep
laboratory, it should be noted that the coherence, consistency, and continuity of most dream
content revealed in virtually every study is not what would be expected on the basis of
Freudian, Jungian, or activation-synthesis theory. In fact, these studies contradict every
specific hypothesis that was put forth by Freud in The Interpretation of Dreams (1900), as
shown in detailed critiques of the theory and its proponents (Domhoff, 2003b, pp. 136-143;
2004). In the case of Jungian theory, the finding of continuity between dreams and waking
concerns is in direct contradiction to its claim that dreaming has a ―compensatory‖ function—
that is, within the context of this theory, dreams purportedly reveal the underdeveloped
aspects of the psyche that are not expressed in waking life (Jung, 1974). As for activation-
synthesis theory, it is most severely challenged at the content level by the realistic and
coherent nature of dream content revealed in both laboratory studies and studies of lengthy
dream journals that stretch over decades.
MAKING A COGNITIVE APPROACH NEUROCOGNITIVE

Asking neurological patients if their injuries had caused any changes in their dreaming
led to the unanticipated discovery that different types of deficits and excesses of dreaming
have waking cognitive parallels. Such a finding is further support for a cognitive approach to
dreams, because it suggests that dreaming and imaginative waking cognition may be
dependent upon the same brain networks. For example, the reported loss of the ability to
produce visual dream imagery in some patients studied in the sleep lab is paralleled by their
reported loss of waking visual imagery (Kerr, 1993).
Building on this and many other examples of changes in both waking visual imagery and
dream imagery, it might be possible to extend a cognitive approach in a neurophysiological
direction and make it neurocognitive. This neurocognitive model would start with
neuropsychological work from the late 1980s relating certain brain lesions, as determined by
CAT scans, to the alteration or elimination of dreaming (Solms, 1997). It also would draw on
brain-imaging studies comparing wakefulness, REM sleep, and NREM sleep (Braun et al.,
1997; Braun et al., 1998; Maquet, 2000; Maquet et al., 1996; Nofzinger, Mintun, Wiseman,
Kupfer, & Moore, 1997). Both types of studies suggest roughly the same neural network as
the basis for the conceptual processes involved in dreaming (Domhoff, 2003b, Chapter 1).
This neural network encompasses the limbic, paralimbic, and association cortices, with
little or no role for the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex, sensorimotor cortex, or primary visual
cortex. Thus, the association cortices, paralimbic structures, and limbic structures may
operate as a closed loop to generate the process of dreaming. On the one hand, this subsystem
is cut off from the primary sensory cortices that provide information about the external world,
and on the other from the prefrontal cortices that integrate incoming sensory information with
memory and emotion in the process of decision making. This model implies that an
unconstrained and freewheeling conceptual system can operate when there is sufficient brain
activation. At the same time, it is clear from the nature of dream content that the neural
network for dreaming contains enough cognitive processing areas, such as the medial frontal
cortex and anterior cingulate cortex, to produce coherent dramatizations that often reflect the
dreamer‘s conceptions and concerns in waking life.
DO DREAMS HAVE AN ADAPTIVE FUNCTION?

There are many different theories concerning the possible adaptive function of dreaming.
The most famous and intriguing theory of dream function, Freud‘s (1900, p.180) idea that
dreams are the ―guardians of sleep,‖ that is, a response to bodily-based wishes, seems to be
refuted by several different kinds of findings. First, the frequency and regularity of dreaming
in most people suggests that the process cannot be primarily a way to deal with wishes that
emerge episodically during sleep, as Freud claimed. Second, there is very little dream content
that seems to relate to the wishes Freud had in mind—for food, drink, and sex. Third, there is
every reason to believe that pre-school children seldom or never dream, but they sleep very
soundly nonetheless (Foulkes, 1982). Fourth, while lobotomized schizophrenics showed
normal sleep in the laboratory, they rarely reported dreams from REM awakenings (Jus et al.,
1973). Fifth, there are neurological patients who lose dreaming but retain the ability to sleep
(Solms, 1997). Finally, there are even a few normal adults who do not dream, as shown
through REM awakenings over two or three nights in the sleep laboratory (Pagel, 2003).
Nor, as noted at the end of the discussion of dream content, is there any support for
Jung‘s well-known idea that most dreams, and especially those with roots in the ―collective
unconscious,‖ have a compensatory function. Although this idea is very difficult to support or
refute in a definitive way because there may be subtle forms of compensation, every relevant
systematic study suggests that dream content is continuous with waking thought or
personality rather than compensatory (see Domhoff, 2003b, pp. 144-147, for a critique of
Jungian theory).
Activation-synthesis theorists argue that dreaming is the by-product of the ―off-line‖
cognitive processing and sleep-dependent memory consolidation that allegedly occur during
all stages of sleep, with some stages enhancing one kind of learning and other stages aiding
other kinds (Stickgold, 2005). There are several major problems with this claim. First, there
are serious methodological problems with the research on memory consolidation during sleep
that have not been answered. In fact, it seems unlikely to some sleep researchers that very
many, if any, of the claims about learning and memory improvement during sleep will be
sustained (Siegel, 2001; Siegel, 2005; Vertes & Eastman, 2000; Vertes & Siegel, 2005).
Second, the best case for memory consolidation during sleep concerns procedural
memory, such as learning to weave a basket, which would not seem to have much to do with
dreaming. Third, if dreaming is somehow intertwined with the consolidation of memories
from the previous day, then it seems surprising that there are very few episodic memories in
dreams (Baylor & Cavallero, 2001; Fosse, Fosse, Hobson, & Stickgold, 2003) and that only
half of dreams at best have even one element that relates to events of the previous day
(Botman & Crovitz, 1989; Harlow & Roll, 1992; Hartmann, 1968; Marquardt, Bonato, &
Hoffmann, 1996; Nielsen & Powell, 1992). Fourth, if dreaming processes the emotional
content of recent events in a person‘s life, as Stickgold (2005) claims, then the lack of
emotion in the dreams of children under age 12 needs to be explained (Foulkes, 1982;
Foulkes et al., 1990). Given these many problems, it is not likely that any memory processing
that might occur in sleep would have anything to do with dreaming except for its possible
involvement in creating the level of activation necessary for dreaming to occur. Thus, it is
more likely that activation-synthesis theorists will prove to be as wrong on this issue as they
were on their claims for the location of the REM activation system (Sastre, Sakai, & Jouvet,
1981; Siegel & McGinty, 1977; Siegel, McGinty, & Breedlove, 1977), the nature of the
interaction between REM and NREM sleep (Jones, 2005) , and the role of brain stem signals
in creating allegedly bizarre dream content (Jones, 2000; Pivik, 1991).
Several clinically oriented dream researchers from outside the Freudian, Jungian, and
activation-synthesis realms believe that dreams have a general problem-solving function.
However, this idea seems unlikely when it is realized that most people remember only a small
percent of their many nightly dreams. More importantly, dreams collected inside and outside
the sleep laboratory rarely have even the hint of a solution to a problem, and most of the
anecdotal examples that are provided by proponents of the theory actually involve reveries,
drug-induced states, or thoughts while falling asleep or waking up (Domhoff, 2003b, pp. 158-
162).
Facing up to the rarity of dream recall and the lack of solutions to problems in most of the
dreams that are recalled, some advocates of problem-solving theories now claim that only
dramatic emotional dreams have a problem-solving function. There are two important
distinctions that have to be made in considering this possibility. First, it is one thing for a
dream to "reflect" a problem, as many dreams surely do; it is quite another for the dream
content to offer a "solution." Second, a distinction has to be made between solutions that are
present within a dream and waking ideas that are based upon thinking about the dream. New
insights in the waking state are a much more plausible alternative, because there is evidence
that conscious attention is usually needed for problem solving (Blagrove, 1992, 1996, 2000).
As the foregoing discussion of rival theories of dream function suggests, there are many
findings that contradict the idea that dreams have any kind of physiological or psychological
function. It therefore makes sense to consider the possibility that dreams indeed do not have
an adaptive function. This hypothesis is consistent with a cognitive theory of dreams, which
views dreaming as a complex cognitive activity that is dependent upon the evolution of
cognitive skills that may be present in humans only after they reach the age of 5 or 6
(Domhoff, 2003b, pp. 163-164). While the lack of dreaming in other mammals and pre-
school children does not preclude an adaptive function for dreams, it does make it less likely
and narrows the focus as to what that function might be.
Based on the lack of evidence for any adaptive function for dreaming, dreams can be
viewed from a cognitive perspective as the accidental by-products of two great evolutionary
developments, sleeping and thinking. Even more specifically, they are a by-product of two
specific cognitive abilities that have great adaptive value in the waking world, the ability to
generate mental imagery and the ability to generate narratives. They occur, as already noted,
when there is sufficient brain activation in a context where there is little or no guidance for
the brain from external stimuli or the self system.
Since dreams often seem to draw upon the same conceptions and concerns that are central
to a person‘s waking life, they do have psychological meaning. They can, therefore, portray
central emotional preoccupations in creative and dramatic ways, but this does not necessarily
mean that they have a purpose. From a cognitive point of view, function and meaning can be
distinguished, a possibility that is rarely emphasized within the context of other dream
theories. Indeed, due to the fact that dreams do have psychological meaning, people in many
different cultures have developed "uses" for them in the course of history, including creative
inspiration and personal exploration in our own culture. Yet emergent cultural uses are not the
same as evolved psychological functions; not everything with a form or structure has an
adaptive function (Thompson, 2000).
FUTURE DIRECTIONS
Several different kinds of research projects could be carried out to test hypotheses
generated by a cognitive theory of dreams. First, inquiries could focus on pinpointing the
small changes in cognitive functioning that might be responsible for the shift from relaxed
waking thoughts, such as daydreaming and reverie, to the dramatic, self-involved, sensory-
laden narratives called dreams. Studies of the imagery at sleep onset might be helpful in this
regard (Nielsen, 1995), as might further studies of the relationship between daydreaming and
dreaming (Levin & Young, 2001-2002).
Second, hypotheses related to a cognitive theory of dreams could be tested by in-depth
examinations of both non-dreamers and those who recall several dreams a night in great
detail. Comparisons of these two small ―extreme‖ groups on cognitive and
neuropsychological tests might prove especially useful.
Third, in-depth investigations of dream journals from a few excellent recallers might help
to explain the aspects of dream content that are not continuous with waking conceptions and
concerns. These anomalous aspects of dream content may be the products of metaphoric
thinking, although very little progress has been made in testing this cognitively based
hypothesis (Domhoff, 2003b). Or it may be that unusual juxtapositions, blended settings,
metamorphoses, and sudden scene changes reveal the limits of the mind under the conditions
that produce dreaming (Domhoff, 2007; Foulkes, 1999).
Fourth, there is a need for a study that compares dreams and waking thought samples
from the same participants. Based on my reading of the protocols, the one effort along this
line was inadequate because most of the participants simply reported what they were doing
when they responded to a pager during the day (e.g., ―I was eating lunch with friends; I was
walking to class; I was sitting in class; I was studying‖) (Fosse, Stickgold, & Hobson, 2001;
Stickgold, Malia, Fosse, & Hobson, 2001). Other studies that were focused strictly on waking
cognition provide evidence of frequent thought intrusions, mind wandering, attention lapses,
and daydreaming, along with wide individual differences that make it essential to have the
same participants in both waking and dreaming conditions in order to say anything
meaningful about the bizarreness of dreams in general (Kane, Mellen, Patten, & Samano,
1993; Klinger, 1999). It also would be useful to see if the default neural network in which
mind wandering seems to occur most often has any relationship to the neural network for
dreaming (Mason et al., 2007).
CONCLUSION
The systematic research findings briefly overviewed in this chapter add up to a strong
refutation of the three traditional dream theories that predominated in the twentieth century.
At the same time, these findings are consistent with a cognitive theory of dreams. This does
not mean that the cognitive theory is now firmly established―far from it. But it does mean
that such a theory is deserving of further testing, because it is the best current possibility for
understanding the ongoing puzzle of the origin and meaning of dreams. Using the most
plausible ideas to explain the most systematic data is the hallmark of a scientific approach. By
that standard, a cognitive theory of dreams is the only current theory that can encompass two
well-established findings, namely: (1) dream content is for the most part coherent, consistent,
and continuous with waking concerns; and (2) dreaming is a gradually developed cognitive
achievement based on the ability to imagine and to generate mental imagery.
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Chapter 4
DAYLIFE, DREAMLIFE AND CHAOS THEORY
Allan Combs and Stanley Krippner
―Sleep affords the opportunity, within certain limits, for the brain to act of itself, and
dreams are the result.‖
Edward Clarke & Oliver Wendell Holmes,

1878, p. 303
ABSTRACT
This chapter approaches dreaming consciousness through an examination of the self-
organizing properties of the sleeping brain, a view that offers a step towards the
reconciliation of brain-based and content-based attempts to understand the nature of
dreaming. It is argued that the brain can be understood as a complex self-organizing
system that in dreaming responds to subtle influences such as residual feelings and
memories. The hyper-responsiveness of the brain during dreaming is viewed in terms of
the tendency of complex chaotic-like systems to respond to small variations in initial
conditions (the butterfly effect) and to the amplification of subtle emotional and cognitive
signals through the mechanism of stochastic resonance, all in combination with psycho-
physiological changes in the brain during both slow wave sleep and REM sleep. Such
changes include the active inhibition of extroceptive stimulation and, especially in REM
sleep, alterations in the brain‘s dominant neuromodulatory systems, bombardment of the
visual cortex with bursts of PGO activity, increases in limbic system activity, and a
reduction of activity in the prefrontal regions.
INTRODUCTION
The screen of our moment-to-moment experience changes continuously throughout the
day and night. A steady stream of thoughts visits us, while our moods ebb and flow like tides,
and memories pass through our awareness, often to vanish again leaving only the residue of
the emotions that originally clothed them.
44 Allan Combs and Stanley Krippner
During sleep our experiences range from the verbal musings that travel with us into the
first layers of slumber to the vivid and emotionally charged events that suffuse our dream life
during the wee hours of the morning. Beginning in the 1950s with the remarkable discovery
of the association of rapid eye movements (REM) with dreaming, researchers and writers on
sleep have often taken it for granted that REM sleep and dreaming are synonymous. As many
investigations have shown, however, this is not the case. Even though virtually all instances
of REM sleep are accompanied by dreams, dream episodes also occur during non-REM
(NREM) sleep, sometimes with an intensity equal to dreams experienced during REM
activity (e.g., Cavallero et al., 1992; Molinari & Foulkes, 1969). There do, in fact, appear to
be some general differences in the dreams experienced during these two types of sleep, to
which we will return later. In the meantime, let us review some of the common aspects of
conscious experience in both waking reality and dreaming, and their underpinnings in terms
of brain processes.
THE FABRIC OF EXPERIENCE, THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS

William Domhoff (2003) has presented an elegant neurocognitive model of dreaming,
demonstrating that dreaming is developmental in nature and that dream content is basically
coherent, consistent, and continuous with waking concerns. Indeed, the many cognitive and
emotional strands that comprise our mental lives form ever-changing process braids, even
entire flowing fabrics of experience that animate each moment of our lives (e.g., Domhoff,
2003). Emotions such as joy or sadness combine with cheerful or downcast thoughts and
happy or unhappy memories from the past to create moods in which we feel elevated and
joyful or downhearted and depressed. In the first instance, we find other people and the world
in which we live uplifting and hopeful, while in the second, our entire sensibility retreats into
darkness. Could we know the actual chemical makeup of our bodies during these two
distinctively different states, especially the hormonal constituents of our blood streams and
the neurochemistry of our nervous systems, we would find them to be different in significant
ways. The point is that each of our moods, each of our states of mind – or more accurately
states of mindbody – is comprised of arrays of mental and physical elements such as thoughts,
feelings, and memories, as well as hormones and neurochemicals that combine to create a
consistent state of body and mind (Combs & Krippner, 1998).
Thoughts, memories, and emotions, as well as other components of our conscious
experience, are processes that ebb and flow from moment to moment, hour to hour, and day
to day. Research at one of the authors‘ laboratories, for example, found that the tides of our
emotions follow something like a chaotic rhythm (Combs, Winkler, & Daley, 1994). In
nontechnical terms this means that, over the course of a day, positive and negative emotions
come and go in a fashion that forms a pattern unique to each individual. One person is up
early in the morning feeling elated at the start of a new day, only to lose energy and become
less enthusiastic by mid-day, and then to experience another peak early in the evening.
Another starts the morning slowly, feeling depressed and sluggish, but feels much better by
late morning. By late afternoon she becomes groggy and depressed again, but finishes with a
burst of energy and enthusiasm in the late evening. Such patterns, different for each
individual, fluctuate from day to day, making it impossible to predict precisely how a
Daylife, Dreamlife and Chaos Theory 45
particular person will feel, say, next Friday morning at 11:00 a.m. This quality of
unpredictability, coupled with a globally identifiable individual pattern, is typical of chaotic
systems, from the weather to the stock market, and is found at all levels in living organisms
(e.g., Kauffman, 1993). There is good reason to believe that the brain itself is such a system,
and considerable evidence supports the idea that its many patterns, ranging from the long
metabolic cycles that mark our circadian rhythms to the rapid oscillations of the
electroencephalogram, are essentially chaotic in form (e.g., Korn & Faure, 2001, 2003).
Interestingly, over a century ago, William James observed that it is the uniqueness of each
person‘s typical pattern of brain activity that defines his or her own particular personality
(James, 1890/1981).
Each state of mindbody has within itself a high degree of consistency (Combs &
Krippner, 1998). For instance, one does not feel joy while entertaining unhappy and forlorn
memories of past defeats and failures, nor is one overcome with the excitement of intense
curiosity while experiencing feelings of ennui. There is coherence to our inner lives. Indeed,
as we have labored to show elsewhere (e.g., Combs, 2009, Krippner, 1994), the various
elements that make up our moment-to-moment states of mindbody actively conspire to
support each other in common fabrics of experience. Feelings of joy give rise to optimistic
thoughts and joyful memories, while feelings of depression and defeat elicit equally unhappy
and defeatist thoughts and memories.
DAYLIFE AND NIGHTLIFE

We experience many states of mindbody during an ordinary waking day. Our night lives
of sleep, on the other hand, are quite different, because consciousness is turned away from the
outer world of the senses. Stimulation such as sound and sight is actively blocked from
reaching higher brain centers during REM sleep and seems to have relatively little access
even during NREM sleep. When people are awakened from REM sleep, they usually report
vivid dream experiences, often involving physical activity, visual imagery, and sound. When
they are awakened during NREM sleep, they sometimes report more or less rambling verbal
ruminations during which there is little or no self-awareness (Hartmann, 1999). At other
times, however, they report dream experiences that range in vividness but can rival the
intensity of dreams experienced in REM sleep (Pivik, 1991). It seems that the boundary
between dreaming and drifting nighttime ruminations may be more arbitrary than real
(Domhoff, 2003). Indeed, it appears doubtful whether there is any time during the night when
consciousness is utterly absent. (Here we view consciousness as a hypothetical construct that
refers to the overall pattern of an organism‘s neural activity – principally perception,
cognition, and affect -- at any given point of time; awareness, memory, emotion, etc., are
subsystems of consciousness.)
One thing that seems certain from many studies of dreams is that, while the verbal
ruminations that visit sleep may be relatively non-dramatic, the range of experiences that can
visit our dreaming minds is surprisingly large (Krippner, Bogzaran, & de Carvalho, 2002).
Nevertheless, the most common variety of dream experience has much in common with
ordinary wakefulness, at least at first glance. The typical dream landscape is comprised of
visual objects, including other people, as well as sounds and speech (Hall & Van de Castle,
1966). In other words, the sensory texture of most dreams is not dramatically unlike that of
our waking experience. On closer inspection, of course, differences emerge. Color may be
partially or entirely absent, a fact of which the dreamer usually takes little notice. One‘s
physical body may be hardly present at all. It is rare, for example, to have an itch, headache,
or empty stomach in a dream. We engage in little self-reflection, which helps account for why
we rarely notice that our objective sense of self may not be continuous, and also why we so
rarely notice the fact that we are dreaming. And, of course, people, objects, and whole
physical scenes come and go in a fashion that makes little sense in terms of waking reality
and the world of daytime life. Though not always the case, dreams are often saturated with an
emotional intensity beyond what we are used to during wakefulness (Hartmann, 1999). Such
emotions are frequently of an unpleasant character, such as sadness or fear. Some of the
characteristics of the sleeping brain that help account for these aspects of typical dream
experiences are explored later. Let us note before proceeding, however, that the essential
features of dream experience are usually not strikingly different from those of waking life.
Emotions, thoughts, memories (sometimes inaccurate by waking standards), and perceptions
ebb and flow in ways not at all unlike wakefulness. Indeed, we dream in the same universe in
which we live during wakefulness.
THE PHANTASMAGORIC LIFE OF DREAMS

Though the elements that comprise dreaming and waking experiences are essentially the
same, dreaming consciousness provides an ever-changing liquid screen on which these
elements display themselves. An apt metaphor is a screen that can be adjusted for brightness,
for color (even the presence or absence of color), for loudness, and for size. In most dreams,
for instance, our sense of vision plays a prominent role in comparison to other senses.
Occasionally, however, sound and even music dominate the dream experience. More than a
few works of music have reportedly been transcribed more or less directly from dreams.
These include Alan Hovhaness's rich orchestral suite, Mysterious Mountain, and Giuseppe
Tartini‘s delightful Devil's Sonata. In some dreams our whole experiential landscape is
suffused with light or with darkness. And sometimes dream characters become powerful and
mysterious sources of delight or dread. We may experience intense feelings of joy or sadness,
or even uncontrollable laughter. In dreams our self-identity can be different from that in
waking life. We can be older or younger, or even of the opposite gender. We may experience
whole landscapes that are alien in appearance but strangely familiar. And we may believe we
have actually wakened into an unfamiliar room, only to discover later that we were still
dreaming. We might even experience a condition without any sense of a body or a physical
world at all.
DREAMING STATES OF CONSCIOUSNESS

When the basic elements of our conscious experience are so dramatically re-configured
that they present to us a wholly different fabric of reality, we can legitimately speak of
alternate states of consciousness (Combs, 2009). Certain drugs such as marijuana and LSD
perform such rearrangements, as do some techniques of meditation and shamanic training

(Krippner, 1994). What we would like to point out here is that, while the average nightly
dream probably qualifies as a distinct alternate state of consciousness, dreams taken as a
collection offer a wider panorama of experiences than can be contained within any single
state. For this reason we prefer to think of dream consciousness as a doorway out of the
consensual reality of waking life and into a whole range of other alternative states.
Here we might speak of different classes of dreams. For instance, Carl Jung (1959)
identified big dreams, which he characterized as carrying important communications from the
collective unconscious. Such dreams are often more intense than ordinary dreams and usually
shorter, but they may carry a profound message. In a similar vein, the Buddhist Dzog Chen
tradition identifies dreams of clarity (Norbu, 1992). These are said to occur with increasing
frequency as the cleansing of the personality progresses through spiritual practice. Such
dreams, which may be visionary or premonitory, are thought to reflect the infinite potential of
human nature. Certain dreams seem to carry us partially or completely into alternative states
of consciousness that we might or might not have experienced in the past. Charles Tart (1969)
identified a unique type of dream that he termed the high dream, in which the dreamer re-
experiences a state of consciousness originally elicited by a psychedelic drug such as LSD.
Other dreams may create transcendent states of consciousness. The numinous power of such
transcendent dreams can be dramatic, and they can sometimes carry the dreamer into
complete experiential landscapes. For example, one of the present writers once experienced a
wonderfully luminous state of consciousness in a dream that seemed to be triggered by an
ongoing Taoist meditative practice. Afterwards, he awakened into a headache brought on by
too much wine the night before, as if to emphasize the power of dreams over even the
neurochemistry of the brain. One category of dream that has received much attention is the
lucid dream, in which the dreamer is actively aware of dreaming and sometimes exercises a
degree of control over the dream events (LaBerge, 1985).
It must be admitted that we are far from understanding the amazing range of dream
experiences in terms of the brain and its activities. On the other hand, considerable knowledge
has been gained in recent years about the role of the brain in ordinary dreaming, knowledge
that is interesting and useful in terms of understanding dreams and the brain.
THE DREAMING BRAIN

Since much of the research on dreaming has been carried out under the assumption that
dreams and REM sleep are synonymous, most of what we know about the dreaming brain
applies specifically to the REM state. This is not entirely undesirable, because in REM sleep
the brain seems to be in a relatively stable configuration that has been amenable to careful
investigation. The results have given us a clear picture of many of the aspects of the brain in
REM sleep from which we can better understand the characteristics of ordinary dreams.
To begin with, during REM sleep the brain actively inhibits most sensory input, as noted
earlier. It also blocks the motor output from the higher centers of the brain. Thus, we do not
act out our dreams, even though the cortical motor centers actually issue commands to the
muscles. Only those commands that are sent to the extremities, that is, to the fingers and toes,
ordinarily get through, as do those to the eyes. The latter commands result in the rapid eye
movements for which REM sleep was named. These movements, easily seen in dogs – which
seem to sleep with their eyes half opened – are actually not especially ―rapid.‖ The name was
originally selected to distinguish them from the large, vertical, slow eye roll that occurs under
the eyelids at the moment a person drifts off to sleep. It is speculated that REMs sometimes
follow dream gazes, or the movement of the eyes in dreams, though it is doubtful that they
usually do so. In fact, their presence is highly correlated with bursts (or ―waves‖) of large and
seemingly random ―spikes‖ of neuronal activity that originate in the pons of the lower
brainstem and travel upwards to the visual regions of the thalamus (the lateral geniculate
bodies), from where they proceed to the occipital lobes of the cortex (the primary visual
cortex). These are called pontine-geniculate-occipital (PGO) waves, and they play an
important role in a widely respected modern theory of the dreaming brain, originally proposed
in 1977 by Allan Hobson and his research group at Harvard (Hobson & McCarley, 1977).
First titled the activation-synthesis hypothesis, the theory proposed that the arrival of this
irregular PGO activity at the occipital lobe serves as a powerful unstructured stimulus in
which the sleeping brain seeks for meaning, finding it in the creation of the images that we
experience as dreams. Hobson‘s (2005) later title, the activating-information-modulating
model, reflected his team‘s further understanding of information processing and modulation
in both REM and non-REM sleep.
Hobson‘s view had in its favor the fact that the timing of PGO waves is both irregular
and globally (though not precisely) correlated with REM activity. It also helped put into
perspective the fact that PGO waves actually seem to be more fundamentally biological than
REM activity. For example, animals compensate for lost PGO activity more precisely than
they compensate for lost REM time (Dement, Ferguson, Cohn, & Barchas, 1969). At least
one "primitive" mammal, the echidna (spiny anteater), exhibits periods of PGO activity in the
brainstem during sleep while showing no cortical REM (Siegel et al., 1996). The main
problem with Hobson‘s approach from the psychological point of view, however, was that it
put dream activity under the control of the seemingly random PGO bombardment arising
from the oldest and lowest levels of the brain. Hobson was well aware of this and, indeed,
much of the history of brain research on dreaming during the past 50 years has been a story of
the relegation of psychological notions about the meaning of dreams to the biological junk
pile. In fact, the reductionist aspect of understanding dreams implicit in the activation-
synthesis hypothesis no doubt played more than a small role in its immediate and widespread
acceptance by the neuroscience community.
Hobson, however, is a gifted researcher, who has always been creative and open-minded.
He observed that the contents of dreams often seem to reflect the experiences and concerns of
waking life, and suggested that Jung‘s approach to the meaning of dreams as transparent is
closer to the mark than Freud‘s notion that they harbor hidden or latent meanings. In 1993 he
and his colleague David Kahn published an exploration of the idea that dream experiences
are, in part, a product of self-organizing tendencies in the brain during REM sleep (Kahn &
Hobson, 1993). This idea moves beyond the notion of dreams as simply the result of random
brain events, but does not yet articulate the actual dynamics that might lend intelligence to the
dreaming. The present authors have worked with Kahn to develop a more detailed
understanding of the brain‘s dream process, one that spans the old chasm between the
neurobiology of dreaming and the study of the psychological meaning of dreams themselves
(Kahn, Combs, & Krippner, 1998).
DREAMING AND NEURAL SELF-ORGANIZATION

The basic idea in the above work was that the dreaming brain ―relaxes‖ into natural
patterns of self-organized activity that often, though not always reflect the residual moods,
stresses, and concerns of waking life. To understand this concept, recall that during dreaming
the brain is immersed in something like a sensory isolation tank and cut off from the powerful
patterning influences of external sensory input. In this situation, patterns of brain activity can
relax into forms that are contingent only upon internal conditions. Consider, for instance,
what happens when sand is dropped onto a vibrating surface, like a drumhead or orchestral
cymbal. It dances about, slowly forming complex patterns that are characteristic of the
physical dynamics of the vibrating surface beneath. Such patterns have been used to study the
resonance properties of instruments such as violins. In chaos theory, the pattern created by the
vibrating sand is termed an attractor, because it is the configuration toward which the system
of the sand on the vibrating surface is naturally drawn. Attractors can also be seen in fluid
systems, such as the complex patterns of ripples that appear in water flowing over and around
stones in streams. One can disrupt such a pattern by dipping a hand into the water and
disrupting the current, but unless the rocks themselves are moved it will quickly reestablish
itself when the hand is removed. The idea here is that the complex electrochemical activity of
the brain during dream sleep likewise finds its own inherent configurations. These
configurations are not fixed, however, as is the case with water flowing over stones, but result
from the moment-to-moment dispositions of the brain itself.
In this view the patterns of activity that unfold over time in our dreaming brains are
experienced by us as the narratives that play themselves out in our dreams (Kahn, Krippner,
& Combs, 2002). The role played by PGO activity in the REM dreaming brain is like that of
the drummer or the violinist, that is, it sets the system into vibration and keeps it there.
Something like this happens to breakfast cereal, which settles down in the box as it is tossed
about during shipping. There are many possible configurations that the flakes of cereal might
take in relationship to each other in the box, but as the whole container shakes they are
bounced about, moving around so that in a sense they find increasingly comfortable or
efficient positions with respect to each other. One can imagine an analogous process in the
dreaming brain, in which the driving stimulation of the PGO waves, each carrying with it
powerful cholinergic stimulation to the cortex, keeps the brain on the move, shaking it down
again and again toward relaxed configurations. In line with this way of thinking, Mamelak
and Hobson (1989) have suggested that PGO stimulation is tied to the high rate of narrative
or plot shifts experienced during REM dreaming. Such shifts are significantly more frequent
in REM dreaming than during dreaming reported from slow wave sleep and seem essential to
the ―bizarreness‖ of REM dreams (Hobson, 2004; Porte & Hobson, 1986).
One of the major contributions of Hobson and his group was the discovery that during
REM sleep the brain shifts away from widespread inhibition, which characterizes waking
activity because of the dominance of aminergic neurochemicals (serotonin and
norepinephrine). With the onset of sleep the brain comes under the influence of the
cholinergic neurochemical acetylcholine, which predisposes it to easy activation (Hobson,
2004). In other words, activity in the REM dreaming brain is less viscous and more mercurial
than in the waking brain, allowing it to move easily into residual patterns left by the moods
and concerns of waking life. Such fluidity would also enlarge the attractors through which
brain activity flows, effectively allowing easier connections to be made between feelings,
memories, and the productions of the imagination, all of which is to say that our dream
experience is open to greater novelty and creativity than is our waking experience. A similar
idea is suggested by Ernest Hartmann (1999), who noted that during dreaming the neural
networks comprising the working circuitry of the brain are less constrained by daytime reality
and more open to novel connections. The extent of agreement between Hartmann‘s approach
and our own is witnessed by the fact that the formal analysis of activity patterns in complex
neural networks like those found in the brain are often carried out in terms of attractors.
BRAIN IMAGING OF REM SLEEP

Modern brain imaging studies has provided some valuable insights into the nature of the
sleeping brain. It turns out that one important aspect of the brain during REM sleep is a
significant reduction in the activity of the prefrontal cortex (Braun et al., 1998; Maquet et al.,
1996). This region of the brain is important for a number of higher mental abilities on which
we rely during wakefulness, including our working memory, which is the ability to keep
important facts in mind while we carry out a task. Examples of working memory include
knowing where you put the measuring cup while you are cooking, what you need to get at the
grocery, or where you left your hat and coat when you first arrived at a party. With a reduced
working memory during dreaming, it is not surprising that we find the abrupt transitions in
plot and location less surprising than we would during waking life. The prefrontal cortex also
plays an important role in making plans for the future. People with brain damage to this area
often seem listless and without direction, in part because they simply do not think about what
lies ahead. In dreaming we likewise think little about the future, simply going along with the
dream narrative without question. Like riding a roller coaster, we are passive passengers of
our dreams. The prefrontal lobe may also play an important role in maintaining our sense of
self-identity, and particularly our ability for self-reflection. With these abilities off-line during
dreaming, we have little ability to reflect on our situation or even notice the strangeness of the
events we are experiencing.
Recorded images of the sleeping brain during REM show that, unlike the prefrontal
cortex, portions of the old mammalian brain, or limbic system, located in the core of the
forebrain, are highly active (Braun et al., 1998; Maquet et al., 1996). These structures are
associated with the emotions, which makes perfect sense given the fact that dreams are high
in emotional content. The limbic system is far from well understood, however, and research
continues to disclose new aspects of its operations. Carl Anderson, for instance, has explored
the idea that the right and left amygdaloid complexes of the limbic system are key structures
for cataloguing emotional memories, and that PGO activity shared between them in REM
sleep helps balance the activation of such memories in order to keep the brain from getting
stuck in particular attractor patterns such as depression or anxiety (Anderson, 1998).
For interest‘s sake we might also mention that images of the sleeping brain during REM
show increased activity in the anterior cingulate cortex and the right parietal lobe, both
associated with the regulation of attention (Braun et al., 1998). There also seems to be a
lowered level of activity in the primary visual cortex of the occipital lobe compared to that
seen during waking visual activity; at the same time, there may be a relatively robust
activation of the adjacent (parastriate) regions, which are involved in processing visual
images and which, according to some researchers, are central to the conscious experience of
vision (Koch, 1998).
SUBTLE INFLUENCES IN CHAOTIC SYSTEMS

There are two important aspects of the behavior of complex systems such as the human
brain during sleep that can make them sensitive to subtle influences. First, we might cite
systems that reside in chaotic or near-chaotic states – systems such as the weather, the stock
market, the metabolism of a living cell, and the brain (Freeman, 2005). These systems are
highly sensitive to tiny variations in initial conditions, colorfully referred to as the butterfly
effect. This means that very small alterations in the present state of such a system can lead to
surprisingly large variations in its future states; thus a grain of sand embedded in the living
tissue of an oyster can in time produce a pearl, and the rumor of a bank failure in Argentina
can send cascading ripples through the world‘s financial markets. There seems little doubt
that the human brain, with its many chaotic and chaotic-like patterns of activity, is subject to
the butterfly effect.
Second, under certain circumstances, the introduction of noise (chaotic or not) into a
system can cause it to respond to signals so small that it would not otherwise be affected by
them. Known as stochastic resonance, this seemingly paradoxical effect has been
demonstrated in electronic circuits as well as in nerve cells (Moss & Wiesenfeld, 1995). It
results from the fact that the presence of noise, or vibration, keeps the system in motion and
following the signal, rather than allowing it to become stuck. This is an active instance of the
relaxing of a system that is exposed to vibration, as described previously. For instance,
objects on a vibrating table top are sometimes seen to ―walk‖ about, as if moving of their own
volition, especially if the table is not level. In fact, they are following the line of least
resistance down the slope of the surface, ordinarily not available to them because of friction
with the top of the table. Here we might well imagine that the arrival of PGO waves has a
similar effect of the higher cortical regions of the brain during REM sleep, causing activity
there to ―slide‖ in the direction of least resistance.
What does this all mean specifically in terms of dreams? To begin with, it means that
subtle, barely noticed emotional residues, or signals, from the past day‘s experience may
return during the night‘s dream. A face glimpsed in a crowd, a half-seen photograph in a store
window, the passing mention of a familiar name in a hurried conversation, memories flowing
through the mind but noticed only momentarily, all these return to the stage of dreaming
consciousness to play out their roles, to clothe the characters acting there, or to color the set
on which the dream‘s play is enacted. Sigmund Freud (1900/1955) was the first great dream
researcher to notice the extent to which such subtle, even unnoticed, aspects of the day‘s
experience influence the dreams of the following night. Carl Jung (1983), in a different vein,
observed that important but unnoticed background aspects of our experience – the feeling
tone of a relationship, the hint of sarcasm in a lover‘s voice, the tincture of sadness in a letter
from an old friend – return to our dreams right out in the foreground, as if our dream world
were formed by taking the experience of the day and turning it inside out. Or, as neo-Jungian
James Hillman (1979) once noted, it is as if the dream world were like the underworld of
ancient Egypt, with everything upside down, the inhabitants walking on their heads, even
eating through their anuses and defecating through their mouths.
DREAMS AND PSI

There certainly has been enough scientific evidence, to say nothing of personal anecdotal
accounts, to associate dreams with psi receptivity (i.e., anomalous organism-environment and
organism-organism interactions). Much of this evidence focuses specifically on the
receptivity of dreams to telepathic communication (Roe et al., 2007; Ullman, Krippner, &
Vaughn, 1989). Experiments show, for instance, that images described by dreamers are often
influenced by pictures viewed by ―senders‖ observing them at a distant location under
rigorously controlled conditions. In one typical example, the participant dreamed of ―being
with a group of people, participating in something … looking at a lot of mountains and trees
… sort of primitive aspect … of tribal ritual in a jungle.‖ This occurred while the sender was
concentrating on a randomly selected art print portraying a night-time ritual in a forest glade
surrounded by mountains. The dream reports were sent along with the art prints to outside
judges who matched them, the unused pictures serving as controls (Krippner, 1991). In fact,
one of the present authors spent a decade directing the Dream Laboratory at Maimonides
Medical Center in New York, where numerous studies were carried out on dreams and psi.
Scientists have no final answers, only vague and partially formed ideas about what kinds
of influence might be shared by people at a distance. Whatever they are, it seems clear that
they are subtle, involving little or no physical energy. Biologist Rupert Sheldrake (1981) has
explored the idea that gentle formative forces might play an important but unseen role at
many levels in nature. Such forces, which he terms morphic fields, are a prime candidate for
whatever it is that makes dream telepathy possible. A closely related notion of unseen forces
is Ervin Laszlo‘s (1996) psi-field hypothesis, which refers to a subtle but exquisitely complex
formative process rooted in the quantum vacuum fields at the finest level of physical reality.
It seems, from informal observation, that so-called ―paranormal‖ events in dreams are not
infrequently associated with the appearance of what Jung called archetypes (1965).
According to him, the deeper levels of the psyche contain ―archetypal‖ or generic images.
Some of the archetypal images Jung observed over the years were wise old men and women,
compelling healers, and mandalas, or squared circles. Each archetypal image was thought to
have negative as well as positive aspects; thus the reverse of the benevolent deity is the
wrathful god or the avenging goddess, while the opposite of the healer is the charlatan. The
dual nature of archetypes is well illustrated by the ―trickster,‖ an archetype that supposedly
represents human consciousness itself, simultaneously wise and foolish, imbued with self-
deception yet with the capacity and knowledge by which human creativity manifests itself.
Jung believed that archetypes are rooted in the deepest level of existence, where the
psyche and the physical world are united. In this connection he used the medieval phrase,
unus mundus, or ―one world.‖ Archetypes, in short, may be expressed in both the mental and
physical realms, as is the case with ―synchronistic‖ events. Perhaps the best known such event
was the appearance of a close relative of the Egyptian scarab beetle (an archetypal symbol of
transformation) at the window of Jung‘s own study just as his client was reporting a dream of
just such a beetle (Jung, 1973). The point here is that events that involve the influence of
archetypes, events such as synchronicities and dream telepathy, seem rooted at the very base
of the world where mind and matter come together. Certainly the quantum vacuum field is an
excellent candidate for such a unified level of reality, at least at our present level of scientific
knowledge.
We note in passing that Laszlo‘s ideas were greatly influenced by quantum physicist
David Bohm‘s (1980) conception of a holographic universe, one in which both mind and
matter flow from a deeper unified implicate order of reality. Dream researcher Montague
Ullman (1999) specifically evoked Bohm‘s theory for understanding putative telepathic
experiences in dreams as well as the appearance of possible precognitive dream material. In
Bohm‘s conception both space and time are enfolded together, undifferentiated in the
implicate order. Dreams somehow take advantage of this situation, allowing access to events
physically distant from the dreamer or even to the future. Laszlo‘s vacuum field hypothesis
can likewise be called upon to account for how events in the dreaming brain might be
influenced by events at a distance in space or time. The important idea here, however, is that,
whatever their source, it is not unreasonable to suspect that behind both dream telepathy and
the appearance of archetypes in dreams lie exquisitely subtle influences, too minute to
influence the waking brain.
CONCLUSION
A number of studies have compared dream reports from REM sleep with those from
NREM sleep. For the most part, these have found the differences to be surprisingly small.
Some failed to find any differences at all. One drawback for many of these investigations,
however, is that they do not specify which of the four commonly recognized stages of NREM
sleep were involved. Since REM sleep is a readily recognizable and increasingly well
understood state, it would be most helpful to compare dreams produced in it with those that
occur in specific stages of NREM sleep. The first stage of the latter is the transition from
wakefulness, in which our minds often drift through increasingly unstructured ruminations of
a mostly verbal nature. The second is a light sleep of the kind one slips into during brief naps;
it often is the host to more or less stationary ―hypnagogic‖ images, which may become more
dynamic and dreamlike if we move from this state directly into dreaming (Hartmann, 1999).
The third stage is sleep of intermediate depth, one in which body movements such as rolling
about in the bed may take place. The fourth and final stage is the deepest NREM sleep, where
the entire body is quiet and relaxed. We spend only about an hour and a half or so in this
stage during an average night, and most of this is scattered into several episodes during the
first half of the sleep cycle. REM sleep, in contrast, occurs in episodes that become longer
during the second half of the night, lasting as much as half an hour to 45 minutes in the wee
hours of the morning.
In fact, we know relatively little about how dreams experienced during NREM sleep
differ from one stage to another, or, indeed, whether we dream at all, say, in stage 4. For this
reason, we must simply make overall comparisons between NREM and REM dreams. Getting
beyond the noteworthy fact that REM and NREM dreams are so similar, it seems to be the
case that REM dream images are, on the whole, more vivid than NREM images. Whether this
greater sensory intensity of REM dreams generalizes from the visual dimension to auditory or
other sensory modes is not known. Moreover, it is not known whether it might be due solely
to the active blocking of external sensory input associated with REM sleep, thus increasing
the vividness of dream sensations as a kind of contrast effect, or if some other dynamic comes
into play during this period.
Another, and perhaps more salient, difference between REM and NREM dreams, is the
previously mentioned tendency of the former to exhibit frequent and abrupt transitions in plot,
character, and landscape. We believe this is due to the frequent bursts of PGO spikes that
arrive at the visual cortex during REM sleep, shaking it about, as it were. In passing, we also
point out that the activation of the limbic system during the REM state strongly suggests a
greater presence of emotion in REM sleep dreams, though dream reports have so far only
hinted at this possibility.
As a first step toward understanding the differences between REM and NREM dreaming
in terms of the brain we offer a simple hypothesis: it is that we dream much of the time during
all but the most superficial stage of NREM sleep, while differences between REM and
NREM dreams, insomuch as they reliably exist, must be chalked up to the unique activity
state of the brain during REM sleep.
Since dreams are more frequently reported after awakening from REM sleep than from
NREM sleep, we must suppose that the former is a better medium for dreaming than the
latter. REM sleep itself, as Hobson and others have pointed out, seems to be a biological
imperative, which takes place for its own reasons. At this time, we do not know what these
reasons are, having only a few clues, one of which is the fact that different stages of sleep
seem to play active roles in memory consolidation and formation (Rasch & Born, 2008). The
importance of REM sleep in this process has been demonstrated in research with both human
beings and other animals (Shiffrin & Steyvers, 1997). In a related vein, Anderson‘s
suggestion, cited earlier, that activity in the limbic system during REM sleep might play a
significant role in the balancing of emotionally labeled memories is attractive from a
psychological point of view, pointing to the truth in Shakespeare‘s words that sleep does
―mend the raveled sleeve of care.‖ Another clue is the fact that, when newborn infants come
into the world, they spend, on the average, half their lives asleep and roughly half of that
sleep time in REM sleep. Here it seems likely that REM sleep may play some vital role in
neurological development, perhaps providing the needed stimulation for neurological
connections to be made in the newly forming brain. REM activity might similarly aid in
maintaining vitality in the adult brain, although only about 20% of the night‘s sleep is
occupied by REM sleep.
Before we can fully understand the role of dreaming in psychological processes such as
emotion and memory, and in neurological processes such as the formation of neural
connections in the infant and adult brain, we must first untangle the relative contributions of
dreaming itself from the influences of biological PGO activity. This suggests several lines of
research, including investigations of the role of PGO activity in the spiny anteater and other
animals that might produce PGO bursts even in the absence of cortical REM activity. They
also include investigations of the influences of NREM dreams on processes such as emotion
and memory.
With all of this in the balance, we offer the suggestion that dreaming and PGO-driven
REM sleep should each be studied as unique events in the brain. It seems that equating the
two is not a valid or productive way of proceeding, as in the past it has led to
misunderstandings which we are now beginning to overcome.
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PART III: APPLICATIONS
Chapter 5
DREAMS AND THE BODY
Stanley Keleman
ABSTRACT1
Dreams arise from our cellular depths and are the ways we speak to ourselves. They
inform us about what is seeking to be embodied in the conscious world of daily living.
Working formatively with our dreams is key to the growth and development of a personal
world.
INTRODUCTION
Dreams are a product of our body process. They generate information about the soma‘s
relationship with itself and about its developmental journey from infancy to adult, from
maturity to aging and fading away. They give us the opportunity to participate in the forming
of the shapes and stages of our evolutionary development.
Dreams are anatomical events, pulsatory signals that are a chemical, electrical, protein-
making process. They become a chain of excitatory communications from the body to the
cortex, from the cortex to the body, and from the cortex to the cortex. A dream is an
anatomical dialogue between the body that is and the body that will be.
The body dreams about itself, its state, and its development (Zwig, 2000). Pictorial and
sensorial images organized by the cortex are signals, communications that permit us to
recognize and respond to our forming process. The dream experience arising from our body
process is a call by the body to reorganize, to give more form and stability to that which
wants to come into existence. Dreams show us the shapes that are seeking to disorganize and
the shapes that are seeking to form.
1
For this chapter I have selected material from the opening talk of my annual program, Dreams and the Body, held
in Berkeley, California, and in Solingen, Germany, in the spring of 2006. In this talk I describe how dreams
reveal our soma‘s innate forming urge and how to use the formative method to participate in the development
of a complex personal body.
66 Stanley Keleman
The dream is a morphing anatomical drama, a dialogue between the brain stem that
regulates our instinctual behavior and the cortex that regulates the voluntary organization of
personal behavior. Waves of excitement reach out from the brainstem through the limbic
system, through the thalamic pathway into the cortex. When these waves arouse the cortex,
the neural pathways that travel within the cortex and back to the muscles and organs are
stimulated. The excitation is highly motile: it swells and peaks, becomes porous and diffuse.
These excitatory states are the soma‘s developmental process seeking stability.
We experience motility and instability of excitation as fleeting images and sensations.
When structure is unstable and porous, we have unstable and porous memories of our dreams.
When structure has more stability, we have enduring memories. If excitation is of high
enough intensity or long enough duration, the growth of new neural tissue will begin, forming
new connections and structures. We give stability to excitation that is fleeting and unstable by
using the formative method of voluntary muscular-cortical effort to give more and less form
to a remembered shape from the dream.
The formative method is based in the developmental evolutionary principle that shapes
change form to incorporate experience. The dream and its figures offer a focus for us to
participate in this universal forming process. The dream figure is a localized, highly motile,
excitatory organization of information that is unstable. When we use voluntary muscular-
cortical effort to organize the muscular shape of a dream figure, we give some stability and
duration to motile excitement and stimulate the cortex to make maps of the motor patterns. By
repeating the effort of increasing and decreasing the muscular intensity of the shape, we are
making layers of differentiation in a larger pattern of behavior and growing more complex
neural maps in the cortex. Anatomical structures are created that become the basis of self-
reference. Practicing the organization of behavior adds layers of complexity to our personal
self. Our internal library of experience is enriched, and we have more choice of behavior and
feeling.
Using voluntary muscular-cortical effort to work with a dream stimulates a brainstem-
muscular-cortical dialogue. This anatomical dialogue gives stability over time to structure and
the ability to voluntarily repeat behavior. There is a difference between having an experience
and being able to repeat an experience. The ability to repeat the organization of a behavior
gives more stability to structure, and it is this stable structure that we recognize as memory.
It is important to remember that the formation of anatomic structure is the organization of
memory. To give stability to transitory excitement is to create new structures and new
memories. Synaptogenesis occurs, creating structures that have never existed before. When
we voluntarily participate in the forming of new anatomical structures, we are at the heart of
the process of self-creation, the forming of our personal somatic self. Over time, we learn to
grow a formative relationship with the adult we inherit, the adult we are living, and the one
we are forming.
WORKING WITH A PERSON AND HIS DREAM

I will briefly illustrate how I use the formative method to work with a person and his or
her dream. The body and its experience are always the reference. I am not interested in
symbolic analogy or meaning. The protocol is to tell the dream in terms of experience rather
Dreams and the Body 67
than pictorial images; to organize the muscular shape of a human figure from the dream; and
then to increase and decrease the intensity of the muscular pattern. I look for transitional
shapes in the dream figures. New form always starts with an ending, because this is the nature
of change. What shape is ending? What shape is seeking more form?
A powerful, dense, mesomorphic person tells a dream in which he is shrinking and
making himself small and impenetrable.
SK: Tell me your dream.

Dreamer: I dream of gathering myself, of compressing myself. In my dream I am silent,
sad, and resigned. I try to be a happy prisoner.
SK: Tell me the dream experience again and organize the muscular shape of your dream
figure.
Dreamer: I am in a compressed silence. I experience myself pressuring myself and
keeping my responses quiet. I am smiling a compressed smile. I am making myself small. It is
familiar, a way to know me.
He shows me the shape of shrinking. He is clenching his fists and jaw; his torso is
narrowed and compressed.
SK: Intensify this shape in three stages, minimum, medium, and maximum. Hold each
stage for a count of 10 then tell me your experience. A person makes a relationship between
what is forming and what is ending by increasing and decreasing the intensity of the shape of
a dream figure.
Dreamer: As I assemble the compression I feel sad, then mad, and finally at the
maximum level I feel resigned. As I disassemble my compression, I feel myself swelling; my
hands and arms are wider apart. I experience this place of less pressuring as a diffuse, porous
shape. It bothers me. I want to compress again. It‘s automatic. Compression gives me a sense
of safety, a sense of me.
SK: I have a suggestion to help you differentiate the experience of compression. Wrap
your hand around a closed fist and increase the pressure in three steps. Notice how you
experience the variations of intensity. Disassemble in three steps. Repeat the sequence slowly
until you notice how your experience spreads from the hands to the arms, to the torso, and
finally to the brain.
Using the hands to experience compression evokes the general principle that a localized
expression influences the whole pattern. When a person learns to use the hand and the fist to
influence a local pattern of compression, this experience can be transferred to the whole body.
Dreamer: When I undo the compression there is softening, my hands are cupped, and I
sense this is a gathering, containing gesture.
SK: Keep this shape of gathering and containing; stiffen it a tiny bit with micro-muscular
rigidity. This gives firmness to the act of containing and minimizes the act of compression.
Begin to use micro increments of muscular rigidity to make each step distinct, to minimize
the urge to automatically engage compression. Notice the effort to sustain the distinct shape
of containing. If you experience the urge to compress, intensify the compression a little bit,
and then disassemble it. This gives density a porous layer.
Dreamer: I have a different experience of density when I follow your instructions.
Changing the intensity of my density gives me choices. When I use my maximum, medium,
and minimum effort, it helps me feel myself. If the disassembling shape is too porous or
diffuse, it bothers me. When I give it some firmness, it pulses and I can contain it. Feeling
68 Stanley Keleman
this pulse fills me with myself. Knowing I can repeat the undoing of the compression and
contain the porous shape gives me confidence that this personal me has duration. I contain a
different me. I feel happy. I could get used to this.
CONCLUSION
Using the formative method with dreams is a practical application of Darwin‘s
conception of developmental evolution, which illustrates how organic life changes shape to
embody its experiences over time. Throughout our lifetime, we are continuously changing
shape according to an inherited plan. The ability to influence our inherited body and to grow a
personal body is the gift of the human cortex. From the body comes the dream. From the
body comes the ability to use muscle and cortex. Using voluntary muscular-cortical effort to
influence our inherited body is how our soma participates in its universal and individual
forming process to create shapes and behaviors that have not existed before. With practice
and commitment we can learn the skills of living and personalizing the cycles of our
embodiment with vitality and emotional truth.
REFERENCES
Zwig, A. (1990). A body-oriented approach to dreamwork. In S. Krippner (Ed.), Dreamtime
and dreamwork: Decoding the language of the night (pp. 78-86). Los Angeles: Jeremy P.
Tarcher.
Chapter 6
WORKING WITH DREAMS: A COGNITIVE-

EXPERIENTIAL MODEL
Clara E. Hill and Aaron B. Rochlen
ABSTRACT
We have developed a cognitive-experiential model of dream work based on our
conviction that both understanding the dream and becoming affectively involved in the
experience of the dream are important elements of achieving a worthwhile outcome from
working with dreams. Doing dream work ourselves, training others to do dream work,
and investigating the process and outcome of dreaming have resulted in a feedback loop
that has enabled us to create a model designed to be relatively simply and teachable. Our
evidence suggests that dream work can be used in counseling, psychotherapy, and
perhaps in self-help as well.
INTRODUCTION
Although dreams have influenced people for centuries, their meanings and precise
relevance to our waking lives have frequently remained mysterious. Therapists have faced
similar challenges in terms of how best to work with rich dream material. Theorists (Freud,
Jung, Adler, Perls, Ullman, and others), who have provided convincing case studies of the
insights gained from their experience, have made suggestions for working with dreams, but
their precise methods of dream interpretation are often vague and difficult to apply or teach to
therapists and the general public.
Confronting the challenge of translating abstract dream concepts to a practical model that
can be widely applied and evaluated, we developed a cognitive-experiential model of dream
work (see also Hill, 1996; 2004a). The ―cognitive-experiential‖ label is based on our
conviction that both understanding the dream and becoming affectively involved in the
experience of the dream are important elements of achieving a worthwhile outcome from
working with dreams.
72 Clara E. Hill and Aaron B. Rochlen
The model was developed primarily by incorporating the strengths of existing models
into an overall sequence that makes sense based on a problem-solving approach. We then
used the model to train both therapists-in-training and practicing therapists in how to do
dream work (Crook, 2004). To enable us to teach the model, we developed a manual (Hill,
1996, 2004a) that provided great detail about what therapists should do at each step in the
process, as well as an explanation of the theoretical underpinnings. The latter was designed to
enable therapists, first, to engage in the process without becoming bogged down in trying to
adhere too rigidly to each step, and, second, to modify the approach to fit the needs of
individual clients. Based on the feedback from our research studies (see Hill & Goates, 2004),
we have further modified and expanded upon the model. Thus, doing dream work ourselves,
training others to do dream work, and investigating the process and outcome of dreaming
have resulted in a feedback loop that has enabled us to create a model designed to be
relatively simple and teachable.
Although developed for use by therapists working with clients‘ dream reports, we have
found in two studies (Heaton, Hill, Petersen, Rochlen, & Zack, 1998; Hill, Rochlen, Zack,
McCready, & Dematatis, 2003) that the model is also effective when used as a self-help
procedure (albeit not as effective as when used by therapists). Hence, we suggest that
individuals can use this model to work on their own dreams, although we do recommend that
individuals seek help from a trained therapist if they cannot figure out how to use the model,
need support or input from another person, become stuck, or feel troubled by what emerges
from their dream work.
Before we present our method for working with dreams, we need to outline some critical
assumptions about dreams. First, we assume that dreams are meaningful experiences that
represent important life experiences as well as conflicts and unresolved issues, thus
warranting reflection and further consideration by individual dreamers. Furthermore, we
assume that dreams are personal and unique to individuals and therefore cannot be understood
using dream dictionaries or standard symbolic interpretations. As a result, in working with
dreams therapeutically, it is important to recognize that the dreamers themselves are the only
ones who can ever truly know the ultimate meaning or significance of their dreams. Input
from others can be valuable, but it is ultimately up to the dreamers to draw conclusions about
the meaning of their dreams.
THE MODEL
The cognitive-experiential model of dream work involves three stages: exploration
(based on client-centered and phenomenological theories), insight (based on psychoanalytic,
particularly Freudian and Jungian approaches and Gestalt theories), and action (based on
behavioral and cognitive theories). Similar integrative approaches have been outlined for
general therapy (e.g., Hill, 2004b).
Working with Dreams: A Cognitive-Experiential Model 73
EXPLORATION STAGE
The exploration stage has two primary objectives. The first is to help dreamers re-enter
the affective experience of their dreams and bring the dreams to life, so that they are more
open to learning from them. A second is to help dreamers begin to explore the individual
images of their dreams so that they can begin to make links to memories and waking-life
triggers.
Thus we first ask the dreamers to retell their dream in the first-person present tense, as if
they are experiencing the dream right now. Ideally, this helps them to re-connect and re-
experience the emotions of the dream as they originally occurred. Next, the dreamers select
approximately four to seven images (based on the detail of the dream and amount of time for
the session) to explore in greater depth. Once the dreamers have selected the images, we use
four steps (Description, Re-experiencing, Association, and Waking-life triggers) to help them
explore these images sequentially. We focus on one single image at a time and explore it
thoroughly (in a time span between 5 to 15 minutes).
In Description, we ask the dreamers to tell us in as much detail as possible about the
image—to verbally paint the picture of it, to allow us to see it as they saw it at the time. More
details about the scene often emerge as they describe the image. With Re-experiencing, we
ask the dreamers to climb back into the feelings and describe what they experienced at the
time when the image appeared during the dream. We ask them not just to identify the
feelings, but to try actually to re-experience the feelings and describe those experiences in the
present moment. With Associations, we ask clients to say the first thing that comes to mind
when they think about the image, and then to describe that association in as much detail as
possible. If the clients get stuck here, we might also ask them for a definition of the object, a
memory related to the image, or any other thoughts about the image. Finally, we ask for
Waking-life triggers, or what might be going on in their current waking life, or in their
waking life at the time of the dream, that might have stimulated this particular image.
For example, with an image of a mountain, the dreamer described it as very high with
jagged snow-capped peaks and not many trees. When he pictured the image of the mountain
in his head, he said that he felt overwhelmed by the grandeur but also a little frightened by the
remoteness of it and the lack of vegetation and people. When asked to associate to it, he
recalled visiting his grandparents in a remote mountain village. He remembered these visits as
unpleasant, because the family was always under considerable pressure to be perfect. Other
associations related to fears of skiing and mountain climbing, a desire to visit Switzerland,
and winter. In terms of waking-life triggers, the client immediately mentioned having
watched a movie the night before about people climbing Mount Everest; he had had a strong
reaction (almost amounting to panic) against ever wanting to do that. He also mentioned an
upcoming trip to see his family for the holidays.
As noted earlier, while most of our research has been done in therapist-client dyads,
preliminary research does suggest that a similar sequence can be followed if working on a
dream by oneself without the help of a therapist. For example, if working on one‘s dream
alone, we recommend reading the recollections of the dream aloud and then writing down
what might be some of the more central or salient dream images to work on with the four
steps. In carrying out this process, it is important for the dreamer to become aware of the
feelings that are aroused during the dream, the re-telling of the dream sequence, and the work
on the images.
INSIGHT STAGE
Once we have amassed sufficient material from the exploration process, we move to the
insight stage. Because dreamers often have some idea of what the dream means based on
previous reflections on the dream and working on the images in the exploration stage, we
recommend beginning the insight stage by simply asking the dreamers to articulate their
current understanding of the dream. In listening to the clients‘ interpretation, the therapist
needs to help them clarify different parts of that interpretation and also ask about elements of
the dream that were missed in the interpretation. Arguably, this may be the stage when it is
most helpful to have a trained professional working with the dream, as it is quite difficult for
dreamers to be aware of aspects of a dream that they are not adequately addressing.
If the dreamers are willing to go further in the interpretation process, they can explore
other ways of interpreting the dream. In our model, we propose that dreams can be interpreted
at multiple levels. First, at the experiential level of interpretation, dreamers can explore what
it meant to have done the things in the dream that they did. For example, if a husband dreams
of having a romantic affair, it may be useful to look at any prior experience of having an
affair and what that was like for him. Given that we all do things in dreams that we might not
do in waking life, this provides the opportunity to learn about what it felt like to do those
things in the dream and what that means about who we are. Second, in the waking-life level of
interpretation, dreamers try to understand the meaning of the dream in terms of what is going
on currently in their waking lives (with explicit reference to whatever is relevant either in
outside activities or in mental activities trying to resolve past events). This level of
interpretation is usually fairly understandable to most people, who readily recognize that
dreams reflect waking life. Third, in the parts-of-self level of interpretation, dreamers
speculate about how the different images represent different aspects of themselves. Given that
we all introject important parts of others into ourselves, parts of dreams can still represent
parts of us. For example, one client had a recurrent dream of trying to drink from a glass that
was constantly spilling and leaking water. Through associating to this image and getting her
to play ―as if‖ she were the glass, it became clear that she saw herself as a person who could
not contain what she was given nor provide for the basic needs of others (since she saw water
as something central to living). Fourth, dreams can be understood in terms of how they relate
to childhood conflicts. Early conflicts, which are often represented in dream images and
stories, become the template through which we view our experiences; thus, they are clearly
valuable to explore. Finally, dreamers might consider a spiritual-existential level of
interpretation, whereby they contemplate how the dream reflects on their concept of the
meaning of life or their relationship with a higher power.
Most dreamers tend naturally toward one or two of the ways of interpreting dreams,
although being encouraged to interpret alternative meanings can sometimes be useful. If
working on the insight stage without a therapist, we recommend keeping track of which
stages you go toward naturally and then challenging yourself to try to use other levels to
understand the dream in new ways.
ACTION STAGE
Once a person has some new understanding of the dream, the next step is to begin to
think about what to do with this new understanding. Although some people spontaneously
move toward thinking about action once they figure out the meaning of the dream, others
have to be more directly encouraged to move in that direction. Over the years, our research
and our clinical experience using the model have convinced us of the importance of this stage
for helping people resolve problems and make positive changes in their lives.
In beginning the action stage, we have found it useful first to have the dreamers consider
how to change the dream. Given that they created the dream, they can alter it. This step is
often fun, as it empowers dreamers to think about change and how their dreams can be useful.
In the case of nightmares, learning how to change them can help dreamers cope better with
the experience and make it less terrifying. Often people have to practice changing nightmares
outside of the sleep state for a considerable period of time before they can begin to change the
nightmare while sleeping (see Cartwright & Lamberg, 1992).
Once dreamers have explored how to change their dream, we ask them to think about
how to translate these changes to waking life (e.g., ―You said that you would like to stop the
elevator from continuously going up and down. I wonder if there is anything in your waking
life that you would like to stop from going up and down.‖). This step reflects the assumption
that the dream mirrors problems in waking life and ideally enables dreamers to consider
precisely what changes they want to make.
Changes in waking life could involve three distinct possibilities. First, clients could make
behavioral changes (e.g., change careers, break up a relationship, quit smoking). If such
changes are readily identified in the action stage, therapists may employ behavioral strategies
such as assertiveness training, relaxation, decision-making, and operant conditioning (see also
Hill, 2004b; Watson & Tharp, 2002) to help the clients implement the changes.
Second, dreamers might want to honor the dream by creating a ritual that will help them
remember insights gained from the dream. Because some dreams do not lead directly to
behavioral changes but are more related to concepts that the dreamers have learned, the idea
of creating and carrying out a ritual related to the dream (e.g., lighting a candle to honor the
memory, setting a paper boat afloat to symbolize letting go of a relationship, putting up a
picture to remind oneself of a commitment) might seem more appropriate or fitting.
Finally, dreamers can be encouraged to continue working on the dream. Perhaps they
would want to go back and explore other images, think about other levels of interpretation, or
consider other action ideas. Since dreams are so rich and multilayered, one could work on
them a number of different times and in different ways. With all these possible types of
action, we stress that our goal is not to force dreamers to make changes in waking life but
rather to encourage them to think about how they might like their lives to be different. We
hope to encourage them to take what they learned from the dream and use it to make their
lives better.
EVIDENCE FOR THE MODEL

In this section, we review a few of the major findings from our research to provide
support for the effectiveness of this model of working with dreams. A more complete
description of the research findings can be found in Hill and Goates (2004).
In terms of outcome, clients do like working with this model. Research has found that
clients rated the depth (quality) of sessions and the working alliance higher than regular
therapy. In addition, clients made gains in terms of insight and action ideas related to the
dreams they discussed. Furthermore, clients made changes in the target problems reflected in
their dreams.
A second set of findings relates to the process of the sessions. In terms of the exploration
stage, clients indicated that they benefited from both the description and association steps. In
the insight stage, they have reported that they benefited from a focus on waking life, parts of
self, spirituality, and relationships. Furthermore, as noted earlier, we found that inclusion of
the action stage is crucial in terms of gains in action ideas and problem solving.
We also found that, of a sample of undergraduate students, about 32% volunteered for
dream sessions but only 19% actually attended a session for which they received no
compensation. These results suggest that not everyone wants to work on dreams. Further
examination revealed that female students were more likely to volunteer than male students.
In addition, those students who had positive attitudes about dreams, were high in a trait called
absorption (e.g., emotionally responsive to sights and sounds, easily becoming absorbed in
imagery), were open to new experiences, and had high dream recall were more likely to
volunteer. Moreover, people with positive attitudes toward dreams seemed to profit from
working with their dreams more than people with negative attitudes, perhaps because the
latter are skeptical of the significance of their dreams.
A final set of findings relates to the contributions of therapists and clients in the process
of dream work. As mentioned earlier, it appeared that clients gained more from dream work
when they worked with therapists than when they worked on their own (although self-help
was also somewhat effective). Moreover, those clients who became more engaged and
involved in the process of the dream session gained more from working with their dreams.
These results provide tentative evidence that dream work is beneficial, especially for
clients who want to work on their dreams. Although more research needs to be conducted,
especially on the effects of dream work within the course of therapy, these results suggest that
dream work can be used in therapy and perhaps in self-help exercises as well.
REFERENCES
Cartwright, R.D., & Lamberg, L. (1993). Crisis dreaming: Using your dreams to solve your
problems. New York: HarperCollins.
Crook, R.E. (2004). Training therapists to work with dreams in therapy. In C.E. Hill (Ed.),
Dream work in therapy: Facilitating exploration, insight, and action (pp. 245-288).
Washington, DC: American Psychological Association.
Heaton, K.J., Hill, C.E., Petersen, D., Rochlen, A.B., & Zack, J. (1998). A comparison of
therapist-facilitated and self-guided dream interpretation sessions. Journal of Counseling
Hill, C.E. (1996). Working with dreams in psychotherapy. New York: Guilford Press.
Hill, C.E. (Ed.).(2004a). Dream work in therapy: Facilitating exploration, insight, and
action. Washington, DC: American Psychological Association.
Hill, C.E. (2004b). Helping skills: Facilitating exploration, insight, and action (2nd ed.).
Hill, C.E., & Goates, M.K. (2004). Research on the Hill cognitive-experiential dream model.
In C.E. Hill (Ed.), Dream work in therapy: Facilitating exploration, insight, and action
(pp. 245-288). Washington, DC: American Psychological Association.
Hill, C.E., Rochlen, A.B., Zack, J.S., McCready, T., & Dematatis, A. (2003). Working with
dreams using the Hill Cognitive-Experiential Model: A comparison of computer-assisted,
therapist empathy, and therapist empathy + input conditions. Journal of Counseling
Watson, D.L., & Tharp, R.G. (2002). Self-directed behavior: Self-modification for personal
adjustment (8th ed.). Belmont, CA: Wadsworth/Thomson Learning.
Chapter 7
USE YOUR DREAM TO BE THE WHOLE NEW PERSON

YOU CAN BE
Alvin R. Mahrer
ABSTRACT
The steps and methods of an experiential session can be used with most dreams to
enable the person to undergo a virtually transformational change, a quantum change into
becoming the whole new person that the person can be. Each session of experiential
dream work can use the dream to help the dreamer become a whole new person in the
course of the session, and following the session. The transformational change can occur
in essentially every session and can last for a few minutes, for a few hours, or forever.
Each session proceeds through a series of steps designed to culminate in the in-session,
transformational shift to the whole new person. The steps and methods are case-
illustrated with verbatim excerpts from a person‘s in-session work with a recent dream.
INTRODUCTION
The purpose of this chapter is to show you how to use a dream so that, in the session and
after the session, you can actually undergo a transformational shift into being the altogether
new person you are capable of being. At least three parts of this purpose are admittedly far-
fetched to newcomers to the field of dream work: (a) starting with a dream, a person can
genuinely undergo a quantum shift into becoming a radically new and different person; (b)
there are methods, described in this chapter, explicitly designed to help accomplish this
wholesale shift in state; (c) this can be accomplished in a single session.
This chapter aims at introducing and clarifying these parts of the purpose so that you can
realistically consider using a dream in this way.
82 Alvin R. Mahrer
What Is the Room Like? Is Anyone with You? How Long Is the Session?
Picture being in a room where you live, or where you can be alone, or where a teacher
and you can be alone together. It is helpful if the room is one where you can make noise,
where you will not hear sounds from outside, and where you are not likely to be interrupted.
If you are inclined, especially in the beginning, you might want to have sessions with a
friend who is also learning how to use dreams in this way.
Sessions usually last about an hour or so.
Do You Need Any Special Qualities or Characteristics or Proficiencies To

Use Your Dream This Way?
It is important that becoming a whole new person is important for you. It is also
important that you know what to do and how to do it. Showing this to you is the job of this
chapter, and it is also your job to know what to do and how to do it.
You don't need special knowledge about dreams and dreaming. You don't have to be a
prolific dreamer. Your dreams don't have to be dramatic or unusual, detailed or vivid,
compelling or special. You don't have to be in great shape psychologically nor plagued with
deep-seated unhappiness or troubles. You don't have to be a person who probes your insides,
analyzes your personality, or is ―inner-directed.‖
What Should You Picture as a “Whole New Person”?
During the session, and continuing after the session, for a few minutes or a few hours or
for the next few days or longer, the person you ordinarily are is replaced by an altogether
different person. The person who walked into the session is gone, and a whole new person
appears in the session and walks out of the session. The person who began the session is the
person who the person ordinarily is. The whole new person is who the person can become. It
is as if the person is transformed into a whole new person with altogether new feelings and
experiencings, thoughts and ideas, ways of being and behaving. The new appearance of a new
person can be dramatic, compelling, inexplicable.
Because the whole new person is the person you can become, in an experiential way of
thinking (Mahrer, 1978/2004, 1989, 1996/2004, 2002, 2007, 2008, 2009), the whole new
person is almost assuredly welcomed, friendly, appreciated, and elevated, rather than twisted,
evil, scary, or monstrous.
The shift into the whole new person is typically an all-at-once shift, a quantum shift,
rather than one occurring gradually, little-by-little, incrementally.
Use Your Dream To Be the Whole New Person You Can Be 83
METHODS
Method I: Find Two Places in the Dream Where There Are Feelings
It is helpful if the dream has two places where there are feelings that may be relatively
similar to or different from one another. The feelings can occur in what seems to be one
dream, or in what seems to be two dreams or two scenes from a single dream. For example, in
one part of the dream you are feeling like everyone's pleasant center of attention as you are
sitting at the head table of the palace dining room, with all the guests at their tables, and you
are entertaining the visiting king with your funny stories. In the next part of the dream, you
are driving a truckload of miniature cows to the market, and you are bothered by being so late
because you have no familiarity with the countryside and no idea where the market is located.
1. Tell the Dream, or Play the Recording of the Dream

It can be helpful to have a recording of the dream, and to start the session by playing the
recorded dream. Here is Tony's dream:
―I am in a little house. It‘s my house. I am moving to some other place, like a small
cabin, and my place is filled with boxes of papers of mine. Some are in front by the curb, and
the trash guys are in the house. I need my father‘s and brother‘s help. They‘re at my place.
There's this other guy. I think he's the head honcho of the trash guys, and he‘s in this great
uniform. The main part is when I‘m standing here by the door to this little room. He's lying
on a cot, leaning on his elbow, and we‘re not saying anything, but I know he‘s there to take
care of the trash, and I know his guys took all my boxes of personal stuff, short stories and
diaries, and things I wrote, and my photos. I know it‘s too late ‘cause the garbage truck
already pulled away from the curb. I feel awful about they‘re taking all my boxes of personal
stuff. What‘s funny is that the movers aren‘t there, and the boxes of my personal stuff are for
the movers, but only the trash guys are there.‖
―Then I‘m in this strange city with lots of women. A dam burst, and it is driving rain, a
flood, lots of screaming people. I‘m holding my baby, trying to save her. The currents are
powerful, and there are lots of old fashioned juke boxes on the water, rushing by. There are
strong whirlpools, hissing sounds. The water is almost at my neck, and I lose my grip and let
go of my baby. I know she‘s gone. I can hardly move. That‘s when I get hit by a small juke
box and it hurts my shoulder.‖
2. Find the Two Places in the Dream Where the Feeling Is Prominent
Usually, you have a general idea of where and when the feelings are present or are
prominent, perhaps moderate or strong. Find these places in the dream, even though you
typically will describe them in general, rather than identifying the exact instant of peak
feeling. Here is Tony describing these two places:
―In the part where I am moving, when is the feeling? It‘s with that guy in the uniform. I
think he‘s been there a while. He‘s lying on a little cot in a little room. We are quiet, but I
know he wants to make sure my boxes get carted away by the trash truck, not the movers.
That‘s when I know, and he knows, that it‘s too late. The trash guys pulled away from the
curb. Took all my boxes. All my stuff is gone! Can‘t get it back! I‘m standing by the door and
84 Alvin R. Mahrer
he‘s lying there. We just look at each other. A bad feeling. It‘s all gone. All the papers I kept
for years. It‘s too late to try and get them back.‖
―What about the second part? That‘s harder. The hard rain and rushing water and the
whirlpools. That‘s scary. And the jukeboxes, and getting hit by one. Oh, I know, it‘s when my
baby is out of my hands. I‘m standing in the water, up to my neck. Hard to hold on to her. As
soon as that happens I know she‘s going to drown, and I see her bouncing on the water and
then nothing. It‘s when she‘s out of my hands and I know she‘s going to drown.‖
3A. In the First Way of Finding What Is Deeper in You, Start with One Place Where
the Feeling Is Prominent, Then Look for and Describe the Exact Instant of Peak
Feeling
Tony is free to begin with either part of the dream. He decides to begin with the place
where he is with the fellow in the uniform, and both know that the trash truck has pulled away
from the curb.
The aim is to look for the exact instant of peak feeling, and to tell most of what seems to
be happening in that particular instant. Just fill in the main details of what seems to be there.
Sometimes this can be hard to do. Often it is a sort of discovery.
If there are important pieces that are conspicuously missing in the exact instant, when
you succeed in filling them in, you will likely be undergoing something from deeper inside
you. In what might be the exact instant of peak feeling in being with this fellow, for example,
conspicuously missing pieces might include a second person on the cot, but you don‘t know
who that person is, or you know that a truck pulled away from the curb, but you can‘t
remember what they carted away with them that was so special, or the fellow was saying
something of critical importance but you cannot recollect what it was.
If there is some critically important piece that is conspicuously missing from the exact
instant, try to fill it in, to identify what it is. Usually, when you succeed, something happens
inside, there is a felt shift in inner feeling. You are undergoing a substantially new kind of
experiencing. This first method has let you touch or be touched by something deeper inside
you. The discovery consists in being nose-to-nose with something deep inside you, something
that may be described as ordinarily sealed off, hidden. This is the magnificent payoff from
using this first method.
You can know you are undergoing something deeper inside you when the feeling shifts to
one that is quite different and substantially lighter, more pleasant. As you are trying to find
the exact moment of peak feeling, and to fill in a conspicuously missing piece or two, you are
usually undergoing the feeling from that part of the dream. With Tony, the feeling is bad. His
prized personal papers are gone. ―The trash guys took away all those boxes! What can I do?
It‘s too late! Oh, no!‖
When Tony tried to find that exact moment of peak feeling, there were no conspicuously
missing pieces and Tony was able to identify that exact moment of peak feeling. If there had
been some missing pieces, and Tony succeeded in filling them in and identifying the moment
of peak feeling, Tony would likely have two indications that what he is now feeling is from
deep inside: (a) the bad feeling from the dream would be replaced by a qualitatively different
feeling of some kind, and (b) the new feeling would be lighter, more pleasant.
Here is an abbreviated version of Tony‘s being able to find the exact instant of peak
feeling without running into any conspicuously missing pieces. Using this first method did
not open up or reveal or discover anything much deeper in Tony: It only identified the exact
instant of peak feeling.
―So when exactly is the feeling? I got to find exactly what‘s going on…. I think I got it.
That guy is lying there on the cot, propped up on an elbow, like he belongs here. It‘s a little
room, and I‘m just inside the door. We‘re sort of looking at each other. Not moving. All my
attention is on this guy and his uniform. It‘s dark blue, looks very expensive. Across the top is
something like ‗Waste Management,‘ in gold letters, and his pants got a sharp crease, and
he‘s got military boots, shiny. But I can‘t take my eyes off this guy. I know and he knows that
his trash guys and truck are gone with all my personal stuff. Mainly I just feel rotten. All my
boxes of personal stuff, papers, short stories, diaries, old photos, my life. All gone! Lost! I
don't know what to do! It‘s too late! The trash guys took it from the curb. I can‘t believe it‘s
all gone.... This is really awful...‖
This first way did not bring Tony to anything deeper because what was happening in the
moment of peak feeling was relatively available and complete. There were no conspicuously
missing pieces.
Once you have decided which scene to work on, use two methods to try and find two
different parts of you. Tony started with the scene when he is in the room with the head trash
guy. When he is finished with work on that scene, Tony can later work on the other scene
where he loses his baby.
The idea is to start with the selected scene from the dream and to find two different parts
from deeper inside. It is distinctive and important to look for two different parts, not just one.
Contrary to virtually all other ways of using dreams, each of the scenes in dreams with two
component parts or scenes is to be used to put you face-to-face with two parts from deeper
inside.
Starting from when he is in the room with the head trash guy, the first method for Tony is
to find the exact instant when the feeling peaks. If this means filling in a conspicuously
missing piece and arriving at something from deeper inside, then Tony is to go on to use other
methods to arrive at a second other part from deeper inside. If Tony can find the exact instant
when the feeling peaks and there are no conspicuously missing pieces, then Tony is to use
other methods to find two parts from deeper within himself.
The guideline is to start by trying to find the exact instant of peak feeling in this scene
from the dream, and then to use other methods to arrive at two parts of what is deeper inside.
3B. Use Ways of Starting from the Exact Moment of Peak Feeling and Finding What
Is Deeper in You
Finding the exact moment of peak feeling can be the first method of arriving at what is
deeper in you. In addition there are a number of other ways you can use. Start with any one
that seems appropriate and use it.
Method II. Keep Strengthening the Feeling in the Moment of Peak Feeling
In the moment of peak feeling, Tony is feeling awful. His prized papers are gone, carted
away by the trash truck. There is nothing he can do. He feels lost, disconsolate, stuck,
frustrated, helpless.
86 Alvin R. Mahrer
He can come face-to-face with something deeper in him if he keeps strengthening the
feeling. Open it up more and more. Put more and more into it. Keep steadily increasing the
loudness and the volume, the power and the force. Keep going until the magnificent shift
occurs. Tony could have used this method, but he did not.
―OK, so finding the exact instant didn‘t work. So what way should I use? I could keep
pumping up the feeling. That‘ll fit. But I don‘t think I want to start there. Not yet anyhow,
maybe later. I think I want to go to that guy in the blue uniform ‘cause all my attention is on
him, like my eyes are locked on him. It‘s weird.‖
Method III. Penetrate the Heart of the Bad Feeling in the Moment of
Peak Feeling
Tony can arrive at what lies deeper within him by plunging down into the heart of the bad
feeling, by sinking down into the crux of the awful feeling, by being increasingly chewed to
pieces by the awful feeling, by free-falling into the dreaded core or pit of the worst possible
form of the dreaded agonizing feeling. Once the heart of the awful feeling cracks open, Tony
can be bathed by what appears from deep inside.
Tony could have used this method, but he did not.
―And I don‘t want to penetrate down into the bad feeling. I could do this one. But first I
want to see what there is about that guy in the blue uniform. It‘s like I can‘t take my attention
off of him. That‘s the one I want to start with.‖
Method IV. Be the Special Other Person in the Moment of Peak Feeling
This method consists of your disengaging from the person you are, lifting out of your
continuing identity, and literally being the special other person. You are no longer inside your
skin. Instead, you are inside the skin of the special other person. When you are truly living
and being as the special other person, in the moment of peak feeling, something new will
happen, something will come alive. You will be undergoing what is deeper inside. The
wonderful shift has taken place, and you are touching or touched by what has been deeper.
There are some conditions that point you toward this method, that reach out for using this
method: (a) the other person is center stage, the center of attention, the important one, the
major player in this moment of peak feeling; (b) your attention is almost wholly focused upon
him, locked onto him, drawn by him, compelled by him; (c) your own identity is starting to
erode, to melt away, to drain away, to diminish, and you are headed toward being taken over
by the identity of the other person, toward becoming the identity of the other person; (d) you
somehow know what the other person is thinking, intending, feeling.
Tony is already under the influence of these conditions. You can almost hear him gearing
up to use this method and then proceeding to use this method:
―I‘m looking at this guy. See his blue uniform. It‘s new and starched, and looks great, and
he‘s looking at me. Self-confident. He‘s sure of himself.... So I‘m going to move out of me,
and I‘m going to be this guy. Just to be him. Think what he‘s thinking and feel what he's
feeling.... Leaning on my elbow, wearing this great uniform and the boots. In this little room.
Looking at this Tony guy. All right, here I go:‖
―I‘m here to make sure everything moves along. I‘m the supervisor. Personal interest in
this job. My guys will take away the boxes from the curb. Tony put them there for the
movers, but we‘re going to take them away in our trash truck, to the trash dump. I‘m
looking right at him to make sure he doesn‘t do anything. Just stay still, Tony. I know, and
you know, that my trash guys are carting away your precious boxes. A few minutes and it‘s
all over. They will be gone. They did it and you know we did it. Too bad. It‘s too late now.‖
Tony is doing a good job of being the special other person. As he continues, a somewhat
radical change will happen. Something new will appear. Tony does not know what this will
be. We don‘t know what this will be, but it will be different from what Tony is presently
feeling as the special other person, and it will be lighter, more enjoyable. Tony will not likely
notice this shift because he will be busy ―being‖ the special fellow. But the reader may be
able to tell when some qualitatively new feeling is here. This can be understood as the
presence of what had been deeper in Tony. His use of method 4 worked. It usually does.
We now continue with Tony as the special other fellow:
―My men did their job. Not even a little hitch. A well-run job. Smooth. I am such an
outstanding supervisor. They are so well trained. And the movers haven‘t even shown up. We
pulled it off. I dominated Tony. He bent to my will. (Tony‘s voice is lowering, taking on a
more sinister tone, sounding less and less like Tony. Get ready for the shift. It will appear
shortly.) He is like a zombie doing exactly what I want. He knows his precious boxes are
gone, and he ... can‘t ... do ... anything ... because ... I have all the power. I got the power! I
am in absolute control. (He is almost hissing in sheer pleasure.) Yeah … yeah! It‘s all me.
Everything has to bow to me. It‘s all me. I‘m the one. The power. The control. All the control
... [Here is where the ‗ordinary‘ Tony is aware of having undergone the shift to something
qualitatively new and different.] Hey! That‘s it! Yeah, yeah. I have all the power. I am in
absolute control. That‘s it. Well! Well. OK. Yes. That‘s one. Well.‖
Using method 4, Tony brought forth one piece from what is taken to be deeper inside.
The deeper piece comes alive and announces, ―I have all the power. I am in absolute control.‖
Here is the first guess as to what lies deeper in Tony.
This ―deeper‖ feeling was a surprise to Tony. He had little or no recollection of having
such a feeling even though this feeling was alive and well when he used method 4 with the
dream. This feeling was also a surprise to a number of dream experts who listened to a
recording of Tony‘s dream from their own perspectives.
Tony now had one idea of what may be deeper inside, starting from this moment of peak
feeling. He is ready to use another method to get another idea of what may be deeper inside.
He turns to the final method:
Method V. Replace the Bad Feeling with a Good Feeling in the Moment of
Peak Feeling
A longer but perhaps more careful description is: Replace the bad feeling with a
conspicuously artificial ―good‖ feeling, and keep undergoing what is happening until the
good feeling becomes real and true, and there is a qualitative shift in what you are actually
undergoing, experiencing, feeling. It is new, different. It is lighter and more pleasurable. It
can be taken as the presence of something from deep inside.
88 Alvin R. Mahrer
In the moment of peak feeling, you are to deliberately replace the bad feeling with a good
feeling. It is as if you are, through clenched teeth, deliberately lying: ―Oh, this is so enjoyable.
I just love what is going on. How pleasant this is! I feel so good. Ho, ho, ho. What a
delightful time I am having. This is so happy. See me grinning? I am so happy. What is
happening is just wonderful. It is not bad at all. Oh, no. It is good. I am having the time of my
life. Yes. I am. I am feeling so good!‖
At first, what you are saying is a blatant lie. You are not at all feeling good. You are
feeling awful. If the real ―you‖ could talk, it would probably say, ―Are you out of your mind?
This is terrible! Who are you trying to kid? I feel rotten, so tell the truth! Help! Help me! I am
feeling terrible! Please help!‖ The happy words are all sham, an out-and-out lie.
Just keep going. Stay in the moment of peak feeling, and keep saying how wonderful this
is, how marvelous you feel. Chuckle and laugh. Keep smiling even though you are putting on
a show that is fully artificial, contrived, contrary to how you really feel.
After a while, something almost unbelievable happens. The artificial good feeling can
become real. You actually enjoy the good feeling. There is a qualitative shift. Suddenly
everything changes. What you feel changes to real. What is happening also shifts
dramatically. The scene you are in shifts to one that is genuinely new and different, and
genuinely feels good. There is a pleasant glow, and with this you are touching or touched by
what is deeper in you. That is how it works as Tony uses this method.
Tony begins by doing an over-the-top theatrical farce: ―The trash truck took all my
lifelong personal papers, and I am soooo happy! Everything I have carefully saved is headed
for the trash dump. La di da! Oh happy me! Thank you sooo much! Happy, happy, happy!...‖
After some minutes, the shift occurs. His voice becomes alive. The pleasure is real; what
is happening shifts from the trash truck carting the precious boxes to certain destruction to
something happening that is altogether different, something new, something uplifting,
something from deeper inside Tony. (In an instant, Tony shifts from hurtful wailing to a
sudden giggling, and out comes a dramatic shift: ―It‘s really gone! I got rid of it! After all
those years! I let it go! Well, what do you know?‖) Tony is energetic, exuberant. Words are
pushing each other forward. He seems so happy as the words define what is welcomed from
deep inside: “Who needs it? Let it go! No more extra baggage! I am liberated! I am free!”
By using two methods in the moment of peak feeling, Tony had arrived at two likely
residents of what was deeper inside: ―They're both kind of new for me.... And different.... So
what now? Oh, yeah. I go to the other part of the dream, and I see what I get there....‖
4. Go to the Other Place in the Dream Where the Feeling Is Prominent, and Find Two
Possibilities of What Is Deeper Inside You
Go to the other place in the dream where the feeling is prominent. For Tony, it is when he
is holding his baby in the driving rain and then somehow she is out of his hands, headed
directly into the killer whirlpool.
Repeat what you did in the first place where the feeling was prominent, so that you again
come up with two possibilities of what is deeper inside you.
Once again, start from one place where the feeling is prominent, and see if you can find
and describe an exact instant of peak feeling. If you can, then move on to using the other
methods. If there is some glaringly conspicuous missing element, try to find what it is,
especially if that brings a dramatic shift in the bad feeling. This is the first method to be used.
Tony knows what to do. He gets ready by saying the following out loud:
―So I go to the other part ... and I start by trying to find what‘s happening when the
feeling is strong. I fill it in.... There‘s all this pouring rain, and the wind, and the flooding up
to my neck, and the worst is when my baby‘s not in my hands.... I go to that part and try to
find the peak feeling.‖
Start by filling in any conspicuously missing pieces of the moment of peak feeling. Tony
runs directly into a conspicuously missing piece in trying to identify the exact moment of
peak feeling. He works at filling in the missing piece, and when he succeeds, there is a
dramatic shift in feeling to one that is light and buoyant:
―I‘m almost floating in the flood water. It‘s up to my neck. Trying to hold my baby, and
she‘s out of my hands, and I know she‘ll drown for sure. A big missing piece! Did a jukebox
knock her away? Did I go under? What happened? How did she get loose? ... I was holding
her, saw the swirling whirlpool. Oh, my God! I just let her go! I threw her into the whirlpool!
I remember! [Here comes a dramatic sudden shift from painful horror to exuberant silliness,
from heavy disbelief to silly chuckling, from poignant drama to comedic slapstick.] ... I saw
that look! You wanted me to let you go! That whirlpool was like a release and I released you!
Go! Be free! I can dance on the water. I can just let everything go! Yeah!‖
Using the first method brought Tony face-to-face with something from deeper inside.
What Tony was experiencing was real, new and different, light and pleasant, and, as Tony
will see, remarkably similar to what he had discovered from working on the first place in the
dream where the feeling was prominent.
5. You Have Succeeded in Discovering What Is Deeper When There Is a Commonality

Between What You Found by Working on the Two Places in the Dream Where the
Feeling Is Prominent
By using the opening method, Tony found a deeper possibility, and he was exuberant
because he was filled with a titillating sense of having discovered a precious commonality
between what came from work on both places in the dream:
―I think I got something! I found something deeper! Let‘s see. From the first place in the
dream one thing I found is something like: ‗I don‘t need it. Let it go. No more extra baggage.
I am liberated. I am free.‘ And from this place in the dream, I got: ‗Let it go, release. I
released you. Be free. I can just let everything go.‘ Well! What do you know?‖
The payoff is to identify the feeling or experiencing from your deeper insides.
Tony was almost bouncing with excitement as he tried to put into words what he had
discovered. He wanted to clarify what may be thought of as a deeper possibility or
potentiality for feeling or experiencing, something new for him, something he had rarely felt,
something from his deeper insides:
―How can I put it? I want to get it right. It‘s like: Let it go. Release it. Be liberated. Be
free. I have no idea what that‘s like ‘cause it‘s new for me. It‘s really different for me. I don‘t
know what that feels like!‖
The payoff, so far, can be that you touch, or you are touched by, something from your
deeper insides. You have discovered something that had been deep inside you, and you can
describe it in some fitting words.
90 Alvin R. Mahrer
6. Welcome and Accept What You Discovered from Your Deeper Insides
There are ways to befriend what you have discovered, to smile in appreciation, to
welcome and accept what had been deeper inside you (Mahrer, 1989, 1996/2004, 2002, 2007,
2009). For example, can you picture someone you know or used to know, someone you liked
partly because they did not have to cling to, to possess, to hold on to their precious ideas,
ways of seeing things, possessions? They could actually let things go, release them. You were
drawn toward their sense of liberation and freedom.
Tony knew and could use these ways of either welcoming, accepting, and reassuring
himself or disliking and declining what he had discovered from his deeper insides: ―I love it!
It could be wonderful! It‘s about time!‖
7. Undergo the Transformational Leap into Being the Whole New Person in the
Context of Past Scenes
In Step 5, Tony had discovered something that had been hidden deep inside. In Step 6,
Tony used methods to welcome and accept what had been hidden. He was now ready for the
transformational leap, the magnificent shift, the quantum change into being the whole new
person who radiates the pure feeling or experiencing of letting it go, releasing it, being
liberated, being free.
In order to pave the way for the magnificent shift, Tony knows how to (a) be the whole
new person in the context of selected scenes and times from the past; (b) be the whole new
person with high power, energy, loudness, and volume; (c) be utterly free of reality
constraints, to wallow in fantasy and unreality; and (d) be the whole new person in playful
silliness, joyful exuberance, and theatrical exaggeration.
In making the transformational leap, Tony is an adolescent in the garage, patting the
motorcycle he took care of so lovingly: ―It is time for me to let you go so you can run free.
See? The garage door is wide open. Go be with your own kind. Join the other released
motorcycles, wild and free. I will miss you, old buddy. We have had some great times
together, old buddy. Go ahead, rumble off. Be with the other wild and free motorcycles.... Off
you go.... I am lighter, and I rise up in the air, floating in the air.... Whee!‖
Tony continues as the whole new person in about 5-8 other scenes from the past.
8. Continue Being the Whole New Person in the Context of Imminent Scenes
Tony had undergone the transformational shift into being the whole new person who has
the feeling or experiencing of letting it go, releasing it, being liberated, being free, and all
within the context of scenes from here and there in his past.
If he is still inclined, Tony is to remain being the whole new person, but now the context
can move to scenes from the imminent future such as when the whole new Tony ends the
session and perhaps goes to the kitchen for a cold beer, or when the whole new Tony would
like to ask his father about maybe going fishing this weekend.
Start by continuing to set aside reality constraints. In being the whole new person in the
context of past scenes, one of the helpful guidelines was to set aside reality constraints. In
shifting to scenes from the imminent future, Tony is to continue the emphasis on playful
unreality and inventive fantasy: ―So right after the session, I open my eyes, bounce into the
kitchen, and snap my fingers. You are all hereby released from reality binds! Refrigerators
can dance! Plates can sing! Vegetables can talk! Not all at once, please.... You can all stay
here or you can come with me to my boss‘s apartment. Here we are. Hi, boss! I quit! Release
me. I am going to dance on the pond and sing in the rain.... Better yet, come join me. Here we
go!‖
The new Tony lives in a world of playful unreality, moving from imminent scene to
imminent scene. It is loud. It is unrealistic. It is happy.
Move on to heightened reality and readiness for being the whole new person from then
on. Tony is now ready to move on to a final phase of increased reality. ―So what would I
really like to do, like right after I open my eyes, or tonight or tomorrow? Letting it go! Being
free! Releasing it? I know! I got it! Oh, yeah!‖
―I got drawers and drawers, dozens of them, of receipts and bills, electricity, phone, water
and sewer. I'm a pack rat. From two or three houses ago! Must be 25 years‘ worth! I am going
to shred them! Yeah! I am going to release them from me and me from them! Yeah, yeah! My
wife‘ll flip with joy! Starting tonight. Get ready for the new me!‖
Tony rehearsed shredding the receipts and bills. The rehearsal felt just fine, even exciting.
This whole new Tony felt open and full of energy as he rehearsed, did a little modifying here
and there, and further rehearsed informing his wife and then shredding drawer after drawer of
long-stored receipts and bills. He was smiling and chuckling as he opened his eyes. ―I am
ready! Oh, I am really ready! Goodbye, house bills. Hello, shredder!‖
Tony was ready to continue being the whole new person in imminent scenes involving
his wife and the trusty shredder.
9. Being the Whole New Person Can Last for a Few Minutes or Forever, or at Least
Till the Next Session
The Tony who began the session was quite free to reappear at any time during the
session, but it was the whole new Tony who was present at the end of the session. How long
would the whole new Tony remain following the session? It may be for a few minutes, a few
hours, or perhaps even forever.
The next session was about two weeks later, also at Tony‘s place, also with the teacher,
and also with Tony‘s friend and companion in learning this experiential way of using a
dream. At the door, the teacher and the friend were greeted with two surprises. One was that
Tony seemed to still be the whole new fellow who radiated that quality of pleasant and
bubbly liberation and freedom, of letting it go, of releasing, of not having to covet, own,
possess, cling to. The other surprise was that his long-term full beard was gone, as were his
carefully coiffed wavy locks: ―I‘m 56 years old! Way too old for wavy 1ocks!... Will you two
stop gawking? I‘m still Tony. Well, sort of.‖
Did Tony do his intended ―homework‖? His wife, a lawyer, found out how many years
they should keep the various receipts and bills, and they gleefully shredded the rest. It was a
celebration.
But the changes were not limited to putting the shredder to work. There were more, all in
keeping with being the whole new person:
(a) Tony and his wife started talking about their both taking early retirements while they
both were in good physical shape. It was exciting even to consider letting go of their
present lives, and enjoying the freedom of easygoing bicycle tours in other countries.
―We will see.‖
92 Alvin R. Mahrer
(b) While Tony and his wife were happily shredding, their son came over, and Tony
found himself handing over the keys to the 1952 Mercedes that Tony lovingly cared
for, and that his son cherished as he practically took it apart and rebuilt it every few
years. His jaw dropped. ―What happened to you, Dad? Are you on drugs?‖ ―She‘s
your baby now. All yours!‖
(c) Tony finally got around to discussing with his wife what he had danced around,
avoided mentioning, yet steadfastly clung to for almost a decade, namely, paying the
gambling debts of his older brother and letting him use the small apartment above the
garage. When Tony told his wife that he thought it might be time to give up the
excessive caretaking, to be free of the missionary zeal, to let his brother go, his wife
looked piously skyward and silently whispered, ―Thank you, God.‖
Tony seemed to enjoy the changes he helped bring about in and after the last session:
―Things seem so different. My life seems so different. I seem so different.‖ His teacher and
his friend were with a whole new Tony with a whole new quality of letting it go, releasing it,
being liberated, being free, no longer having to covet, cling to, own, possess.
―Now about this great dream I had a few nights ago … I have the recording…. But I can
skip working on my dream! We can be free to do something else!‖ Tony was still giggling
when the teacher and his friend unceremoniously overturned his chair and dumped him on the
floor.
CONCLUSION
You can use your dream to become the whole new person you can become. The change
can be a transformational shift, a quantum shift into being a whole new person. If you are
genuinely ready and truly interested, you can learn the skills to whatever extent is important
to you, and the change can occur in a single session of working with the dream. The
transformational change into the whole new person can last as long as it is important for you
that it last, for a few minutes in the session, for a few minutes or a few hours or so after the
session, or forever.
The steps and methods of experiential dream work are ready. Are you ready to accept the
invitation to be the whole new person you can be?
REFERENCES
Mahrer, A.R. (1989). Dream work: In psychotherapy and self-change. New York: Norton.
Mahrer, A.R. (2002). Becoming the person you can become: The complete guide to self-
transformation. Boulder, CO: Bull.
Mahrer, A.R. (2004). Experiencing: A humanistic theory of psychology and psychiatry.
Ottawa, Canada: University of Ottawa Press (copies available from Howard Gontovnick
Publications). (Original work published 1978)
Mahrer, A.R. (2004). The complete guide to experiential psychotherapy. Boulder, CO: Bull.
(Original work published 1996)
Mahrer, A.R. (2007). The other deeper you. Ottawa, Canada: University of Ottawa Press.
Mahrer, A.R. (2008). The optimal person. Montreal, Canada: Howard Gontovnick
Publications.
Mahrer, A.R. (2009). The relativity of psychological things. Montreal, Canada: Howard
Gontovnick Publications.
Chapter 8
LUCID DREAMING: HISTORY AND PRACTICE
Fariba Bogzaran
―The Masters of the secret teachings say that the truth learned from another is of no
value, and that the only truth which is living and effective, which is of value, is the truth
which we ourselves discover.‖
Alexandra David-Néel & Lama Yongden, 1967, p.13
ABSTRACT
Lucid dreaming is a state of consciousness in sleep when the dreamer becomes fully
aware of the dream, either spontaneously or intentionally. This chapter examines the
history of lucid dreaming from both Western and Eastern points of view, focusing on
intentionality and practice. It emphasizes, in particular, the Tibetan Buddhist tradition of
Dream Yoga and the contemporary Western advancement of this field in the past three
decades. Various experiences within lucid dreaming are discussed, including a
framework for potential applications for creative problem solving, facing nightmares,
spiritual development, healing, and visiting the deceased. The chapter concludes by
discussing lucid dreaming as a spiritual practice for cultivating presence and outlines an
integral method for achieving it.
INTRODUCTION
Lucid dreaming is a state of consciousness in dreams where the dreamer spontaneously or
intentionally becomes aware of the dream state. A unique state of consciousness within sleep,
lucid dreaming can also be, at times, an extraordinary experience.
Not everyone experiences lucid dreaming, but for some it is an easily accessible state of
consciousness. Moreover, lucid dreaming is amenable to practice. In Tibetan Buddhism it is
referred as the night practice of Dream Yoga. Yoga means path, exercise, or practice, and the
yoga of dreams is performed within a spiritual context, particularly in preparation for death.
98 Fariba Bogzaran
This is in contrast with Western views, wherein lucid dreaming is invoked for various
purposes such as overcoming nightmares, creative inspiration, personal growth, problem
solving, spiritual development, entertainment, wish fulfillment, and other purposes. This
chapter discusses the history and practice of lucid dreaming.
Perhaps the experience of lucid dreaming is as old as humans remembering their dreams.
To claim that lucid dreaming is a recent discovery does not allow for the fact that it probably
dates back to the oral shamanistic traditions. It is, therefore, more accurate to say that, as long
as human beings have existed and the human brain has been capable of self-reflection, the
experience of lucid dreaming has been in existence.
In the Western tradition, the earliest mentions of possible lucid dream experiences can be
found in the writing of the philosophers Aristotle, St. Thomas Aquinas, Thomas Reid, and
Pierre Gassendi (Gackenbach & LaBerge, 1988). The first recording of a lucid dream was a
letter written by St. Augustine of Hippo in 415 A.D. to a priest, Evodius, in which he
recounted two dreams of a physician from Carthage named Gennadius. These two impactful
dreams made an impression on St. Augustine, as the physician, who had doubted that there
was any sort of life after death, had found a new perspective afterwards. The second dream, in
particular, had the quality of a lucid dream in which the physician was guided by a spiritual
youth who had also appeared to him in the first dream. In that dream he asked questions about
the nature of reality within the dream state: ―As while you are asleep and lying on your bed
these eyes of your body are now unemployed and doing nothing, and yet you have eyes with
which you behold me, and enjoy this vision, so, after your death, while your bodily eyes shall
be wholly inactive, there shall be in you a life by which you shall still live, and a faculty of
perception by which you shall still perceive. Beware, therefore, after this period, of
harbouring doubts as to whether the life of man shall continue after death.” With this
experience all doubts disappeared from the dreamer (Schaff, 1887/2008).
The great Spanish mystic Sufi Muhyuddin Ibn ‘Arabi (1165-1240) is known to have
received his inspiration from reverie. In his teachings he emphasized accessing this special
faculty through a state similar to lucid dreaming: ―A person must control his thoughts in a
dream. The training of this alertness will produce awareness of the intermediate dimensions‖
(Shah, 1964, p. 150). The 20th-century Sufi master Pir Vilayat Khan advocated lucid
dreaming as a spiritual practice, encouraging his followers to be engaged in ―an impersonal
will instead of a personal will.‖ In lucid dreaming the personal will relates to the self-image.
He compared lucid dreaming with meditation, which is ―identifying with the universal,
impersonal dimension of being.‖ For Pir Vilayat Khan, in order to move from the personal
will to the universal will, the lucid dreamer needs to observe reality. When Pir Vilayat Khan
was asked whether this state of awareness was similar to Nidra Yoga, a practice of lucid
dreaming using a particular method of relaxation as one falls asleep, he replied: ―Yes.
However, I have so far spoken only of the first stage of Nidra Yoga, which consists of being
able to dream consciously, but the next stage consists in being able to awaken from the dream
world into the Reality beyond all forms. This is the ultimate Awakening‖ (Vilayat Khan,
1986).
The recent attention in the West to lucid dreaming is a natural development of the history
of dream studies in the 20th and 21st centuries. Freud chose to publish Interpretation of
Dreams at the turn of the 20th century to mark a major shift in attention to the topic of dreams
within the scientific community of his time. His book crossed many disciplines and cultures,
thus becoming the best known and most read theory on dreams. Yet his contemporaries who
Lucid Dreaming: History and Practice 99
wrote about lucid dreaming influenced only a very small group of people. This is not
surprising, as lucid dreaming is a specialization within dream types, one that is not readily
accessible or experienced. This may be the reason why it did not become as popular as other
types of dreams.
The history of lucid dreaming remained fairly obscure in the West until the 1970s, as few
researchers wrote on this topic prior to that time. Among those who ventured into this area
was the Marquis d‘Hervey de Saint-Denys (1822-1892), a sinologist who was also involved
in recording and paying attention to his lucid dreams from the age of 13 years. In 1867, he
published a book on dreams describing his experiences, including the method and practice of
lucid dreaming. His book, Les Rêves et les Moyens de les Diriger; Observations Pratiques
(Dreams and the Ways to Direct Them: Practical Observations, more often translated as
Dreams and How to Guide Them), documents more than 20 years of his own research into
dreams. Saint-Denys offered practical tools for recalling and recording dreams, along with
tips on how to become conscious while in the dreaming state. Although working with dreams
was not at the center of his career, his book influenced and inspired many in the arts and
literature such as the surrealists and their co-founder André Breton. Many surrealists working
just before the war in 1939 were also interested in the writings of Saint-Denys, alongside
Ouspensky‘s theory of the fourth dimension. Ouspensky‘s interest in dreams and the ―half-
dream state‖ led many young surrealists to create art from this perspective, thereby pushing
the boundaries of their art (G.O. Ford and R. Matta, personal communications, 1993, 19991).
In 1913 the Dutch psychiatrist Frederick van Eeden coined the term ―lucid dreaming.‖ He
himself was a prolific dreamer who wrote a novel based on his dreams (The Bride of
Dreams). In this novel he mentioned many dreams, but it was not until he wrote his scientific
paper, ―A Study of Dreams,‖ that he took a serious look at lucid dreaming as a central theme.
After 16 years of self-observation, he classified dreams into nine types. He named the seventh
type ―lucid dreams.‖ For him these dreams were the most interesting and worthy of study. He
recorded 352 lucid dreams between January 1898 and December 1912.
The introduction of Asian philosophy into the West at the beginning of the 1950s by
scholars such as Fredrick Spiegelberg, Haridas Chaudhuri, Alan Watts, and others brought a
new level of attention to the study of the mind. A variety of meditation techniques from
Vipassana to Transcendental Meditation was introduced to the West, with a major movement
into exploration of altered states of consciousness during the 1960s. Whether through natural
exploration by meditation or through the inducing of altered states through ―plant medicine‖
or drugs, the culture of the 1960s saw a shift in attention to other states of consciousness
besides that of ordinary waking. Two important publications ignited the fire of lucid dreaming
in that era: Celia Green‘s Lucid Dreaming (1968) and Charles Tart‘s Altered States of
Consciousness (1969). Dreaming as an altered state of consciousness, and lucid dreaming
with its potential for exploring the various dimensions of the mind, caught the interest of
those who had themselves experienced lucid dreaming, were exposed to meditation, or were
simply curious about this phenomenon.
This movement precipitated a major boom in literature and research during the 1970s on
the topic of lucid dreaming. The popular books by psychologist Ann Faraday, Dream Power
(1973) and The Dream Game (1976); psychologist Patricia Garfield‘s Creative Dreaming
1
Personal communication with Gordon Onslow Ford and Roberto Matta on the influence of Ouspensky and lucid
dreams on the late surrealist painters. Paris, France, and Inverness, California.
100 Fariba Bogzaran
(1976); and controversial anthropologist Carlos Castaneda‘s Journey to Ixtlan (1974)

stimulated major public awareness of the phenomenon of lucid dreaming. Perhaps one of the
most popular ways of becoming lucid in dreams was to follow Castaneda‘s admonition to
remember to look at one‘s hands in a dream and ask oneself if one is indeed dreaming.
At the same time, the spiritual movement around the work of the visionary seer Edgar
Cayce (1877-1945) took center stage, with many researchers connecting to and publishing
with the Association for Research and Enlightenment (A.R.E.). Cayce‘s work contradicted
the Freudian perspective by asserting that dreams have multiple meanings and that the
interpretation has to make sense to the dreamer. For him the dreamer is the ultimate knower
of the dream. Cayce‘s work was a major influence on many dream psychologists and
researchers, including lucid dreamer and psychotherapist Scott Sparrow, who wrote Lucid
Dreaming: Dawning on the Clear Light (1976). Related to the same theme of spirituality,
lucid dreaming, and the Eastern system of body awareness, Patricia Garfield wrote a book
recounting her experiences of lucid dreaming and how to overcome nightmares in Pathway to
Ecstasy (1979).
During this time, three young researchers began dedicating their doctoral dissertations to
the topic of lucid dreaming. Psychologist Jayne Gackenbach from Virginia Commonwealth
University conducted her research on A Personality and Cognitive Style Analysis of Lucid
Dreaming (1978); Keith Kearne of England did his research on Lucid Dreams: An
Electrophysiological and Psychological Study (1978); and Stephen LaBerge of Stanford
University completed several years of research confirming the scientific validity of lucid
dreaming with his findings detailed in Lucid Dreaming: An Exploratory Study of
Consciousness During Sleep (1980).
If there was a ―movement‖ in lucid dreaming, it began with the launching of the annual
publication of Lucidity Letter in the fall of 1981, edited by Jayne Gackenbach, and the
establishment of the Lucidity Association with its annual conferences. It was a true
movement, as this association brought together like-minded international researchers,
educators, spiritual leaders, and scientists to discuss their findings and experiences and
participate in a lively dialogue on the topic of lucid dreaming. The 10-year period of 1981-
1991 of this pioneering exchange created a firm base under the field of lucid dreaming, along
with major contributions to its study. Currently, all proceedings are archived and on-line
(www.spiritwatch.ca).
The classic book by LaBerge, Lucid Dreaming (1985), brought the subject into the
scientific arena. Based on solid laboratory findings, he took a major step towards making
lucid dreaming acceptable both within the scientific community and to the general public. At
the same time, an academic publication, Conscious Mind, Sleeping Brain, edited by
Gackenbach and LaBerge (1988), featured works by many different researchers, thereby
bringing additional voices to the discussion. The narrative accounts of psychotherapists
Kenneth Kelzer (1987) and Scott Sparrow (1976) on their spiritual experiences during lucid
dreaming became the inspiration for the first scientific laboratory study of lucid dreaming and
spiritual experiences, ultimately involving 77 participants. Thirty-five of them were able to
have a lucid dream (Bogzaran, 1989).
Perhaps ―Lucidity‖ – the 10th Anniversary Commemorative Issue of Lucidity Letter
(1991) – can be considered as a milestone, a definite turning in the history of attention to
lucid dreaming. By this time, major researchers, thinkers, and highly accomplished lucid
dreamers were contributing to the establishment of interdisciplinary voices in the field.
Covering phenomenology, mystical research and experience, meditation and empirical work,
and historical and clinical applications, lucid dreaming was seen as a clearly viable field of
study.
Since the early 1990s, the movement in lucid dreaming has evolved into several branches
of education and research. Stephen LaBerge has continued his work with the Lucidity
Institute (called the Lucidity Project, www.lucidity.com, in the1980s). The establishment of
the first Dream Studies program at an accredited university was launched in 1996 with lucid
dreaming as a core graduate course within the program (Bogzaran, 1996). Publication of The
Lucid Dream Exchange, edited by Robert Waggoner and Lucy Gillis, became a platform for
interviewing lucid dreamers and sharing their lucid dreams. After the founding of the Lucidity
Association in 1992, academic presentations on lucid dreaming continued in other venues
such as conferences sponsored by the International Association for the Study of Dreams and
Towards the Science of Consciousness.
Lucid dreaming became more acceptable as consciousness studies and research went
mainstream in the mid-1990s. Eventually the Internet changed the course of history, lucid
dreaming included. No longer do we assume that lucid dreaming is an isolated interest of a
few; we have, rather, discovered its presence globally. Several books have been published on
the topic, and numerous journal articles and websites dedicated to lucid dreaming have been
established by enthusiastic lucid dreamers. Also in the arts, several films have taken on the
theme of lucid dreaming, while research on lucid dreaming and modern painting have become
the basis as of 1998 for a new movement in art called Lucid Art. Lucid dreaming literature
and research are now readily available, thereby changing the nature of teaching and inquiry
into lucid dreaming.
DREAM YOGA
Dreams play an important role among several shamanic traditions. In a research study on
16 Native American cultures it became clear that, within the indigenous cultures in America,
there is consensus that the source of dreams is from spirit or, in some cases, from ancestors
(Krippner & Thompson, 1996). In studying other shamanic cultures one observes similar
beliefs (Tedlock, 1987). We might not find exact mention of lucid dreaming as such;
however, in reading about the experiences of shamans on journeys and those taking plant
medicine, we can see that the experience phenomenologically resembles lucid dreaming – in
particular, the experience of the brew known as hoasca, yage, or ayahuasca, which is often
used by shamans in the Amazon (Metzner, 2005). These shamans use a mixture of the
Banisteriopsis caapi vine with leaves of the Psychoteria viridis bush (from the coffee family)
to induce lucidity. Other indigenous cultures such as that of the Australian Aborigines
emphasize the importance of dreaming and lucid dreaming (Moss, 2009); however, due to
constraints of space, this chapter focuses on only one tradition, that of Tibetan Buddhism.
Twenty years ago it was unheard of to explore teachings on Dream Yoga, unless one was
a serious practitioner of Tibetan Buddhism and had finished at least a couple of years of
preliminary practice and meditation. Today, even though the teachings are more available and
open, the depth of instruction and practice continues to be passed down orally, mainly to
serious students who are initiated into the practice. This contextual framework is important,
102 Fariba Bogzaran
as the visualizations reported often refer to a particular deity; similarly, the chants are done in
Sanskrit or Tibetan, so that one needs to be connected to the tradition in order to be able to
use the method.
In 1992, the Tibetan master of Dzogchen, Namkhai Norbu, published his manuscript,
Dream Yoga and the Practice of Natural Light. Until then, this teaching had been available
for a long time only for the practitioners of Dzogchen. In his text, Norbu explains that the
practice of the yoga of sleep is with accompanying mantras. The intent is to fall asleep
consciously, so that one can be lucid throughout the night.
Norbu explains that it is possible to experience two different kinds of dreams: karmic
dreams, which originate from our daily problems, difficulties, memories, etc., and clarity
dreams, which are dreams not related to the residue of the day‘s events. These may show
images that we have never seen. The practice of Dream Yoga may well lead one to become
lucid and conscious in one‘s dreams.
In 1997 a group of researchers met with his Holiness the Dalai Lama to explore sleep,
dreams, and the state of dying. His Holiness shared the teachings of Dream Yoga in relation
to levels of consciousness, the subtle (dream) body and the gross (living) body, and the
importance of motivation in becoming lucid. Responding to a question asked by Jayne
Gackenbach, his Holiness made the distinction between two practices within Dream Yoga:
In the first you need to recognize the dream state and then control the dream. You do that
for a specific purpose, which is to generate the subtle dream body, which can be separated
from the gross body. In the second practice, you cultivate the ability to experience the clear
light of sleep, and for this, controlling is not necessary. The two practices are really quite
distinct and are used for different purposes. The purpose of the practice of applying effort to
recognize the dream, and intentionally transforming and controlling its content, is to acquire
the special dream body. That dream body can be used for a wide variety of purposes. This
practice is analogous to recognizing the intermediate state (Bardo) as the intermediate state.
The major challenge that faces you in this practice is to sustain your recognition of the
intermediate state and not be overwhelmed when various apparitions appear to you. That‘s a
challenge. On the other hand, the practices that lead to the realization of the clear light of
sleep are a preparation for recognizing the clear light of death. (Varela, 1997, p. 120)
Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche, whose family is from both the Tibetan Buddhist and Bön
traditions, brought to the attention of the West the practice of his people before Buddhism
flourished in Tibet. Bonpo (followers of Bön), engage in many rituals and draw on imagery
still used today, claiming their practice to derive from an unbroken lineage of 17,000 years.
Bön tradition pays special attention to dreams, as Tenzin Wangyal recalls that his master
asked all his students to narrate their dreams before meeting with him. He could tell from
their dreams whether the students were ready for a particular retreat (Tenzin Wangyal, 1998,
p. 12).
In the teaching of Dream Yoga, Dzogchen master Lama Tharchin Rinpoche has written
about the intermediate state of dreams, focusing on “daytime instruction on the illusory body;
nighttime instruction on dreams; subsequent instruction on luminosity.” The first instruction
emphasizes intention, prayers, and pure motivation; the second instruction focuses on
recognizing dreams, along with transforming and dispelling obstacles; and the third
instruction is a practice of intention for the good of all beings and the transformation of
ignorance into luminosity (Lama Tharchin, 2009).
Motivation is an important aspect of the Tibetan Buddhist practice of Dream Yoga. It is,
indeed, the first step in beginning the practice of lucid dreaming. What sustains the
motivation to become lucid? What are the intentions of the dreamer? Pure motivation in the
practice of lucid dreaming ultimately engages the dreamer in developmental growth,
transformational experiences, and reflection on personal challenges.
Although in the past twenty years several books on Dream Yoga have been written, many
texts on the topic within the Tibetan tradition have not been translated. Some of these are
used within a particular context of the Tibetan Buddhist religion. Therefore, learning a few
visualizations for inducing lucid dreaming without contextualizing them within the Tibetan
Buddhist cosmology might not be especially useful.
In the traditional setting within Tibetan Buddhism, practitioners often work with their
teacher (Lama); in some traditional schools, they might take preliminary steps (nogndro) in
order to prepare their mind and body to learn the complexity of the visualizations and
mantras, and to grasp the teachings of various levels involved in Dream Yoga. The term
Dream Yoga itself has a much wider meaning within various traditions and lineages in
Tibetan Buddhism and is more complex in its implications than the term ―lucid dreaming‖ in
the West. Lucid dreaming, in fact, is just one aspect of Dream Yoga practice. As Serenity
Young (1999) pointed out, Dream Yoga comes out of ―different histories and they are distinct
in their context, content, method and aim‖ (p. 33).
The goal of Dream Yoga is to move toward a specific practice aimed at the spiritual
development of the practitioner, while at the same time benefiting all other beings. Dream
Yoga has been developed as a way to attain awakening in the states of waking, dreaming, and
dying, as well as in the intermediate state after death called the Bardo. In one of the oldest
Tibetan lineages such as Nyingma practice, Dream Yoga has been orally transmitted from
generation to generation. In one of the best-known translated texts, The Tibetan Book of the
Dead, recognizing dreams is an important practice in preparation for dying. Dreams are also
considered a form of the Bardo state (in between); lucid dreaming, in particular, is an
important means for recognizing the various dream states. Such recognition trains the mind to
be able to distinguish different states of dreaming, transform them, and gain skill in seeing the
display of the mind without becoming attached. This practice will assist the person during the
process of dying and after death to recognize the display and appearances of the mind and not
be caught in its illusory qualities.
INTENTIONALITY AND LUCIDITY

There are different levels of lucidity within dreams. From hypnagogic experiences at the
beginning of the night until the hypnopompic state exiting the dreaming mind, there are many
types of dream experiences and different levels of lucidity. When lucidity occurs in a dream,
it can be triggered by certain circumstances such as a change in the dream environment,
object, characters, or actions. The ―dream space‖ can have a regular dream narrative or be an
abstract, non-representational mind space with its own marks and forms.
Often the dreamer makes choices at the beginning of lucidity. These choices vary, based
on any of the following: a previously set intention; spontaneous interaction; allowing the
emergence of new dreams; interaction with the dream; transforming the dream environment;
104 Fariba Bogzaran
experimentation; carrying on incubation tasks; and others. The greater the proficiency with
lucid dreaming, the greater the capacity to sustain, prolong, and hold intentions in this state.
Research shows that, in lucid dreaming, different levels of intentionality can be used.
They may include transforming one‘s self-image or ego splitting; spiritual experiences
(Bogzaran, 1989; Kelzer, 1987; Sparrow, 1976); meeting the deceased (Keelin, 1992);
witnessing (Gackenbach & Bosveld, 1989); entering hyperspace (Bogzaran, 2003); healing
(Kellogg, 2007), encountering inner light (Gillespie, 1991), and others.
Generally speaking, in the first level of lucid dream experiences, the dreamer often
desires exciting experimentations that are impossible to attain while awake, such as flying,
diving in the air, or breathing underwater, or seeking personal gratification without any
particular intention. As the lucid dreamer becomes more skilled in the practice, other
intentions permit exploration of the nature of the dreaming mind. Some lucid dreamers focus
entirely on asking existential questions, searching for meaning, and developing skills to
explore the subtle realms of the great spaces of the mind. Indeed, lucid dream practice is one
of the most compelling states of consciousness from which to examine the multiplicity and
multi-dimensionality of the dreaming mind (Hunt, 1989).
Within the spiritual experiences in lucid dreaming there are different levels, from a
narrative landscape or encountering a personalized spiritual figure to entering into spaces of
the mind with non-representational imagery and unknown territory (Bogzaran, 2003; Hurd,
2008). The metaphor of the chandelier in Sufi teachings is a perfect example of such
dimensions. Each level of experience is like a chandelier with hundreds of single, yet multi-
faceted, diamonds within a mandala of larger diamonds. Such experiences resonate with what
in Vajrayana Buddhist literature is referred to as foundation consciousness, based on
emptiness, awareness, and clear light. His Holiness the Dalai Lama commented on this level
of consciousness as follows: ―Clear light is called the foundation, or literally foundation of
all, because it is the foundation of both the cycle of existence and of liberation. ...Through
spiritual practice this clear light will be transformed into the mind of enlightenment‖ (Varela,
1997, p. 120).
In the Nyingma tradition, there is a distinction between foundation consciousness and
what is termed ―pristine awareness.‖ The Dalai Lama explained the difference:
Pristine awareness and foundation consciousness both share a common quality in that
they do not follow after objects. But it is very important to recognize the distinction between
the two. ... In foundation consciousness there is still an element of lack of clarity or delusion
in this passive awareness, whereas when pristine awareness arises, it is extremely vivid,
luminous and librating. So there‘s a radical distinction in the quality of the awareness of these
two states, but unless you have experienced the nature of pristine awareness, you could
confuse the two. (Varela, 1997, p. 121)
As the experience deepens within the dimensions of lucid dreaming, the chandelier of
consciousness is slowly lit to its full spectrum. There are levels of experience from delusion
to experiencing the nature of pure consciousness. One might ask, ―How do I make the
distinction between these experiences? And how do I know that I am not making up the
experience and that the experience is indeed of such dimensions?‖ It turns out that these
experiences are easily distinguishable, as experiencing Great Awareness transforms the life of
the practitioner. This transformation happens not only at a psychological and spiritual level
but also at the physical, energetic, and cellular level. After teaching lucid dreaming for a
quarter of a century and observing many students experience various levels of lucidity in
dreams, I have witnessed their transformation through this practice. Moreover, in conducting
a self-study incubating non-dual states of consciousness to allow natural emergence, Ryan
Hurd, as a graduate student in the John F. Kennedy University Dream Studies program,
discovered analogous patterns in the reports of others who had similar intentions of
incubating non-dual states (Hurd, 2008).
One of the archetypal dimensions of lucidity is the experience of inner light, often the
transition point from the familiar dreamscape to unfamiliar spaces of the mind. The
experience of light in lucid dreams is often reported as one of great joy, ecstasy, and a sense
of oneness with the universe. Researcher and long-time lucid dreamer George Gillespie has
experimented with a variety of transpersonal lucid dreams and the experience of light. For
him, the light often appears while he is in darkness or engaged in some religious activity.
Gillespie (1991) created 16 categories of visual experiences of light in lucid dreaming, among
which are the following: patterns in darkness – lines or herringbone designs, dots close
together, a chessboard pattern, parallel lines; points of lights (similar to stars, but not stars);
small lines (like lightning, but not lightning); lack of color and non-representational;
appearing after elimination of the visual environment; disks of light – can be mistaken for a
moon or planet; can be fixed or moving; patterns of light – changing versions of lattices,
lines, dots, and colors; content-less light only – variations of light; appearing in the sky; light
with sun only – light from the sun and variations of the sun in different colors with rays;
fullness of light – covers the field with brilliant light; white light that is difficult to look at,
followed by spontaneous feelings of joy; the space of being in the presence of God.
Lucid dreaming can be seen as a form of spiritual practice. Like any other spiritual
practice, it takes discipline, preparation, and will. This practice can impact and challenge our
habitual patterns, perceptions, core beliefs, and assumptions. Lucid dream practice can
facilitate flexibility and creativity, bringing new perspectives into our lives. The practice has
the potential to expand the infinite possibilities and explorations of the mind. Similar to any
spiritual practice, lucid dreaming needs preparation and training. This ―awareness skill‖
assists us to expand the dimensions of our consciousness in order to become lucid participants
in both dreaming and waking and at the same time witness the creation of our mind, become
reflective of the choices we make, and deeply question our own intentions.
Since consciousness is a continuum from waking to dreaming, seeking lucidity in our
dreams naturally leads to lucidity in each moment of our waking. The practice becomes a
self-inquiry in depth. This lucidity then leads to questions about our behavior in waking life.
When we have become practitioners of lucid dreaming, waking life also becomes like a
dream – more like a waking dream. Suddenly our interaction with our environment changes; a
heightened level of lucidity occurs in every aspect of our behavior and thoughts; flexibility
and creativity are enhanced; more choices and possibilities present themselves. Thus one
embraces the practice of total Presence.
106 Fariba Bogzaran
LUCIDITY PRACTICE
Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche points out that our dreams have their karmic traces. We can
even view life as one big symbolic dream. Are we lucid in our waking life? One of the
ultimate goals of learning lucid dreaming is to become lucid in waking. In fact, all the lucid
dream practices lead us to lucid waking. While within the Tibetan Buddhist tradition there
exist sets of preliminary practices to follow to prepare for lucid dreaming, in the West there
are no particular spiritual guidelines for this purpose. Except for a few writers and researchers
who specifically focus on the spiritual dimensions of lucid dreaming, in the framework of
Western research and education this state is not contextualized as a spiritual practice. Thus
anyone who is interested in learning lucid dreaming can openly learn the techniques.
Hardly anyone, however, who wants to learn lucid dreaming asks the question, ―What is
the point of becoming lucid in dreams?‖ The East/West view on this topic is paradoxical. In
the West, lucid dreaming is learned for personal gain, wish fulfillment, and, at times, pure
entertainment; in the East, it is learned as a spiritual practice to prepare for dying and seeing
the illusory qualities of the self. With both approaches, nonetheless, the nature of the practice
often leads the practitioner to existential and other meaningful questions.
The context within which lucid dreaming is taught is essential. Creating a psychological
and spiritual framework is important, as the practice triggers a larger view and aspect of the
self, and the teacher needs to have experience in handling whatever emerges psychologically,
emotionally, and spiritually from the practice.
Numerous methods have been developed to induce lucid dreaming. One of the masters of
the Western tradition of lucid dream induction is Stephen LaBerge, who has spent the past
several decades testing varieties of techniques, from intentionality work with MILD
(Mnemonic Induction of Lucid Dreams) and WILD (Waking Induction of Lucid Dreams) to
triggering lucid dreams with the DreamLight Device and, in the past few years, testing
Galantamine, a memory-enhancing drug used to treat Alzheimer‘s disease. Within the Tibetan
Buddhist tradition there are often sets of visualizations, sounds, body postures, mantras, and
intentions designed to induce lucid dreaming.
While I am not much in favor of offering guidelines out of context or outside direct oral
teachings, I have listed below a few essential integral methods deriving from both East and
West that I have found to be the key in the practice of lucid dreaming. Moreover, the
combination of these methods seems to have an effect on the long-term practice of lucidity in
both waking and dreaming. Each of the practices mentioned below comes from a variety of
traditions with in-depth disciplines in psycho-spiritual practices. I simply call the list
―Lucidity Practice‖ for attaining the full Presence.
1. Body Awareness: Our body directly affects our dreaming. Physical and emotional
balance, diet, and physical practices enable the body to become more in touch with
its own subtle life force and energetic systems. In Taoism this energetic flow is
called the Chi. Involving the somatic aspect while practicing lucid dreaming helps
sustain lucidity in both dreaming and waking. It is for this reason that in every Asian
spiritual tradition there is a physical practice such as Yoga, T‘ai Chi, or Aikido.
2. Meditation: The practice of meditation supports the mind/body connection and the
skills of witnessing and self-reflection, which are essential to becoming lucid in
dreams and able to sustain awareness on different levels of lucid dream experiences.
There are various dimensions of lucidity in which the observer remains detached
from the observed and becomes a witness to the morphology of the dreaming
environment.
3. Awakening Inquiry: ―Is this a dream?‖ Asking this question is a major practice of
Tibetan Buddhism. Such a question leads to the waking practice of stating, ―I am
dreaming,‖ or ―This is a dream.‖ LaBerge calls this method Reality Check, or State
Check, and he formulates it as ―Am I Dreaming?‖ (LaBerge, 2004). This lucidity test
helps us to break the habitual patterns in waking and dreaming, which test whether
we are indeed awake or dreaming. It also helps us become aware that what we have
created and are creating is a form of a dream, an illusion. This question serves two
purposes: to remind us to ask the question in the dream, thus becoming lucid, and, on
a more existential level, to indicate by the question that both waking and dreaming
are forms of dreaming.
4. Breathing: In all forms of meditation, we find that breathing is an essential practice
for attaining health, invoking equilibrium, and relaxing the mind. Breathing practice
is a powerful way to help cultivate a parasympathetic response. For example, a three-
breath practice requires simply taking a deep breath, holding it for about 20 counts,
and then having a long exhale. This practice before going to bed is a powerful tool to
bring the body/mind back into a state of balance in order to support witnessing the
mind while falling asleep.
5. Intentionality: Setting a specific intention, a purpose for having a lucid dream, is
extremely useful. Clarifying one‘s intention is a powerful practice that enables
practitioners to reflect on their lives and their purpose. Since our dream experience
can be directly affected by the way we incubate our intentions, clarifying intention is
important.
6. Hypnagogic Lucidity: Hypnagogia is a state of consciousness as we fall asleep. This
state is important for learning lucidity by witnessing the mind falling asleep.
Visualization, setting intention, meditation, breathing practices, and body awareness
all can be practiced while falling into a hypnagogic state.
These are some of the basic yet essential tools that can be used to begin paying attention
and cultivating presence and lucidity. The intentions carried within lucid dreaming are, of
course, personal. All practitioners have their own particular reasons for evoking lucid
dreaming, depending on where they are in their lives.
CONCLUSION
Lucid dreaming is an evolutionary process of ever-growing consciousness. Its levels are
countless, and its potential is beyond comprehension. We are just on the edge of exploring the
depth of the mind through the study of lucid dreaming. The important aspect of deepening
this practice is, first, to work with psychological, emotional, and physical levels, and then
move to the next level of spiritual exploration. When it comes to lucid dream practice within
108 Fariba Bogzaran
the Tibetan Buddhist tradition, teachers often remind practitioners that it‘s about motivation,
motivation, and pure motivation.
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Chapter 9
THE NEUROPSYCHOLOGY OF NIGHTMARES

REPORTED BY IRAQ WAR VETERANS
Daniel B. Pitchford
ABSTRACT
This chapter examines the neuropsychological foundations of Iraq War veterans‘
experiences of fear and memories related to nightmares and posttraumatic stress disorder
(PTSD), a condition that commonly affects people who have been exposed to an event
outside the range of usual human experience that is distressing to nearly everyone.
Unique factors of Iraq War veterans‘ experiences that contribute to the development of
PTSD are noted, and considerable data are presented about the neuropsychological
changes caused by the traumatic experiences of war. Studies of veterans of the conflicts
in Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan indicate that early intervention and treatment of PTSD
and nightmare distress are important. Moreover, there is a clear need for community
outreach to families, provision of support systems, and changes in the models of
treatment and intervention in the direction of becoming more holistic and less
stigmatizing.
INTRODUCTION
Sören Kierkegaard believed that life can be understood only as being non-linear and lived
out with intentionality. People make deliberate choices every day that impact the course of
their lives. And yet these life events are mainly inconsistent; they cannot be planned or
controlled; and they regularly shape the character and personalities of the people they impact.
One major constant in life is change, which shapes every aspect of human existence. It is by
understanding change and its effect upon everyday life (e.g., physical growth, sickness, stress,
coping, resilience) that people can begin to develop a sense of balance in their lives.
One way to conceptualize the impact of change on existence is by investigating how the
processes of life interactions – chemical, biological, structural, and interpersonal – affect each
aspect of survival. In this chapter, the specific features of neuropsychological changes will be
114 Daniel B. Pitchford
examined in the context of the traumatizing experiences of Iraq War veterans, with special
emphasis on the neuropsychological implications of posttraumatic stress disorder and trauma-
related nightmare experiences.
PTSD: ORIGIN, COMPLEXITIES, COMBAT, AND THE IRAQ WAR

The incidences of PTSD following exposure to ―traumatic‖ events vary per individual. A
traumatic event can be defined as a life-threatening incident or injury outside the range of
―common‖ human experiences, one that overwhelms the individual in their capacity to cope
with or integrate the experience (American Psychiatric Association [APA], 2000). The
etiology of PTSD itself can be understood by examining the historical and current
implications of PTSD in survivors of human-made events such as rape, relational violence, or
war, as well as in survivors of natural disasters such as hurricanes, earthquakes, or tsunamis.
PTSD is not a new disorder; although it was adopted as an official diagnosis by the American
Psychiatric Association only in 1980, clearly PTSD has existed for centuries. Most accounts
of PTSD have been researched in war veterans, especially in veterans of the Vietnam conflict.
However, various other traumatic events have been documented and studied (Andrews,
Brewin, & Rose, 2003; Bolton, 2003; Carlson & Rosser-Hogan, 1991).
PTSD can be diagnosed only if an individual has been exposed to a traumatic event that
left him or her with a sense of horror or terror and feelings of helplessness. The person must
have symptoms including intrusive imagery, hyperarousal, numbing, poor concentration,
anxiety, and nightmares (APA, 2000). Further, a diagnosis of PTSD must be considered
carefully, as its manifestation varies in individuals from different cultures who have been
exposed to different types of traumas (Brown, 2008a; Krippner & McIntyre, 2003). The
DSM-IV-TR (APA, 2000) documents the criteria according to which a person qualifies for a
diagnosis of PTSD. By understanding these criteria, practitioners can begin to add another
lens through which to view their clients and the ways they may be influenced by the disorder,
rather than just narrowly applying the DSM-IV as a labeling system. PTSD is not to be seen in
black and white, but in various subtle dimensions.
Trauma impacts people differently, and its frequency increases the probability of the
development of PTSD. For example, two war veterans could have participated in the same
firefight, under the same stress of having to kill others and protect themselves at the same
time (severity of trauma), while only one of them develops PTSD. If, in combination with the
original traumatic experience, the veteran then continues to engage in other firefights
(increased frequency of traumatic events), that experience is more likely to increase the
symptomology. While no one knows exactly what factors (e.g., resiliency, biology) are
involved in the development of PTSD, there are various etiological factors that contribute to
the disorder. For example, war is viewed as a human-made disaster, whereas earthquakes are
considered natural disasters. The type of disaster itself may determine the level of PTSD in a
person who experiences it (Cannon, 2002; Herman, 1997; Serlin & Cannon, 2004).
Take the example of sexual trauma. For purposes of generalization, the discussion will
focus on men as being the perpetrators and women as the survivors, although men are often
victims themselves and this fact should not be discounted. When a woman is raped, she may
not only feel helpless, defiled, and stripped of her rights of autonomy, she may also have to
The Neuropsychology of Nightmares Reported by Iraq War Veterans 115
live with a continued fear of all men. This, then, exacerbates her trauma more than would a
natural disaster such as a tsunami, because she may be continually confronted with the threat
of ―man,‖ who is everywhere in the world. Her locus of control may become more
internalized, as the survivor begins to blame herself by thinking how she might have
prevented the rape or even caused it. She may also begin discounting the responsibility of the
perpetrator.
In the case of a natural disaster, the locus of control may be more external, in the sense
that the tsunami was unpreventable. No one knew it would happen. Trust comes into play
without human reference, as people wonder if it is safe to continuing living where the disaster
occurred or if moving away would be better. This is why it is important to understand the type
of trauma that has occurred. By doing so, caregivers may be able to choose a better method of
intervening (e.g., establishing women survivor support groups versus providing relief aid for
displacement caused by a tsunami).
The complexities of war-time stressors (e.g., seeing comrades die, constant hyperarousal)
have existed in every war. The Vietnam conflict, however, was unique in that it was that war
that led to the development of the diagnosis that eventually became known as PTSD.
Researchers‘ observations during the Vietnam conflict revealed that traumatic stress impacted
each veteran uniquely, depending on the type of threat exposure and other factors (Tanielian
& Jaycox, 2008). If combat incidences, for example, were higher in intensity (e.g., witnessing
comrades getting blown up versus dodging nearby mortar rounds), they tended to produce
greater mental health casualties, affecting ground troops more than others.
Since the end of the Vietnam conflict, there has been no significant degree of U.S. troop
occupancy in international or foreign territories until the Iraq War (Belasco, 2007; Tanielian
& Jaycox, 2008), where troops have been deployed for tours up to 15 months at a time and
sometimes redeployed for longer periods. This pattern creates a high degree of tension for
veterans in combination with the already established daily stressors of roadside bombs,
improvised explosive devices (IED), suicide bombers, the handling of human remains, killing
an enemy, seeing fellow soldiers and friends dead or injured, and feeling helpless to stop
violent situations (Hoge, Castro, Messer, McGurk, et al., 2004). Due to the increased degree
of combat stressors, it is likely that today‘s veterans will be at increased risk of mental health
difficulties such as PTSD.
Every person is affected differently by traumatic events. Laura S. Brown (2008b)
poignantly notes how traumatic stress impacts individuals uniquely, observing that ―what
constitutes a threat of death or injury or a threat to physical integrity is also not intuitively
obvious‖ (p. 96). Many life experiences that evoke symptoms of PTSD – divorce, for
example – may not necessarily ―qualify‖ to meet the diagnostic criteria of PTSD. In fact, the
novelty of trauma is so specific in the formation of PTSD that it is necessary to discuss the
main factors that might arouse symptomology in those whom it affects – in this case, veterans
of the Iraq War.
The diagnosis of PTSD was developed in the late 1970s, when Vietnam combat veterans‘
reactions to their war experiences were causing them high levels of psychological distress.
Comparably high levels of psychological distress noted during World War I, for instance,
were then termed ―shell shock.‖ Since the Vietnam conflict was a major cause of PTSD being
recognized as a disorder, a significant number of people have come to associate PTSD with
war experiences. However, the disorder can result from any experience that impacts a person
to the point where he or she is left with feelings of terror and helplessness. It is important to
note that feelings of terror differ significantly from feelings of fear. Every individual is
programmed to experience fear through the fight or flight response (Levin & Nielson, 2007).
When people experience terror, in contrast, their fight and flight response shuts down, leaving
them unable to choose what to do; instead, they respond with feeling frozen and incapable of
deciding, thinking, or reacting appropriately.
The violence, terror, and carnage experienced in war may remind veterans that human
existence includes its own destruction (Fuchsman, 2008). When combat veterans witness
death in war, a paradox is created. Watching an enemy die, for example, can evoke a feeling
of satisfaction, despite the possible emotional scarring from the experience. However,
witnessing the death of a comrade exposes soldiers not only to the reality of their own
vulnerability, but also to the wound caused by breaking a bond with their unit (Fuchsman,
2008). This is especially evident in the Iraq War, since units are kept together throughout
their tours.
When PTSD occurs in those who have been exposed to war, their symptoms can be
exacerbated through future events such as car accidents. Veterans who served in the Vietnam
conflict, for example, were commonly not valued for their service and shamed on numerous
occasions (e.g., called ―baby killers‖). ―Homecoming‖ for many Vietnam veterans involved
being met with hostility and rejection, often interpreted by them as an indication that
―America was no longer beautiful‖ (Eisenhart, 1977, p. 5). Whereas soldiers returning from
the Iraq War have had more positive experiences, they have endured their own combat
stressors (Paulson & Krippner, 2007). Veterans may regularly encounter events that remind
them of their traumatic war experiences (e.g., loud noises), which may increase the severity of
their symptoms and decrease their daily functioning. Furthermore, combat veterans have been
noted to have more difficultly adjusting socially based on the self-concept they had even
before going to war (Baum, 2004; Finnegan, 2008; Krippner & Paulson, 2006). At the same
time, other combat veterans have been able to adjust successfully to postwar life without
experiencing PTSD (Dohrenwend, Neria, Turner, Turse, et al., 2004).
Many veterans returning from the Iraq War have been noted to be experiencing
symptomology characteristic of PTSD. Oftentimes, the stigma associated with their
symptoms, encountered when trying to access mental health care even though fearing
retaliation from their commanding officers, has prevented them from seeking adequate
assistance after their release from the military (Hoge et al., 2004). That is, many returning
Iraq veterans attempt to access medical or mental health services only when these appear to
be the last options for help with their symptoms and often at the insistence of spouses,
partners, and other family members.
It should be noted that Iraq War combat experiences are similar to those of Vietnam, with
ground fighting exercises complicated by ambushes, the inability to identify the ―enemy,‖ and
marked difficulties moving over terrain while avoiding conflict or attacks (Hoge et al., 2004;
Paulson & Krippner, 2007). Since the Gulf War, predictors of early distress (associated with
PTSD) have been noted along with actual PTSD symptomology.
Combat exposure is frequently coupled with various other factors leading to a diagnosis
of PTSD. When PTSD is diagnosed in combat veterans, it must be understood that a wide
range of emotionally disturbing events can lead to the re-arousal of PTSD symptoms for
those at risk. Also, research has found that rigorous military training for various types of
combat does not instill resilience or alter the impacts of combat exposure in relation to PTSD
(Koenen, Lyons, Goldberg, Simpson, et al., 2003).
In order to understand the complexities of PTSD, every developmental aspect of the

disorder should be examined. Let us first consider those combat veterans who meet criteria
for subclinical PTSD – that is, those who have posttraumatic stress (PTS) but do not
necessarily merit a full diagnosis of PTSD. These veterans may experience some form of
stress caused by war events, but not to a degree that severely impairs their functioning.
Obviously, war veterans are exposed to many different types of combat scenarios, some more
debilitating than others.
IEDs and other blast explosive devices (car bombs, suicide bombers) are, in fact, the
most common weaponry used by insurgents in Iraq (Tanielian & Jaycox, 2008). Exposure to
this type of combat does not guarantee that veterans will develop PTSD; although they may
well have symptoms of posttraumatic stress reflecting heightened states of anxious responses
to environmental stimulation, these may be subtle and less severe than full blown PTSD
(Paulson & Krippner, 2007). An example of a person with PTS might be a veteran who
responds to loud noises with a startle, but is able to regulate the response back to manageable
terms. The veteran who has PTSD, in contrast, will not be able to control or manage the
reaction to the startle (e.g., automatically dropping to the floor). Combat veterans with PTS
also may have issues surrounding a ―flattened sense of real life fulfillment‖ and trouble
staying focused on the present (Paulson & Krippner, 2007, p. 31). Moreover, veterans with
posttraumatic stress or subclinical PTSD can easily be triggered at some point in their lives to
experience full-blown PTSD. This can happen for many reasons, but has most commonly
been instigated by post-war civilian life events (e.g., a car backfiring).
There are unique factors of Iraq War veterans‘ experiences that contribute to the
development of PTSD (Paulson & Krippner, 2007). First, the stories shared between people
about lived experiences create social constructions within each culture (Murray, 2004).
Cultures – in this case, Western culture – attribute to each gender certain functions and
responsibilities (Brown, 2008b). With regard to war, the function of fighting has been seen as
fulfilled primarily by men. However, current combat veterans include both men and women,
who thus find themselves at a new point in Western culture. As the culture of the military
(along with that of the civilian world) expands, it creates rifts (Brown, 2008b). More
specifically, acts of male violence upon females within the military have increased
dramatically since the onset of the Iraq War (Paulson & Krippner, 2007; Tanielian & Jaycox,
2008).
The Iraq War ultimately changed culturally determined gender roles by calling to duty
people of both genders to defend ―freedom.‖ At the same time, reports of mental health
concerns have been rising steadily for both male and female combat veterans (Tanielian &
Jaycox, 2008). Recent studies show that many of the United States‘ male and female active
duty troops in Iraq are affected with PTSD and other mental health concerns; moreover,
PTSD is highest among female combat veterans (Tanielian & Jaycox, 2008). The proportion
of Iraq veterans experiencing combat-related disorders is higher than that recorded during and
after the Vietnam conflict (Hoge et al., 2004; Kaplan, 2006; Krippner & Paulson, 2006;
Robinson, 2004). Military operations in Iraq (and Afghanistan) have involved many ground
combat troops (similar to Vietnam), which increases the likelihood of traumatic stress
exposure and physical injuries (Hoge et al., 2004; Kaplan, 2006).
Researchers are also paying attention to the voluntary enlistment of both genders in the
war effort, along with the controversy about voluntary enlistment and the stop-loss policy
being used as a hidden draft (Barnes, 2008). This policy states that, during wartime, the
President of the United States can issue a stop-loss on any veteran who is about to be
discharged, having him or her recalled to active duty. The number of soldiers held in the
Army under the stop-loss program reached a high in March 2005 of 15,758 (Barnes, 2008).
That number steadily declined through May 2007, when it hit 8,540. As of March 2008 the
number of soldiers subjected to stop-loss orders had climbed back to 12,235 (Barnes, 2008).
This policy not only increases the stress upon veterans and their families, but also increases
their combat exposure and the likelihood of their developing PTSD, if they have not already
done so (Barnes, 2008).
Coinciding with the stop-loss issue is that of redeployment, another factor potentially
leading to the development of PTSD (Fuchsman, 2008). Research has shown that PTSD
(along with other mental health problems) has a high prevalence in relation to deployment
stressors and exposure to combat, especially on the ground (Hoge et al., 2004). Most studies
examine PTSD and the impact of fighting years after wars have ended; thus the attention paid
to the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts while they are going on is crucial (Hoge et al., 2004;
Kaplan, 2006; Paulson & Krippner, 2007; Robinson, 2004). One problem is that very little
research has been done on mental health problems that occur during deployment, as opposed
to screening efforts designed to catch existing mental health concerns pre and post
deployment. Also, there are similarities between the Vietnam conflict and the Iraq War (e.g.,
confusion about who is the ―enemy‖), which has a continuing impact on Vietnam veterans.
Specifically, Vietnam veterans have reported PTSD symptoms of hyperarousal, flashbacks,
and nightmares exacerbated by watching the news on television as well as by hearing about
the war from other sources (e.g., radio, friends, etc.) throughout the day. Despite this
anecdotal support, research is still accumulating in providing empirical support for this
assertion.
In past wars such as Vietnam, combat veterans were given significant time to recuperate
from active combat. Often they were sent to ―rest and relaxation‖ sites for weeks of
downtime, a practice that was significantly beneficial to decompressing stressed troops. In the
Iraq War, in contrast, combat veterans have found themselves redeployed two or three times
before being furloughed; not surprisingly, these veterans have a 37% increased chance of
being diagnosed with PTSD. In 2007, the Department of Defense extended each tour served
in Iraq from 12 months to 15 months (Fuchsman, 2008; Kaufman & Chedekel, 2007).
By the time combat veterans do get discharged from service, they may seek to ―feel
alive‖ by engaging in behaviors that evoke death-defying experiences similar to those
encountered during combat (Fuchsman, 2008; Scurfield, 2006). Many have engaged in
adrenaline-evoking behaviors (e.g., fights, reckless driving) in the hope of maintaining a
sense of the ―normalcy‖ of their combat experiences. In some instances, combat veterans
have committed domestic violence and even murder (Paulson & Krippner, 2007).
The combat zones peculiar to the Iraq War are also factors. There are some similarities
(e.g., unseen enemy, ambushes, unfamiliar territory) to the Vietnam conflict, but the Iraq War
has its own novelties (Kaplan, 2006). For one, the tactics in this war are much less clear than
in Vietnam. There is no obvious identification of the enemy other than as ―insurgents,‖ and
they could be anyone. Veterans must dehumanize and project evil upon the insurgents and
everyone else whom they encounter in Iraq, as no one can be trusted (Fuchsman, 2008;
Paulson & Krippner, 2007). In Vietnam, the enemies encountered by the soldiers were
confined to a dense jungle, whereas in the deserts and cities of Iraq the ―enemy‖ could be
anywhere and hence largely ―unseen.‖ In the Iraq War soldiers are always on alert, ready to
kill, and distrustful of everyone (Fuchsman, 2008; Kaplan, 2006).
However, one benefit of the Iraq War is that combat veterans stay together in a unit –
they enter and leave together. In Vietnam, assignments of duty changed frequently, as did
stations and unit attachments. Also, as noted by Paulson and Krippner (2007) and others
(Hampson & Solvig, 2006), the dynamics of the Iraq War present unique challenges to the
combat veteran: ―There is no safe or unsafe region – just a constant, but ebbing, threat‖
(Paulson & Krippner, 2007, p. 48). They found in their interviews and research that Iraq War
veterans find themselves no longer subjected to threats just from ―insurgents,‖ but also to
internal attacks of the mind and body – panic attacks, nightmares, hyperarousal, and others in
response to common domestic cues (e.g., a slamming door). Their wartime experiences in a
land where threats and vigilance reigned accompany everyday experiences in a once familiar
place that now seems entirely foreign (Paulson & Krippner, 2007).
Particularly in the context of the Iraq War, suicide is a risk factor for the combat veteran.
The present mental health toll on Iraq and Afghanistan veterans includes suicides, medical
evacuations, sexual assaults, and witnessing the wounding and deaths of comrades and
civilians (Kaplan, 2006). Ireland (2005) reported that United States suicides from 2003 to
2005 included only 62 from Iraq and Afghanistan veterans. In contrast, approximately 19,800
soldiers during that period of time were impacted by psychiatric problems, including PTSD
and suicidal ideation (Ireland, 2005). However, the statistics since then are much higher.
Kaplan (2006) reported that suicides occur more frequently than is being reported; that
suicides are occurring more often than in other wars; and that veterans do not usually commit
suicide until they return home from ―duty.‖ In an online article by Kimberly Hefling (2008)
of the Associated Press, Veterans Affairs (VA) Secretary James Peake attested that ―the VA
estimates the suicide rate among veterans is at a rate of 18 per day, or approximately 6,500
per year.‖ Stories have flooded the newspapers, as suicides increased. Many veterans have
returned with more than just traumatic stress, that is, with depression and other mental health
struggles (Kaplan, 2006).
Subintentional suicide, though not frequently addressed, is worth mentioning in the
context of behavioral concerns for the post-Iraq War veteran (Shneidman, 1994, 1998).
Subintentional suicide may occur under circumstances where the combat veteran would not
usually consider committing suicide (Neeleman, Wessely, & Wadsworth, 1998). For
example, if a combat veteran rides his or her motorcycle at life-threatening speeds and
engages in risky behaviors (e.g., weaving in and out of traffic at high speeds), he or she may
inadvertently crash into a wall or drive off a bridge. Another example, probably more
common but not necessarily reported, is committing suicide while under the influence of
substances such as with alcohol or drugs. If a veteran who is tormented by his or her combat
experiences has contemplated suicide, but never had the desire or drive to carry out the act,
substance abuse may be the motivation required to end the ongoing despair. Statistics on
subintentional suicide in combat veterans are not readily available, because tracking such
behaviors is very difficult and tends to raise speculation and criticism surrounding the true
intentions of the deceased (Neeleman et al., 1998).
The need for social acceptance and the military‘s stigma against PTSD can affect
veterans‘ development of the disorder (Hoge et al., 2004). As is commonly known, many
Vietnam veterans were, upon returning to the States, rejected from the moment they stepped
off the plane; the rejection continued through the years, thereby exacerbating PTSD
symptoms by shaming and condemning the veterans‘ war experience (Mendelsohn & Sewell,
2004). Furthermore, at the time when the Vietnam conflict ended, efforts to validate the
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 3rd Edition‟s (APA, 1980) diagnostic
category of PTSD catalyzed research on war-related and other massive stressors because of
the growing number of PTSD diagnoses. At the same time, issues such as recognizing PTSD
as a psychological wound continue to challenge the military culture. The stigma attached to
psychological problems may prevent many veterans from communicating their mental health
struggles (Hoge et al., 2004).
Assessing the contribution of military or combat experience (e.g., IEDs, sniper attacks,
blast explosions) to the development of PTSD has been hindered by the overlap of PTSD
symptoms with those characteristic of other diagnoses, including anxiety-related disorders,
drug dependence, antisocial personality disorder, and endogenous depression. These
confound the diagnosis and veterans‘ willingness to report symptoms (Hoge et al., 2004).
Meanwhile, treatments for PTSD were quickly developed and researched to counteract the
growing number of PTSD diagnoses for Iraq War combat veterans (Paulson & Krippner,
2007; Tanielian & Jaycox, 2008). While the mental health issues provoked by war are not
new, it is important to note that the prevalence of mental health difficulties and the need for
greater services to meet those difficulties with veterans is greatest at the time of war
(Marlowe, 2001; Milliken, Auchterlonie, & Hoge, 2007; Rosenheck & Fontana, 1999). The
impact of combat upon veterans can be traced back to the first descriptions of humankind at
war (Marlowe, 2001).
Particularly prevalent in the Iraq War, but not uncommon in previous U.S. wars, are the
occurrences of traumatic brain injuries (TBI). Sadly, these are now commonplace in Iraq War
veterans (Tanielian & Jaycox, 2008). This is largely because blast combat (based on
explosives or IEDs) is a common weaponry tactic used by insurgents (Hayward, 2008). Blast
injuries increase not only the number of deaths and the loss of limbs, but also the complexity
of traumatic stress and PTSD. TBI is a common injury resulting from IEDs and the
ineffectiveness of the body armor being used. Since TBI is so common, appropriate measures
to detect brain injuries have been developed and are continually being revised (see Military
Acute Concussion Evaluation, MACE; Hayward, 2008).
The increased use of IEDs has given rise to widespread concern about the prevalence of
TBI among veterans. The Defense Veterans Brain Injury Center (DVBIC) estimates that over
2,500 veterans have suffered a traumatic brain injury from explosive conflicts during their
service in the Iraq War and that many more have not been accounted for (Glasser, 2007;
Tanielian & Jaycox, 2008). Also, TBI and PTSD share similarities in symptomology that may
confuse the diagnosis if not properly assessed.
PSYCHOPHYSIOLOGY AND COMBAT-RELATED PTSD

As the brain develops throughout a person‘s existence, it relies on a balance of
communication from all neurological receptors throughout the body (e.g., pain, touch). Over
time, a ―healthy‖ development sustains balance between the brain (mind) and the body
(Crowell, Kieffer, Siders, & Vanderploeg, 2002). Nevertheless, certain life encounters such as
combat can cause the communication between the brain and the body to shift so as to leave
long-term detrimental effects. Veterans who have been through combat experiences and are
diagnosed with PTSD show significant changes in how the brain communicates with the
body. As the body and brain engage the trauma of combat, the brain begins to process the
trauma according to how the body was involved (e.g., sensory cues as in olfactory receptors
being activated by the smell of burning flesh). The brain then records the event in such a way
that it becomes imprinted, but not processed as ordinary events are; thus it is seemingly stuck,
as it were, and continually triggers the sympathetic nervous system (as when a woman is
raped and the rape event is continually re-experienced by visual flashbacks) so that the person
becomes overwhelmingly hyperaroused. A functional person becomes hyperaroused when a
threat to his or her person is detected. At the time of the threat, the person then decides to
encounter it (fight) or run from it (flight) (Crowell et al., 2002). However, in some instances,
a person may freeze and not make a decision either way based on the overwhelming
hyperaroused state he or she is in at the time. Hyperarousal comes from the brain
communicating to the body that it must be ―on guard‖ at all times against harm or other
encounters similar to the very trauma that initiated the response (Crowell et al., 2002). Thus,
the person‘s arousal processes become overwhelmed.
Common hyperarousal responses are an easy startle response, an increased fear reaction,
and sleep disturbances. Such responses are instigated through various mechanisms within the
limbic system of the brain. Primarily, the continued stimulation of the fear and memory
regions (e.g., amygdala and hippocampus, as explained later) of the brain which evoke the all
too common hyperarousal reactions seen in veterans diagnosed with PTSD. The veteran, for
example, who comes home after experiencing combat, may respond to a car backfire the very
same way he or she would when encountering a firefight while in battle. This includes
potentially enduring increases in heart rate and blood pressure when exposed to visual and
auditory reminders of trauma. It is important to note here that veterans diagnosed with PTSD
will continue to have symptoms until they are treated (Schnurr, Lunney, & Sengupta, 2004).
Also, in veterans with PTSD, brain structures have been documented as being altered in size.
For example, some veterans with PTSD have been found to have hippocampus structures that
appear to be smaller in size than normal (Gilbertson, Shenton, Ciszewski, Kasai et al., 2002).
What is not known is whether parts of the hippocampus region were missing or depleted prior
to the trauma, a condition which might make some individuals more susceptible or even
predisposed to PTSD than others. This is an area of research that is lacking, though inquiries
have begun to stimulate thought (Krystal & Duman, 2004).
As most veterans were engaged in combat during the day and/or during the night, they
had to be continually on their guard against a common threat. Upon returning ―home,‖
veterans diagnosed with PTSD know that a common threat is no longer real; however, the
body‘s response remains the same as if the threat were around the corner (Adler, Huffman,
Bliese, & Castro, 2005). To confound the matter, veterans also may experience an awakening
state prompt such as a flashback. There are specific chemical changes, such as with the
increased activity of the stress neurotransmitter cortisol or with the mood-altering
neurotransmitter serotonin, which affect veterans‘ responses to their environment and trigger
various receptors in the brain that increase their susceptibility to fear, anxiety, anger, and or
depression. These chemical changes, interfacing with fear responses and flashbacks, invoke
memories and increase arousal and anxiety. Serotonin and cortisol are stimulated beyond
what would be expected in ―normal‖ functioning people, thereby enforcing, as it were, the
recall and response that PTSD invokes (Crowell et al., 2002). Veterans must then
accommodate this physiological change; in some instances, veterans will find themselves
sleeping during the day and ―being on guard‖ at night.
PSYCHOPHYSIOLOGY OF PTSD-BASED NIGHTMARES

IN COMBAT VETERANS
Sleep is important to maintaining a homeostatic life (McNamara, Nunn, Barton, Harris, &
Capellini, 2007). If veterans are deprived, for example, of sleeping regularly in a given 24-
hour period, their functioning will be diminished. Sleeping begins in two primary stages:
rapid eye movement (REM) and non-rapid eye movement (NREM) (Bourne & Mills, 2004).
NREM sleep has four major phases (1-4) that typically allow for the progression of sleep. As
people begin to rest more and more deeply – progressing from initial sleep (phases 1-2) to a
deeper sleep (phases 3-4) – their ability to be easily awakened decreases. Since the sleep
cycle is complicated and not easily adjusted with linear controls, neurotransmitters like
norepinephrine, acetylcholine, serotonin, dopamine, and histamine work in collaboration with
various hormones such as melatonin. Typically, a sleep cycle occurs approximately 90
minutes at a time, progressing through phases 1-4 and then entering REM sleep (Bourne &
Mills, 2004). The phases of sleep can be monitored and measured through the use of an
electroencephalograph (EEG), which specifically measures brain waves by recording
electrical signals emitted from the brain while asleep or awake.
The brain waves can provide considerable information about brain activity and its various
states of relaxation and arousal (e.g., sleep and anxiety), including significant distress that
may occur such as in nightmares. For example, brain wave patterns as measured during the
nightmares of combat veterans diagnosed with PTSD resembled the brain waves of these
same veterans while awake (Caldwell & Redeker, 2005; Levin & Neilson, 2007). A
nightmare is an experience that provokes terror in people to the point of suddenly waking
them; it commonly occurs during REM sleep (Hartmann, 1984; Levin & Nielson, 2007), but
can also occur at sleep onset, thereby affecting the initiation of sleep. Nightmares usually
incorporate terrifying and discomforting details. The difference between ―typical‖ nightmare
experiences and those that become ―recurrent‖ is that the latter disrupt the sleep cycle and can
cause long-term sleep disorders such as insomnia or narcolepsy (Levin & Nielson, 2007).
Some studies have shown that the neurotransmitter dopamine can influence the onset of
nightmares or even support nightmare activity in general. These results were discovered when
patients with Parkinson‘s disease reported an increase of nightmare activity (and in monitored
brain wave activity) after receiving treatment with L-DOPA.
In combat veterans diagnosed with PTSD, the sleeping phases may be severely impacted
by nightmares (Levin & Nielson, 2007). These veterans can be effortlessly aroused from
sleep by nightmares and commonly recall them in detail. In fact, the nightmares are connected
not only with disrupted sleep but with interrupted daytime behavior (e.g., hyperarousal) as
well. Many combat veterans now sleep during the day, rather than at night. They are
commonly plagued with nightmares based on traumatic combat experiences, as well as other
sleep disturbances, no matter when they seek sleep. One explanation is found in the
neurotransmitter serotonin, which seems to play multiple roles in the central nervous system
including the regulation of sleep, and in other psychophysiological changes like aggression,
appetite, cardiovascular and respiratory activity, motor output, anxiety, and mood. Also,
PTSD in combat veterans has led to changes in neurotransmitter levels, leaving veterans with
heightened stress levels (e.g., increased cortisol) and severe depression (e.g., increased
serotonin) (Crowell et al., 2002).
The heightened stress levels in combat veterans in combination with traumatic
experiences can impact sleep behavior by causing significantly intense and recurrent
nightmares. However, it is important to remember when considering the formation of
nightmares in combat veterans diagnosed with PTSD that every individual is unique in his or
her capacity to cope with traumatic events. Sometimes, if a traumatic history (e.g., rape) prior
to the combat experience exists, or if the person has, say, lower resilience than normal, ―thin‖
boundaries, or medication side effects, these factors can help contribute to the onset of
nightmares (Pagel, 2000).
Combat veterans may experience two types of recurrent nightmares, traumatic (or
trauma-related) and nontraumatic; however, combat veterans diagnosed with PTSD
commonly experience traumatic nightmares (Caldwell & Redeker, 2005; Levin & Nielson,
2007). When a past trauma causes a fear memory (made up from specific amygdala and
hippocampus interactions; see below), the memory can become ingrained and cause a
repetitive nightmare; moreover, it is extremely resistant to being eradicated from the brain. In
the case of a nontraumatic nightmare, in contrast, no significant trauma has been experienced,
but some other kind of negative experience may have occurred (e.g., fear about giving a
speech) that evoked major anxiety and caused significant stimulation during sleep. The main
difference between the two types of nightmares is that non-traumatic nightmares are regulated
through extinction – the systemic removal of emotional memories from the brain (Levin &
Nielson, 2007) – while trauma-related nightmares, which cannot be processed through natural
means of extinction, remain ―stuck.‖
Trauma-related nightmares are connected with various disturbances in areas of the brain
that contribute to emotional processes such as the regulation of emotional responses (Levin &
Nielson, 2007). A significant factor for the control and occurrence of trauma-related
nightmares can be found in two major limbic areas of the brain: the amygdala and the
hippocampus. Changes in these two limbic areas involve increased activity through constant
stimulation in both of them. Nightmares begin to take shape when symptoms of arousal and
distress are continually activated and exaggerated in the amygdala, coupled with associated
traumatic memories stored in the hippocampus. The brain tries continuously to resolve or
dampen this activation, but is unable to do so when the exaggeration is triggered over and
over again. During sleep, this exaggeration then combines its efforts with the associated
memories and elicits what is known as a traumatic nightmare experience (Levin & Nielson,
2007), which can be better understood when the amygdala and hippocampus within the limbic
system are examined.
The amygdala is the central area that regulates affect and emotional responses such as
fear. The amygdala is not stimulated by recall or imagery alone, but is commonly activated by
visual perception (e.g., facial expressions and environmental cues). What this means is that, in
the case of traumatic experiences, amygdala activity is hyper-reactive to any stimulus that is
remotely connected to the traumatic experience(s) (Levin & Nielson, 2007). During
dreaming, amygdala activity varies according to the amount of emotion being expressed, but
the stimulus level for fear responses is remarkably low. A minute amount of activation of the
amygdala during dreaming may trigger anxiety, whereas in a nightmare state amygdala
activity is overstimulated, leaving the veteran in a state of anxiety and fearfulness.
The hippocampus plays an essential role in encoding and processing memories and in
retaining stimuli from unique experiences (Levin & Nielson, 2007; Nyberg, 2005). It has a
major function in integrating aspects of memory at the time of recollection. More specifically,
the hippocampus is partly responsible for locating a memory of an event in time, place, and
context. In dreaming, the hippocampus relays some aspects of memory through new,
unexpected, and sometimes bizarre contexts out of a combination of influences (e.g., semantic
knowledge, symbols, and memory fragments). However, when nightmares based on traumatic
events are experienced, the dreaming process usually portrays the traumatic events with close
to the accuracy of the original experience (Barrett & Behbehani, 2003; Caldwell & Redeck,
2005). Also, image studies have demonstrated that amygdala and hippocampal activity during
REM sleep exceeds the activity exhibited during NREM sleep (a less profound state), thereby
corresponding with the peak of activity when the brain is producing its most intense dream
imagery similar to that of people who experience recurrent nightmares or dreams (Braun,
Balkin, Wesensten, Carson, et al., 1997; Maquet, Peters, Aerts, Delfiore, et al., 1996).
The hippocampus also regulates emotions in dreams and nightmares and facilitates fear
extinction (Levin & Nielson, 2007). In conjunction with the amygdala, the hippocampus
regulates several aspects of fear memory expression (explained below), including fear
memory extinction, contextual fear, and conditioned fear. People who have recurrent dreams
usually are low in subjective well-being; the content is commonly connected with emotional
processes (Adler et al., 2005). In combat veterans diagnosed with PTSD, their nightmare
experiences are encompassed by intense amygdala activation associated with recurring
memories of the traumatic experience(s). Further, research has shown that amygdala activity
is increased during nightmare states as compared with regular dreaming and waking states,
which further supports its primary function in increasing fear responses. Yet attention must be
paid to the complexity of fear as it is experienced in daily living. Fear conditioning and the
process of managing fear arousal within nightmare experiences involve multiple components
working together, such as fear memories, which combine amygdala stimulation with image
retrieval from the hippocampus (Levin & Nielson, 2007).
Fear memories are a common occurrence. They constitute a normal experience within the
realm of memory functioning, typically becoming pathological or intrusive, as in nightmares,
only when they occur on such a consistent basis as to overwhelm the limbic system.
Naturally, the brain handles such experiences within the limbic system, appropriating
emotions and their corresponding memories to allow for the processing (e.g., by dreaming) of
the next experience. Fear memories become more intrusive when they are ―resistant to
extinction and contain an excessive number of response elements‖ (Levin & Nielson, 2007, p.
502). That is, veterans with PTSD are considered more vulnerable to having nightmares due
to their intensely charged and vivid fear memories around their trauma experiences. This
vulnerability interacts with the neurophysiology of the sleep states and then overactivates the
charged fear memories, making them more resistant to processing and extinction (Levin &
Nielson, 2007). This means that the fear memories remain vivid and continuously charged,
thus causing recurrent nightmares.
In the case of ―normal‖ dreaming, fear memories may become stimulated, but they are
quickly alleviated through extinction, a process that both minimizes their impact on
functioning (e.g., avoids forming nightmares) and also strengthens the limbic system‘s ability
to inhibit future fear memories from developing (Levin & Nielson, 2007). However, the
dreaming process is not linear or simplistic. Since dreams vary in their context, content, and
unique subjectivity, the limbic system is always working to manage the continuous nature of
fear memories and other processes initiated in the course of dreaming.
A POTENTIAL RESOLUTION
Studies of Vietnam veterans, and now of Iraq and Afghanistan veterans, indicate that
early intervention and treatment of PTSD and nightmare distress are important (Hoge et al.,
2004; Kaplan, 2006; Pagel, 2000). Boscarino (2006) found that Vietnam veterans with PTSD
have an increased risk of death if their symptoms are prolonged and untreated. The U.S.
Veterans Administration and the Department of Defense are helping to reduce the prolonged
occurrence of PTSD in veterans returning from Iraq and Afghanistan by employing newer
screening tools to identify symptoms and make the necessary and appropriate referrals.
However, with the continued stigma resulting from PTSD being seen as a weakness, the fear
of retaliation from commanding officers, and the difficulties of getting treatment in a timely
manner (as in having to wait in VA emergency rooms to get services), there is more to be
done (Hoge et al., 2004). While stigma and other barriers to care should stimulate the military
into considering more outreach, education, and changes in mental health care delivery, in fact
little has occurred to-date.
Considerable support for treating PTSD (and its accompanying nightmares) has resulted
from the experimental use of certain medication and psychotherapy regimens. Several types
of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs) and tricyclic antidepressants (TCAs) have
been shown to be effective in addressing different symptoms of PTSD (Emilien, Penasse,
Charles, Martin et al., 1999). SSRIs and TCAs affect the concentration and activity of the
neurotransmitters serotonin and norepinephrine, which have been found to be related to PTSD
and other anxiety-based disorders. Specifically, SSRIs and TCAs may reduce nightmares,
guilt, insomnia, flashbacks, depression, intrusive and avoidant symptoms, anger, explosive
outbursts, hyperarousal symptoms, and numbing. Other types of medication have been found
useful in providing relief from PTSD symptomology, but SSRIs and TCAs are the most
commonly prescribed. Also of note, certain alpha- and beta-blockers, such as Prazosin, are
now commonly used with great success in extinguishing nightmares (Emilien et al., 1999;
Peskind, Bonner, Hoff, & Raskind, 2003).
Nightmares that occur after a combat veteran has experienced a trauma rarely lead to
extinction of the incident, which is why medication therapy may be beneficial (Pagel, 2000).
Long-term recurrence of trauma-related nightmares, both during the day and at night, can
severely impact the overall functioning of veterans. Treatment of nightmares and PTSD with
medication alone, however, is not fully effective (Pagel, 2000). Medications will not provide
successful recovery from the overall life-altering effects of trauma, but they can allow for
some stabilization of overwhelming symptoms while therapy can then focus on working
through the invisible wounds of war.
Psychotherapeutic treatment of PTSD also has a significant, if not crucial, impact on
recovery from trauma. Psychotherapy implemented in conjunction with medication increases
the client‘s likelihood of recovering from trauma. Some of the therapeutic approaches that can
address the symptoms of PTSD are implosion therapy, cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT),
and psychodynamic, humanistic-existential, and expressive arts treatments (Paulson &
Krippner, 2007). With regard to recovery from recurrent nightmares, psychotherapy may
focus on listening to the client tell the nightmare story or having the client create an
alternative ending to the nightmare and replay it in his or her mind (Barrett & Behbehani,
2003; Wilmer 1996). However, no psychotherapeutic treatment will succeed in isolation. As
suggested by Paulson and Krippner (2007), the best approach is to work with clients
holistically by integrating methods of treatment to meet each client‘s presenting symptoms
and needs. For example, assuming a humanistic-existential foundation for conceptualizing
trauma and incorporating techniques as needed (CBT, relaxation, mindfulness, expressive
arts, etc.) to address PTSD symptoms, veterans can begin to trust themselves and others, and
work through the wounds that combat has inflicted upon their souls (Paulson & Krippner,
2007; Schneider, 2008).
Despite the available medications, psychotherapeutic interventions, current studies, and
other existing treatments for PTSD, the implications of the research referenced in this chapter
call strongly for more research and activism in the field of trauma treatment. Specifically,
there is a clear need for community outreach to families, along with support systems and
changes in the models of treatment and intervention in the direction of becoming more
holistic and less stigmatizing.
CONCLUSION
There is no doubt that war changes people. Veterans, and others who endure traumatic
experiences, have to accommodate certain levels of stress in connection with the combat
events they encounter. It is those combat events that determine the consequences to veterans‘
psychophysiological structure. Is there a way to assess in advance an individual‘s
susceptibility to developing PTSD from engaging in combat? At this time the answer seems
to be a solid ―no.‖ However, attempts to answer such a question may help researchers and
practitioners understand more about the neuropsychology of resilience of people exposed to
stress. Regardless of how it begins or develops, PTSD exists; it impacts veterans and other
populations in various psychophysiological ways. While the reason why some people are
more susceptible to being diagnosed with PTSD than others is unknown, the end result is very
apparent: a rewiring of their psychophysiological functions based on their brains‘ altered
perception of the world. The hope is that, with further research, current approaches can be
fine-tuned and new applications and preventive measures can be implemented. Given that life
truly must be understood in a non-linear fashion, combat veterans can begin to recover from
the hidden wounds of PTSD only when each of them is treated holistically and viewed as
unique in the struggle to survive.
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Chapter 10
TRANSCULTURAL STRATEGIES FOR WORKING

WITH DREAMS
Daniel Deslauriers
ABSTRACT
Dreams and dreamwork provide an interesting case study of the process of cultural
interpenetration characteristic of the global post-modern era. It is proposed that four main
strategies, cutting across cultures, form the core of an emerging transcultural approach to
working with dreams: a dream cultivation strategy; a dream awareness strategy; a dream
understanding strategy; and a dream enactive strategy. These four call attention to the fact
that many non-Western approaches to dreams include a spiritual dimension, often merely
implicit in the secular psychological framework. The integration of these strategies can
reinforce the transformative power of dreamwork as it affirms the central role of
mindfulness and presence across various states of consciousness.
INTRODUCTION
Throughout history, humans have been culturally bound into separate spheres of beliefs.
These have become increasingly porous over the years; with globalization, moreover, the
process of cultural interpenetration has proceeded at an accelerated pace. Communication
networks weave the entire planet together ever so tightly; as a result, cultural traffic has
allowed values, worldviews, and practices to flow between people and groups, fueling a
synergetic creativity unparalleled in human history. This great transcultural experiment has
fostered renewed interest in cultural specificity, along with innovative hybridization.
Dreams and dreamwork, to use a contemporary Western term, provide an interesting case
study of this process. A distinctive feature of dreams is that, barring illness or accident, all
people have access to them, if they truly wish to remember them. Cultures have distinguished
countless ways of addressing the dreaming experience; while some give more prominence to
dreams in everyday affairs, it is safe to assume that most cultures have carved out a space in
which dream-related skills may be nurtured. In the West, that niche is found mainly within
134 Daniel Deslauriers
psychology and psychotherapy, as dreaming has become increasingly perceived as a

reflection of the self (Hunt, 1989). A view ―from the ground,‖ however (such as could be
gained in such groups as the International Association for the Study of Dreams or from the
proliferation of dream-related websites), reveals that an increasing number of people engage
in practices related to dreaming outside the confines of therapy, in a way that cuts across
cultures. People are borrowing from traditions other than their own, sometimes even
unknowingly by way of cultural drift.
FOUR STRATEGIES FOR DREAMWORK

A new phenomenon termed cultural fluidity is becoming normative in the post-modern
context. As a result, a form of transculturality finds individual expression as people attempt to
integrate on their own the multiple cultural streams available to them. The need, therefore,
arises to integrate the multiplicity of experiences that we are ever more likely to encounter in
this transcultural space. This chapter, then, is an attempt to describe basic forms of
dreamwork found across many cultures likely to shape this cultural confluence1. In particular,
this chapter focuses on the similarities found across cultures in terms of four main strategies
for dreamwork: the dream cultivation strategy, the dream awareness strategy, the dream
understanding strategy, and the dream enactive strategy. These appear to be strong candidates
to form the core of a transcultural approach to dreams.
Each strategy consists of a broad spectrum of beliefs, attitudes, and practices toward
dreams that directs how dreamers interact with their own dreams and those of others. Each
strategy assigns a specific role to intentionality in the context of dreaming. The following
questions hint at the differences among them:
1. For the dream cultivation strategy: When we consider that dreams are events that
happen with clear regularity, how can we intentionally prepare for dreams to come?
How can a dream be ―brought forward‖ to address important personal, spiritual, or
communal concerns?
2. For the dream awareness strategy: We now know that it is possible to become
cognizant, in our dreams, of the fact that we are dreaming. How can we train our
minds to become aware that we are dreaming? Furthermore, how does the lucid
dream state affect the nature of dreamwork?
3. For the dream understanding strategy: Upon awakening, our dreams become
available to our conscious mind via recollection. How do we intentionally find
meaning in them? How do insights gained from dreams inform, guide, or transform
our waking life?
4. For the enactive strategy: Considering that the reality experienced in dreams may call
for some form of externalization, how can we intentionally bring a dream to life
1
The increasing diffusion of cultural approaches to dreams has found its way in scholarly form (e.g., Gillespie,
1988, Norbu, 1992, and Wangyal, 1998); for Tibetan approaches (e.g., Dentan 1988, Irwin, 1994, and
Tedlock, 1988); and for indigenous approaches (e.g., Alexander, 1988, and Doniger O'Flaherty, 1984, for
Vedic and Middle Eastern approaches respectively); but versions of cultural practices have also filtered into
more popular literature on dreams (Godwin, 1994; Krippner, 1990; Laberge, 1985; Steward, 1971, and Tart,
1987, among others).
Transcultural Strategies For Working with Dreams 135
through creative enactment? How is our life transformed as a result of waking

actions that find their origins within our dreams? Can culture be renewed by acts of
creation inspired by dreams?
Contemporary dreamwork techniques tend to emphasize one strategy over others. When
viewed sequentially, however, the four strategies fall into a natural time progression. A
dreamer can choose to engage the dreaming process intentionally before going to sleep,
during the dream, or following the dream. Furthermore, in contrast with contemporary
psychological views that are known for their secular stance and anchored within bio-
psychological sciences (Crick & Mitcheson, 1983), the majority of traditional approaches
understand dreams within a psychospiritual context. Dreams are not only a mirror of the
personality of the dreamer, but also a privileged way to commune with a larger
multidimensional reality within which one is embedded. Dreams themselves may serve to
delineate how this ―larger reality‖ is personally or culturally conceived and mediated. The
following sections look more closely at each strategy in turn and discuss areas of convergence
between psychology and spirituality.
THE DREAM CULTIVATION STRATEGY

The dream cultivation strategy refers to actions, beliefs, and practices that see dreams as
an unfolding process. It encompasses the practices commonly known as ―dream incubation‖
(Reed, 1976), ―crying for a vision,‖ or ―vision quest.‖ This strategy takes into consideration
that dreamers can orient and modulate their consciousness prior to dreaming. The object is
not to influence the content of the dreams so much to create the proper conditions that allow a
dream or vision to occur with clarity, as a result of engaging a particular intention.
Viewed from a psychological perspective, the cultivation strategy connects the dreamer‘s
will-to-know with the dream‘s creative makeup. Dreamers may, for example, seek to gain
clarity around the emotional underpinning of an important issue. They may look for dreams to
provide clues to solve a personal problem or offer hints when confronted with a serious life
choice. In its simplest expression, no special techniques are applied other than a heightened
attention to what a dream may bring. However, the cultivation strategy finds its fullest
expression when the dreamer makes direct use of intention through the act of formulating and
repeating incubation questions or phrases, and making special preparations prior to sleeping.
Furthermore, purposeful intention may be potentiated with a focused life-review or reflection
about issues and concerns prior to sleep.
Historically, dream incubation was practiced among indigenous people around the world,
in particular in North America (Irwin, 1994). It was noted among the ancient Greeks, the
Egyptians, the Chinese, and the early Christians. It was also practiced among the Sufis and
Jewish mystics. To this day, specific dreaming sites in several locations around the world
welcome dreamers. Traditionally, this entails sleeping in a special or auspicious place such as
a temple or a natural setting, to enhance the dream experience by connecting with the force,
deities, or beings known to reside in that place. Furthermore, as part of dream incubation, the
dreamer often has undergone a ritual process that focuses awareness toward the incipient
message of dreams. In psychospiritual terms, the dream cultivation strategy can be seen as a
form of prayer, wherein the dreamer opens him or herself to a perceived spiritual force. In
some cases, fostering the visionary experience implies intense preparations such as fasting, a
special diet, or ritual bathing.
For Irwin (2001), ―dreams and visions of power have long been tied to deeply held
religious values as primary sources of guidance and affirmation of the sacred quality of the
religious world for native people‖ (p. 94). He defines hanble, one of many native terms for
dreams (or visions), by quoting the Lakota seer George Sword: ―Hanble is a communication
from Wakan Tanka [the great Mystery] or the spirit to one of mankind. It may come at any
time or in any manner, to anyone…. It may come unsought or it may come by seeking it.‖
Within dream incubation, the process of dreaming is prototypical of the revelatory act. As
dreamers prepare for dreams to respond to a set intention, the dreams themselves become
gifts to be filtered through the given intentions. The dreamer becomes the recipient of what
could be seen as privileged material that can assist in healing or guidance, either for oneself
or one‘s community.
Incubation could be done for ―mundane‖ matters or in the hope of shedding light on
important existential issues. In an incubation study, Bogzaran (1990) asked lucid dreamers to
"incubate the Divine" for an extended period. She found that the majority of participants
experienced one or more dreams that were meaningful to them. By setting a particular intent
to enter into a relationship with the numinous, the dreamers prepared the ground for such
encounters in the dream. Dreamers found themselves confronted with existential and spiritual
questions regarding their own beliefs and attitudes toward the subject matter. But what
happens if a dreamer believes that there is, indeed, no separate ―other‖ with which to
transact?
This was the case for Mariana. For her, incubating the divine became the occasion of a
deep self-inquiry. Raised Roman Catholic, Mariana left the church during adolescence. She
described as confusing the experience of formulating an incubation phrase: ―First I had to
define „Divine‟ and this was difficult since I do not believe in God or an organizing principle
of the universe (except maybe energy). It made me question whether I could actually
experience something I didn‟t believe in or at least was unsure of. I felt some tension about
participating in a project that I presumed was about something I didn‟t think existed.”
Mariana reported the following dream:
―I am a triangle. Actually, I am an abstraction, and my form, although I didn‘t really have

a form, is a triangle (this is difficult to explain). Within the triangle are separate abstractions
which could be called round and which move or bubble independently but could be said to
move collectively. I am aware of my imperfection as I look at this essence of myself.‖
―Suddenly my thinking changes; it is as if I have clicked into a different channel or
flipped over into a different mode of perception. I realize, without a doubt, my perfection.
(‗Perfection‘ isn‘t the right word; it is more of a sense of peace, utter calm and tranquility.)
The interior, round parts stop ‗bubbling‘ and calmness pervades me, everything is smooth
without distinction.‖
She adds:
―I know this doesn‘t deal directly with the Divine, but one of my problems with this task
has been a personal definition of ‗Divine.‘ I don‘t think of it as an entity or energy outside
myself ... nor as a presence with intention or guidance. I would define ‗Divine‘ as I have
experienced it in this dream: utter tranquility, no dichotomies, complete calm and serenity.‖
Mariana‘s dream provides an interesting example of the auto-poetic nature of this kind of
self-inquiry. Research has shown that the content of sleep and dreams is rarely random; it can
be the occasion of insight (Ullrich, Steffen, Haider, Verleger, & Born, 2004). Whether one
understands dreams as self-generated or as emanating from a spiritual source is less important
than one‘s willingness to engage in the process of inquiry: to set out a personal experiment
through intention and let it run its spontaneous course. The fact that people regard dreams as
having a spiritual value stems from the fact that dreams arise spontaneously, more or less
independently of the dreamer‘s waking will. The dream cultivation strategy narrows the gap
between waking intention and dreaming occurrences. For modern dreamers in contemporary
settings, the locus of dreaming and intense ritual practices may have ceded ground to the most
essential element of dream incubation – that is, setting intention. Beyond the rational agency
required for the self to adjust to modern waking life, the imaginative potential of dreaming
may in itself be that other ―space‖ that we call upon intentionally for self-renewal and insight.
THE DREAM AWARENESS STRATEGY

This strategy focuses on the training of awareness within the dream state. It draws its
main sources from Eastern practices of sleep and dream yoga such as in Tibetan Vajrayana
Buddhism. Cross-culturally it is often associated with special powers and skills that need to
be applied with care. The awareness strategy draws attention to questions such as the
relationship between dream states and other states of consciousness, including the dreamlike
state of consciousness surrounding death. In the West, this strategy, which is associated with
the practice of lucid dreaming, has been subject to rigorous scientific investigation (LaBerge,
1990).
Central to the awareness strategy is the possibility of self-transformation within the
dream state by requiring a degree of self-reflection that can be looked at from a
phenomenological perspective. This strategy calls upon the dreamer to exercise mindfulness
within the dream in order to realize that he or she is dreaming. Most of the time, although not
invariably, the dream is experienced ―through the eyes‖ of the dreamer. In non-lucid dreams,
the dreamer eventually recollects the dream that may become the object of further reflection
(see the dream understanding strategy, below). In contrast, during lucidity the dream itself
becomes a serious practice ground for awareness and for experimenting with choice.
Dreamwork in this context is primarily about what is happening in the dream as it is
unfolding.
Mindfulness can be defined as the capacity to observe one‘s experience in a fully aware
and non-grasping way. From a cognitive perspective, self-reflection is linked to the ability to
examine one‘s own thoughts, feelings and behaviors. As a type of higher-order cognition, it
implies the presence of at least two levels of awareness: that of the participant (involved in
the dreaming experience), and that of the observer (involved in reflection about what the
dreamer is experiencing). Within the dream, self-reflection opens up the possibility for the
dreamer to modulate his or her sense of identification with any part of the dream experience.
Experience with lucid dreaming is often ―eruptive‖ in the first instances; that is, the
dreamer may awaken with bubbling excitement. With more practice, dreaming eventually
becomes increasingly the occasion of a heightened self-remembering. For most practitioners,
to become and remain lucid and cognizant within a dream requires effort and concentration.
For lack of a better word, this presupposes an energetic input from the organism. While it
may seem on the surface to be a mental phenomenon, due to the fact that descriptions of
lucidity are often given in cognitive terms, reports from lucid dreamers indicate that lucidity
is actually a whole-body phenomenon. Dreamers become subtly aware of body feelings and
all attendant processes that link thoughts, beliefs, emotions, and imagery.
The implications of lucid dreaming are multiple. The metaphor of ―dream as mirror of the
self‖ acquires its full sense within lucid dreaming. If indeed dreams present images of the
self, what does it mean for the self to wake up to them and interact with these self-images?
Increasing prospects of self-transformation are made possible through the act of reflection
(Wagonner, 2009). For example, with the knowledge that one is now within the safe bounds
of a dream experience, emotions such as fear and anxiety can be recognized, diffused, and
transformed. This can take various forms: self-control by attending to one‘s own reactivity;
instrumental control by applying volition to change the dream environment; or remaining an
observer by simply letting the dream unfold but with heightened awareness. Depending on the
nature of the choice, it is not unusual for the dream‘s imagery to shift. A fearful image can be
recognized for what it is, and, when the fear is transmuted, the image very likely transforms
into something positive revealing surprising outcomes. The dream often provides immediate
feedback to the dreamer‘s intention and choice. With practice, the dreamer can increasingly
recognize how a dream can become a straightforward reflection of one‘s emotional/cognitive
processes.
As in mindfulness meditation, lucid dreaming contributes to minimize the mindless
absorption with the world of experience, just as it stabilizes the capacity for self-witnessing.
The boundary between ―inner‖ and ―outer‖ within the dream surrenders its permeability, as
the ―outer‖ landscape of the dream is increasingly linked with the lucid dreamer‘s ―landscape
of consciousness.‖ To inquire about meaning within the lucid dream becomes, in effect, a
form of self-interpretation – an auto-poetic act in its truest form. Fresh images of the self
emerge to the degree that we are willing to experiment with them. In their work on
mind/brain interaction, Schwartz and Begley (2002) described how neuronal circuits ―change
when something as gossamer as our thoughts change – when we choose to attend with
mindfulness.‖ Linking this capacity to neuroplasticity, they claimed that the choice generated
by the mind changes the brain. The brain, they asserted, may determine the content of our
experience, but mind chooses the aspect of that experience on which we actively focus.
The implications of the dream awareness strategy are many: first, mindfulness in
dreaming, just as in waking, can be seen as a powerful skill leading to increased self-
knowledge. One can also direct intentionality within one‘s dreams to experiment with realms
of being that become available within altered states of consciousness. Furthermore, in a lucid
dream, one can choose to practice virtues such as altruistic love and forgiveness and see the
effect within the dream environment.
Finally, Gackenbach and Bosveld (1989) postulate that lucidity in dreams corresponds to
stages of cognitive development that exceed the apex of formal thinking in Piagetian terms.
This means that cognitive inquiry is sustained beyond representational cognizance, such as
that afforded, for instance, by self-speech and mental imagery. Such a model emphasizes the
de-embedding of the self from the representational level of the mind and the unfolding of
what they call witnessing sleep.
A fuller awareness may emerge to the point where the observer may recognize that the
self as dreamer can continue to actively participate, manipulate the dream world, or ―step
back‖ in a quite separate fashion. This receptive stance is a witnessing form of consciousness
in which awareness itself becomes the dominant feature and, consequently, the emotionally
impactful quality of the dream fades (Gackenbach & Bosveld, 1989, p. 118).
THE DREAM UNDERSTANDING STRATEGY

The dream understanding strategy encompasses attitudes, beliefs, and practices that focus
on seeking meaning and distilling insights from dreams, either for one‘s own benefit or that of
others. In the West, it is by far the most differentiated strategy, encompassing a large variety
of approaches. Techniques to ―work with‖ dreams have been proposed that reflect specific
psychological understandings of the self as embedded in various psychological schools of
thought. Social distancing among competing approaches may cloud the fact that most dream
interpretive approaches share the same overarching goal: self-knowledge via dream
interpretation. This goal appears clearer when contrasted with the goals of the other strategies.
Freud's foundational opus The Interpretation of Dreams (1900/1963) is seen by many as
the cornerstone for modern dream understanding. He suggested that dream content expresses
internal conflicts seeking resolution, but under the guise of censorship; thus he indicated that
dreams can reveal hidden aspects of the self through proper analysis. Even though Freud‘s
views arose within a hermeneutic of suspicion built around the ideas of psychic defense, self-
delusion, and self-censorship, he has been credited for establishing the modern framework for
psychological dream analysis. Several psychodynamically oriented currents within depth
psychology have since offered theoretical refinements and rebukes of these primary insights.
Some of these, such as phenomenology, existentialism, Jungian, Gestalt, cognitive, and
transpersonal approaches (Shafton, 1995), have evolved in contradistinction to
psychoanalysis by claiming that dreams do not always imply psychological conflict or
repression, and that the dreamer may have direct access to dream meaning when properly
guided or with proper self-reflective attitudes and skills.
Within psychology, dreamwork has mainly been understood as a form of psychological
reflection on one‘s dream, often with the guidance of a therapist. A wide array of
psychological techniques exists that engages dream understanding: symbolic amplification,
scriptural or textual analysis, the use of embodied felt-sense, Gestalt identification with dream
images and psycho-dramatic enactment, dream-reentry, hypnosis, and archetypal
amplification, to name a few. With the advent of the self-growth movement, many have
proposed ways of working with dreams that rely mainly on the dreamer‘s direct contribution
(Ullman, 1996), bypassing the interpreting role of the analyst. A current consensus has grown
around the fact that the dreamer is the final arbiter in the dream meaning-making process.
Within psychotherapy, however, dreamwork is now firmly established as an active
collaboration between dreamer and therapist.
We believe that a set of core principles informs most of these approaches and can be used
in the framework of a modern psychotherapeutic encounter. All these approaches understand
the dream as a discrete event that can be made present through recollection in the search for
insight and meanings. Furthermore, the meaning-making process will most likely involve
many of the following:
Mapping of dream images into the domain of waking life. This is an extension of the
metaphorical mapping of two ―domains‖: a known concrete image (the source
domain) used with a lesser known abstract concept (the target domain). Dreams
present one side of the ―metaphor‖ pair – namely, the source imagery. The dream
understanding process engages the search for the ―target‖ domain – that is, the
aspects of dreamer‘s life with which the dream imagery resonates and which it
possibly illuminates. This is an active process of meaning-making, and, as Flanagan
(2000) suggested, it does not necessarily imply that the dream was produced in order
to actively convey such information. Different names have been applied to this
process: association and amplification; discovering one‘s personal mythology;
narrative understanding (Deslauriers & Cordts, 1995).
Exploring the dreams‘ emotions as meaningful clues to meaning, in particular to
create a bridge from the dream to waking life events (Hill, 2003).
Uncovering the link between the depth of the experiential engagement with the
dream imagery and the likelihood for success in the meaning-making process.
Asking the dreamer to relive the dream, or re-experience the effects from the dream,
is likely to trigger insights and make the dream more familiar and intelligible.
In sum, three major pillars of meaning-making form the basis of the dream understanding
strategy: cognitive metaphorical mapping, emotional integration, and participatory
engagement. Within this general framework, dreamwork techniques tend to vary on stylistic
or technical grounds. For instance, some techniques rely primarily on verbal exchange and
tend to be quite directive (Delaney‘s ―dream-interview method,‖ 1979); others would favor
non-verbal and more organic non-directive means (focusing technique or embodied
dreamwork). Some approaches rely on group dynamics (Ullman‘s ―dream appreciation
method,‖ 1996), while others rely primarily on the dreamer‘s own self-reflective imaginative
capacities. Dreamwork techniques thus differ on their relative emphasis on one dimension
over another. A more cognitively based symbolic amplification, in short, will yield different
but no less useful insights than an emotional and embodied Gestalt enactment.
In her cognitive-experiential approach, Hill (2003) has proposed a set of guidelines for
using dreams in a therapeutic environment that is not wedded to a particular
metapsychological framework. Drawing on many theories, she distills into her work basic
instruction around the key phases: (1) exploration, where the therapist draws information
from the dreamer about the images and emotional substrate of the dream; (2) insight, where
the therapist maps the dreams to the current concerns of the dreamer; and (3) action, where
the therapist and the client explore avenues of action suggested by the dream and the insights
that it conveys.
Widening the circle to other cultures, we find that dream understanding strategies show
exquisite cultural variations. Many indigenous cultures will understand dreams guided by a
set of core beliefs about the self, about the mysterious source of dreams, and by their own
views on the nature of consciousness. For instance, the Dgozchen Tibetan approach
(Wangyal, 1998), which was born at the intersection of the Tibetan Bön tradition with
Mahayana Buddhism, describes dreams as originating from ―karmic traces.‖ These are
cognitive-affective impressions, whose potency derives from previous actions, thoughts, or
emotions. Dreamwork as understood in Western therapy is not espoused with the same
enthusiasm, because it is held that the same mind that has produced the dream will be the one
that tries to understand it, even though both are prone to different forms of delusion. Belief
about karma may also help to orient social and familial conduct as translated in dreams.
Wangyal (1998) shared a personal dream that helped him bring important unfinished business
to a close, when he dreamt that he provided a proper funeral rite for his mother that he could
not undertake in reality, because he was abroad at the moment of her death. From the
perspective of karma, this dream was ultimately understood as beneficial for both parties.
Cultural approaches distinguish between types of dreams based on pre-set cultural
categories, such as visitation dreams, precognitive dreams, community dreams, problem-
solving dreams, healing dreams, hunting dreams, and so-called ―big‖ dreams that reveal
experience or objects of power (Krippner, Bogzaran, & Carvalho, 2002). While indigenous
approaches to dreams have been the subject of ethnographic descriptions, these cannot always
capture the epistemological framework that gives dreams their special role as intermediaries
between such ―worlds‖ as that of the living and that inhabited by the spirits of the ancestors.
Many cultures view dreams as gifts of power, prescribing which dreams should be shared and
to whom, in order to prevent their effectual power from being diminished.
The dream understanding strategy is, thus, a finely-tuned process that amplifies the
dreamer‘s existential quest for a deeper identity. For example, a serious inquiry into dreaming
is likely to lead even contemporary dreamers in the United States to question their own
indigenous roots, which often have been lost in the process of cultural erasure accompanying
the history of immigration to the New World. Dreams have been shown to play an important
role in the process of reacquainting oneself with one‘s own ancestral background (Colorado,
2008). Thus, when we enlarge the context of dream origination beyond personal memory, it is
not uncommon for people to perceive in them meaningful echoes from their ancestral lineage.
Finally, by focusing on the usefulness of dreams, the dream understanding strategy has
sustained a pragmatic interest in dreaming. A larger question looms regarding the ultimate
goals of dreamwork: What is the further aim of personal or collective growth? Transpersonal
psychology, in its attempt to distill culturally bounded experience in the language of
psychology, wants us to look beyond the psychological source of dreams and examine the
possible selves that dreams may unfold. While science is reluctant to address the teleological
notion of final causes, the question remains: Could it be that dreams have a role to play in the
wider evolutionary thrust of humanity? Beyond helping us integrate our current concerns,
could dreams, directly or indirectly, help usher in the next phase of our personal and
collective development? Viewed in this light, consciousness is not only the major driver of
natural adaptation as understood by evolutionary biology, but also partakes in a creative
process whose trajectory is predicated on individual and collective choices. This leads us to
discuss the last strategy.
THE ENACTIVE STRATEGY

The enactive strategy, as the name implies, refers to the actions, beliefs, and practices that
move the dreams from the mental/interior sphere to that of embodied actions, including but
not restricted to dream enactment, ritual, art, and other ways of expressing the dreams
(Bogzaran, 1991; Millick, 1996; Tonay, 1995). It also refers to ways of bringing concrete
change into one's life by taking action stemming from a dream. Relatively less prevalent
within psychology, this strategy gained popularity in the late 20th century (Hill, 2003) in
Western cultures. It has, however, traditionally found strong resonance in many indigenous
cultures where boundaries between dreaming and waking consciousness are not so rigidly
drawn (Irwin, 2001).
The deep need for expression, aligned with the force emanating from the imaginary, is
probably one of the earliest and most sustained spiritual practices. Examples across time and
culture include the earliest European cave paintings, the Dreamtime maps of the Australian
Aborigines, the Tibetan dream mandalas, and the Surrealist appreciation of oneiric
consciousness, leading directly to the current effervescence of contemporary dream art. All
these examples partake of a movement that infuses waking life with the imaginary.
Through art, the aim is to exteriorize the dream and to gain insight in making the dream
visible through an artistic medium. Numerous artists have cited dreams as a major source of
inspiration for their artwork. Bogzaran, for one, claimed that this translation between dream
and art changed her life. Indeed, one of her early artworks depicted a scene from a lucid
dream. “I enter a gallery; it is filled with light emanating from a painting. The painting has
an elaborate Persian lace border with a hollow transparent center. The center has an
enigmatic opening where light is coming through. The light is made of emanating small lines.
The colors are subtle. While seeing this painting, I feel the omnipresence of the mystery, the
divine energy coming from the opening.” This dream impacted Bogzaran to such a degree
that she made a decision to devote her career to researching the phenomenon itself and the
potential that lie within dreaming, both in her own creation and in projects that involve social
creativity. She has brought her spiritual experiences in dreaming to the waking state by
creating artwork, teaching classes, and pursuing research on dreaming and the arts, including
creating a Dream Studies program at an accredited university. Author Kelly Bulkeley claimed
a similar life-orienting impact from a dream he had as a young adult, going on to write and
edit numerous books on dreams and religion. These examples, drawn from the field of dream
study, reflect that a preoccupation with dreaming can extend beyond personal insight to
becoming an instrument of culture renewal.
In many traditional societies, the enactive strategy has been central to a group‘s relation
to the dream world. Songs, dances, and art motifs are ―received‖ in dreams and carried forth
for the benefit of the community. In post-modern societies, the enactive strategy draws the
dreamer to invest in his/her relationship with the world as a creative participant. This strategy
invites a form of imitatio dei (emulation of the attributes of the creator god), where the
dreamer partakes of creation by his or her own creative acts. Psychological insights, often
deep and meaningful, then find pragmatically or aesthetically expressive conduits that
amplify them and make them known to others. In this context, the acts of creation become
opportunities not only for self-renewal but for creative endeavors that enrich the groups as
well.
The enactive strategy relies first and foremost on a form of understanding through action,
one that can complement forms of cognitive insights that are prevalent in the dream
understanding strategy. It speaks to the fact that the world we live in is not just represented in
the mind but also enacted through actions and emotions. This strategy comprehends the value
of participatory knowledge: that an individual‘s understanding of the world, especially in
terms of meaning and value, derives not only from cognitive insight but from experience that
calls for specific enaction in response. Artistic expression portrays knowledge in a
presentational form, which, unlike words, broadcasts in an immediate and holistic manner.
From traceless mind-stuff dreams, the creative rendition of a dream now gains a traceable
form that, in turn, can influence others.
CONCLUSION
We are living at a time when we are becoming increasingly aware of the interconnection
between personal choice and global issues. The emerging global consciousness nurtures
intercultural dialogue and creates the possibility of bringing together knowledge and practices
once seen disparate or incommensurate. This chapter has attempted to show how four
strategies of dream exploration can be integrated despite the diversity in cultural forms of
self-inquiry. It also intended to show how to expand the narrow textual emphasis with which
we tend to view dreams in the West. This wider approach fosters forms of dream self-
reflection that include dream incubation, dream lucidity, and dream enaction. By honoring
dreams as the extraordinary bursts of ingenuity they can be, we establish an intimate rapport
with them by which we partake in the creative unfolding and interweaving of inner and social
life.
Each strategy focuses on skills and abilities that are connected to psycho-spiritual
practices. Through the dream cultivation strategy – the work of intentionality – one can
improve the quality of focus and the clarity of intent. Through the awareness strategy, the
dimension of self-reflection and choice is intensified. Experiences of lucidity prompt the
practitioner to devise new ways of relating to dream experiences, along with the opportunity
to contemplate how well one applies the skill of self-reflection and to what end. Through the
dream appreciation strategy, the dreamer can meet challenges to self-acceptance and intimacy
with all aspects of self. With the enactive strategy, the dreamer has a chance to impact his or
her world (hopefully, in a constructive manner), by manifesting personal insights in action or
in creative works.
The goals of each strategy can relate cognitively and practically with those of the others.
This integration can reinforce the transformative power of dreamwork, as it affirms the
central roles of mindfulness and self-remembrance across various states of consciousness: in
waking, in the dream state, and in the half-dream state such as dream re-entry. Furthermore,
this integrative process can foster psychological capacities that share a common core: spiritual
ones such as insight, attention, and emotional regulation; intention-setting as well as altruism;
and the development of a socio-centric or even cosmo-centric consciousness.
By referring to the four complementary strategies, important debates in the field can find
creative elucidation. For instance, the question over the psychological merits of promoting
lucid dreams has pitted traditional Jungians against lucid dreaming advocates. Once we
understand that the psyche can relate to the dream by preparing and cultivating it, by seeking
to enhance the quality of presence during its occurrence, and by inquiring about its meaning
and acting on it once it has happened, we understand these different strategies as unfolding
into a complex narrative continuum. Thus dreams can be the stage for spontaneous
psychological revelation (which may also have spiritual underpinnings), but if the dreamer so
chooses, dreams can also be the practice ground for advanced skills such as witnessing. One
practice need not negate the others. For Irwin (2001),
The capacity to enter into visionary worlds, to open the inner person to sacred potential
and a focused, creative content that gives a sense of not only direction and purpose but an
enhanced sense of personal empowerment is crucial in a largely secular world suffering from
the contractions and unnecessary failures of the spiritual imagination. (p. 104)
We began by looking at how the four strategies differed in the role assigned to
intentionality with regard to dreaming. We conclude by highlighting the similarities among
them. They converge around the skill of presence. In dream cultivation, the task of the
dreamers is to become present to their most important concerns. Dreamers exercise presence
in dream lucidity through increasing self-reflection. With dream appreciation, dreamers learn
to discern their emotional connections to the imaginary world and witness its effect on them.
Finally, by attending to the creative unfolding in dream enaction, transformational release can
be ushered in oneself and possibly in others. Linked together in a natural sequence, the four
strategies engage presence as a continuum, across states of consciousness, to unfurl the
creative potential of the dreaming experience.
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Ullrich, W., Steffen, G., Haider, H., Verleger, R., & Born, J. (2004). Sleep inspires insight.
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Wangyal, T. (1998). The Tibetan yogas of dream and sleep. Ithaca, NY: Snow Lion.
Wagonner, R. (2009). Lucid dreaming: Gateway to the inner self. Needham, MA: Moment
Point Press.
PART IV: RESEARCH
Chapter 11
GENDER DIFFERENCES IN DREAMS
G. William Domhoff
ABSTRACT
The study of gender similarities and differences in dream content has proven to be a
dangerous mine field for dream researchers. It turns out there are as many similarities as
there are differences in the dreams of American men and women; while some of the
differences are small, they seem to fit into a general pattern. To the degree that there are
somewhat larger differences, they are similar to differences that are found in waking life
in terms of concerns, interests, the content of autobiographical memories, and behavioral
tendencies. This general finding fits with a cognitive theory of dreams, which claims
dream content is ―continuous‖ with waking thought and behavior.
INTRODUCTION
The study of gender similarities and differences in dream content has proven to be a
dangerous mine field for dream researchers. Even if the results are meant only to provide a
normative basis for comparisons with dream journals from individual men and women, or
with dream reports from men and women in other cultures, they have the potential to stir up
all the tensions that inevitably accompany any discussion of gender in a world where gender
discrimination—and conflicts between men and women on many personal issues—are
pervasive.
It is, therefore, necessary to proceed with great caution. There are caveats and
methodological problems that must be presented along the way, such as the point that we are
talking about differences in degree, not in kind, to the extent that there are differences. It is
also important to note at the outset that there are variations in gender patterns from culture to
culture as well as major individual differences in the dream journals of both men and women,
which also temper any large generalizations.
My main focus in this chapter is on the dreams of American men and women, because
very little is known about gender patterns in other societies. However, comparisons will be
made with findings from other societies whenever possible. Although the findings in these
cross-cultural studies are not as comprehensive, they do show there are both similarities and
differences with the American results. In the future, repeated studies of gender similarities
and differences in many countries could make an important contribution to developing a
better theory of the meaning of dreams.
NORMATIVE FINDINGS WITH THE HALL AND VAN DE CASTLE

CODING SYSTEM
The most systematic empirical findings on gender and dream content come from a
comprehensive system for studying dream content developed by Calvin S. Hall and Robert
Van de Castle (1966). There are ten general categories in the Hall/Van de Castle system, most
of which are divided into two or more subcategories. The most frequently used categories
concern characters, social interactions, misfortunes and good fortunes, activities, emotions,
and settings. The categories rest on the ―nominal‖ level of measurement, which means there is
a simple counting of frequencies for the content categories, such as ―men‖ or ―women,‖ or
―indoor‖ or ―outdoor‖ setting.
The findings in terms of the empirical categories of the Hall/Van de Castle system are
most useful and readily understood when they are conveyed in an array of percentages and
ratios, called "indicators," which will be introduced shortly. Such indicators are also the best
way to deal with a number of difficult methodological issues that are often overlooked in the
study of dreams, such as the need for a control for the differing lengths of dream reports. In
addition, percentages and ratios lend themselves to the form of statistical analysis ―
nonparametric statistics ― that is most appropriate for data from nominal categories. The
failure of some dream researchers to take these methodological problems seriously has led to
most of the misunderstandings and disagreements concerning gender similarities and
differences in dream content (Domhoff, 1996, Chapter 3; 1999; 2003, Chapter 2).
The Hall and Van de Castle normative findings are based on 500 dream reports from 100
men and 500 dreams reports from 100 women, which were collected from predominantly
white middle-class students at Case Western Reserve University and Baldwin-Wallace
College in Cleveland, Ohio, in the late 1940s and early 1950s. In considering these results, it
is important to keep in mind that they were replicated with 340 dreams from 69 women and
263 dreams from 53 men collected at the University of Richmond in 1979, an outcome that
was not anticipated by the investigators (Hall, Domhoff, Blick, & Weesner, 1982). Further
unexpected support for the stability of the normative findings came in two separate
investigations of women's dreams by female dream researchers in the 1980s. Tonay (1990-
1991) collected and coded 500 dreams from 100 women at the University of California,
Berkeley, in the late 1980s, finding very few differences from the original norms. About the
same time, Dudley and Fungaroli (1987) and Dudley and Swank (1990) collected two
different samples at Salem College, an all-women's college in Winston-Salem, North
Carolina, again finding very few differences from the earlier norms. Finally, the women's
norms were replicated once again in the 1990s in the study of 100 Most Recent Dreams that
were collected at the University of California, Santa Cruz, and coded by Tonay (Domhoff,
1996, p. 67).
Gender Differences in Dreams 155
Before presenting these findings with young adults, we note that the dream content of
older Euro-American American adults seems very similar to that of the young adults on
whom the norms are based (Hall & Domhoff, 1963; 1964; Kramer, Winget, & Whitman,
1971; Zepelin, 1980; 1981). The one exception may be a decline in aggression and negative
emotions, on which the findings are mixed (Brenneis, 1975; Howe & Blick, 1983). This
conclusion is supported by the fact that the dreams of adults who have kept individual dream
journals for many years do not show very many changes; they are far more consistent than
they are different, even for those in their 70s (Domhoff, 1996, 2003; Lortie-Lussier, Cote, &
Vachon, 2000).
We begin with some of the similarities between men and women in the Hall and Van de
Castle normative study. If we ask what percentage of dreams from men and women have at
least one of several negative elements included in the Hall/Van de Castle system, such as
aggression, misfortune, failure, and negative emotion (anger, apprehension, confusion, and
sadness), then men and women are similar, in that 80% of men‘s dreams and 77% of
women‘s have at least one of these negative elements. Turning to the positive aspects of
dream content, such as friendly interactions, good fortune, success, and happiness, 53% of
dreams for both men and women in the normative sample have at least one of those elements.
Men and women also have an equal number of dreams in which food or eating is
mentioned—about 17%.
Both men and women are more often victims than aggressors in the aggressive
interactions in their dreams, and they face the same attackers, namely, men who are not
known to them (―male strangers‖) and animals. On a more positive note, both men and
women are equally likely to befriend another character in their dreams.
The tendency for American dreams to feature ―negative‖ events is not atypical. In a wide
range of cross-cultural studies, there is more aggression than friendliness and more
misfortune than good fortune, and dreamers of both genders are more often the victims than
the aggressors in aggressive interactions (Domhoff, 1996, Chapter 6).
American men and women mention about the same number of activities occurring in
their dreams, such as talking, walking, looking, listening, and thinking. These activities are
very similar except that there are slightly more physical activities in men‘s dreams than in
women‘s (27% vs. 20%) and slightly more talking in women‘s (26% vs. 22%). Similarly,
American men and women have roughly the same number of objects appearing in their
dreams, such as houses, trees, cars, streets, household items, money, and parts of the body.
Among the few differences are the fact that men are a little more likely to include implements
like tools and weapons, whereas women are more likely to include clothing and household
articles. Unfortunately, there has been a paucity of cross-cultural studies on activities and
objects, an exception being the case of Japan, where the findings were almost identical to
those for the United States (Yamanaka, Morita, & Matsumoto, 1982).
In addition to the similarities, there are also some differences between the dreams of
American men and women. They begin with the characters that appear in dreams. First, there
is a slight tendency for women to have more characters in their dreams, 2.8 vs. 2.4, but this
difference has to be tempered by the fact that women‘s dream reports tend to be about 8%
longer than men‘s on average. This fact makes it more likely that dream elements of all kinds
will occur with greater frequency in women‘s dreams, so corrections have to be made for that
fact. Second, there is a gender difference in how often men and women include male and
female characters in their dreams: men dream twice as often about other men as they do about
women (67% vs. 33%), and women dream equally about both sexes (48% men, 52% women).
This is the largest difference found between American men and women. The magnitude of the
difference is determined by ―h,‖ a statistic for ―effect size‖ that is useful with percentage
comparisons (Domhoff, 1996, Appendix D). The effect size of .38 for this comparison is a
large magnitude for studies of dream content.
This gender difference in the ―male/female percentage‖ has been found at all ages in
many different cultures, including Argentina, Switzerland, and many small traditional
cultures studied in the past by cultural anthropologists (Domhoff, 1996, Chapter 6; Hall,
1984; Strauch, 2003; Strauch & Lederbogen, 1999; Tartz & Krippner, 2008). However, it is
not a ―universal‖ difference that is invariably found in every group. In fact, the dreams of
African-American male college students at a community college in Chicago in the late 1960s
showed a male/female percentage of 53/47, which was very similar to the male/female
percentage of the African-American women in the study (Domhoff, 1996, p. 75). Nor was the
difference found in studies of Mexican and Peruvian teenagers and young adults, where the
men tended to dream equally of men and women, and the women dreamed more frequently of
men (Domhoff, 1996, p. 106). It also was absent in a study of German college students, in
which the male/female percent was 56/44 for women and 58/42 for men (Schredl, Petra,
Bishop, Golitz, & Buschtons, 2003).
It should be stressed that this unexpected general finding on the male/female percent is a
―discovery‖ that is a product of the coding system. There is no immediately obvious reason
for this difference. However, if we assume that dreams reflect people‘s concerns, then we
would say that men in many societies are more concerned about other men than they are
about women, whereas women are equally concerned about both men and women. We can
then look to other findings on gender differences to see why this might be the case.
Another gender difference relating to characters is that women more often dream of
characters who are familiar to them than do men—family members, friends, and famous
people. In Table 1 this difference is displayed in terms of the ―familiarity percentage,‖ which
is determined by dividing the number of familiar characters by the total number of familiar
and unfamiliar characters. The effect size of .26 for this comparison is of moderate magnitude
for studies of dream content. This difference is found in most cross-cultural studies
(Domhoff, 1996, Chapter 6).
Table 1. Gender Differences in Familiarity Percent
Male Dreamers Female Dreamers

Familiar characters 501 (45%) 796 (58%)
Unfamiliar characters 607 (55%) 567 (42%)
Effect size (h) = .26; significance level (p) = .0001.
If we ask why there is a gender difference in familiarity percent, we may have the start of
an answer from findings on unfamiliar males and females. American men dream more often
of unfamiliar males than do women (28% vs. 15%), but men and women dream equally about
"familiar males" (25% vs. 23%). Conversely, women dream more often of familiar females
than men do, 29% vs. 16%, but women and men dream about equally of unfamiliar females,
11% for women and 10% for men. In short, these comparisons tell us that the difference on
familiarity percent is created by the presence of more "unfamiliar males" in male dreams and
more "familiar females" in female dreams.
These results take on further meaning, and perhaps provide a clue to the greater
percentage of unknown males in men‘s dreams, when we turn to the social interactions that
men and women have with the characters in their dreams. At a very general level, the dreams
of American men and women are similar in that about the same percentage of their dreams
have at least one aggressive interaction, defined as a deliberate or intentional feeling or act on
the part of one character meant to harm or annoy another character (47% for men, 44% for
women). This broad definition thus includes angry thoughts or hostility toward another
character as well as threats or physically aggressive acts. Men and woman also have about the
same percentage of dreams with at least one friendly interaction, defined as a purposeful act
involving support, help, kindness, gift giving, or any other type of friendly act toward another
character (38% for men, 42% for women).
Beyond this general point, the plot begins to thicken. First, there are gender differences in
the patterns of aggressive interactions with male and female characters. Men are more often
aggressive with other men and are most often friendly with women characters, whereas
women have about the same rate of aggressive and friendly interactions with both male and
female characters. In addition, there is a higher ―rate‖ of aggressions per character in men‘s
dreams (called the A/C ratio). When we control for the fact that there are slightly more
characters in women‘s dreams by dividing the total number of aggressions by the total
number of characters, the A/C ratio is .34 for men and .24 for women. On the other hand, men
and women have the same rate of friendliness per character, .21 for men and .22 for women.
The patterns of aggressive and friendly interactions with specific types of characters in
dreams take us one step further. We make this comparison by determining the
aggression/friendliness percentage with each character, which is calculated by dividing the
total number of aggressions with that character by the total number of aggressions plus
friendly interactions with that character. A percentage over 50% means that the dreamer has
more aggressive than friendly interactions with that character, and a percentage under 50%
means that the dreamer has more friendly than aggressive interactions with that character. We
can go one step further and define ―enemies‖ as characters with an A/F of 60% or greater and
―friends‖ as characters with an A/F of 40% or lower.
As Table 2 reveals, unknown males are the most dangerous human characters in the
dreams of both men and women, but the percentage is especially high for men, 72%,
suggesting that men‘s higher male/female percentage may relate to their concern about
aggressive interactions with men they do not know. In contrast, as Table 2 also shows, men
have more friendly than aggressive interactions with women whether they are known or not.
Male strangers are their enemies, and women, whether known or not, are their friends.
Table 2. Gender Differences in A/F with Different Characters (%)
Male Dreamers Female Dreamers

Dreamer with known men 51 40
Dreamer with unknown men 72 63
Dreamer with known women 36 52
Dreamer with unknown women 40 43
Effect size (h) = .26; significance level (p) = .0001.
For women, known men are friends in their dreams, with an A/F% of 40%. On the other
hand, they have about an equal number of friendly and aggressive interactions with the
women they know. Surprisingly, they have less aggression with women they do not know, as
reflected in an A/F of 43%.
Thus, if we combine the findings on the male/female percentages with those on patterns
of aggressive and friendly interactions, we can suggest that conflicts with other men lead men
to have a higher percentage of men than women in their dreams, whereas women have about
an equal number of men and women in their dreams because they have concerns about both
unknown men and familiar women. Whether these hypotheses are right or wrong, they show
how the pattern of gender similarities and differences in dreams can be used by future
researchers to develop a better theory of dream meaning.
Aggression as a key difference between the dreams of American men and women
becomes more apparent when it is noted that a far greater number of the aggressions in men‘s
dreams are physical in nature. If we divide physical aggressions by the total number of
aggressions, the men‘s physical aggression percent is 50 as compared to 34% for women, an
effect size of .33. Women‘s aggressive dreams, on the other hand, are twice as likely as men‘s
to involve rejections and exclusions, 36% vs. 18% (h=.41).
To the degree that information is available, these gender differences on aggression are
very widespread cross-culturally. For example, the men‘s dreams from Mexico, Peru, and
Argentina had more aggression than the women‘s dreams; men and women in those three
countries also had more of their aggressive interactions with male characters than female
characters. In some countries, such as the Netherlands and Switzerland, the rates of
aggression are much lower than in the United States, but the same gender differences are
present. In small traditional societies, the rates of physical aggression are much higher than in
the United States or Europe, in good part because of attacks by animals; sometimes the
difference between men and women on physical aggression percentage therefore disappears
(Domhoff, 1996, Chapter 6).
We turn now to other, less dramatic differences in the dreams of men and women.
Contrary to cultural stereotypes about dreams, they do not often involve sexuality, not even so
much as a romantic hug or kiss. Only 12% of the American men‘s dreams and 4% of the
women‘s dreams had at least one sexual interaction, and the figures are equally low in the few
cross-cultural studies that mention sexuality at all. In one study of American women in the
late 1980s, the percentage of dreams with at least one sexual scene reached 8%, double the
normative figure (Dudley & Swank, 1990). Since the studies are few and the differences are
small, it is best not to make very much of them.
There are more mentions of emotions in women‘s dream reports, an average of .84 per
dream, as compared to an average of .56 for men. However, it is worth noting that the
percentage of negative emotions (anger, apprehension, sadness, and confusion) is 80% for
both men and women. Finally, there are some differences in the settings in the dreams of
American men and women. The men are more likely to be in outdoor settings than women
(52% vs. 39%, h=.26) and more likely to be in unfamiliar settings (39% vs. 22%, h=.38). For
a look at all the normative findings on men‘s and women‘s dreams, see Table 3 and Figure 1,
which present the same information.
Table 3. Female Norms vs. Male Norms on Various Hall/Van de Castle

Content Indicators
Male Norms Female Norms h (F vs. M)

Characters
Male/Female % 68% 48% -.41
Familiarity % 45% 58% +.27
Friends % 31% 37% +.12
Family % 12% 20% +.22
Dead & Imaginary % 00% 01% +.10
Animal % 06% 04% -.08
Social Interaction Percents
Aggression/Friendliness % 59% 51% -.16
Befriender % 50% 49% -.03
Aggressor % 39% 34% -.12
Physical Aggression % 50% 34% -.34
Social Interaction Ratios
A/C Index .34 .23 -.26
F/C Index .21 .21 +.00
S/C Index .06 .01 -.12
Settings
Indoor Setting % 49% 61% +.25
Familiar Setting % 61% 77% +.34
Self-Concept Percents
Self-Negativity % 65% 66% +.03
Bodily Misfortunes % 30% 34% +.09
Negative Emotions % 81% 80% -.01
D-involved Success % 50% 43% -.14
Torso/Anatomy % 31% 21% -.24
Dreams with at Least One:
Aggression 47% 44% -.07
Friendliness 38% 41% +.06
Sexuality 12% 03% -.32
Misfortune 36% 33% -.07
Good Fortune 07% 06% -.04
Success 15% 07% -.28
Failure 16% 09% -.22
Striving 27% 15% -.31
Figure 1. h-profile of Female Norms vs. Male Norms.
DISCUSSION AND SUGGESTIONS

What are we to make of these gender similarities and differences? At the most general
level, the findings are supportive of the idea that there is ―continuity‖ between the content of
dreams and waking life, because they are in many ways what we might expect based on what
is known about the autobiographical memories, interests, and living situations of men and
women in waking life. As reflected in their dreams, men and women have many interests,
fears and emotional preoccupations in common, such as fear of unknown males and many
kinds of animals, and both men and women suffer equally from anger, apprehension, sadness,
and confusion.
At the same time, the differences in dreams relate to differences in waking life. First,
there are similarities to findings with reports of autobiographical memories. For example, in a
study of 37 men and 37 women ages 45-60 in Poland who were asked to write down their
three most vivid memories, the women wrote longer accounts, included more people, used
more emotion words, and provided more descriptive details (Niedzwienska, 2003). All four of
these differences were found in the dream reports of American men and women.
Second, it is not surprising that women would dream more of indoor settings or
household items than men do, due to their greater family responsibilities and greater
likelihood of working in an indoor setting. Nor is it surprising that they would include more
descriptions of clothing. Third, the findings on a higher rate of aggressive interactions in
men‘s dreams, particularly those that involve physical aggression, are consistent with one of
the few gender differences found in studies in many different societies. It is also noteworthy
that boys show more physical aggression than girls, but that girls engage in ―social
aggression‖—exclusion, rejection, and criticism—more frequently than do boys. It may even
be that girls in early adolescence in the United States are especially sensitive to social
aggressions (Underwood, 2003). Men‘s higher aggression with unknown males and animals
also is consistent with waking life. At the same time, the fact that the amount of aggression is
lower in some societies and higher in others, and that the gender differences on aggression
sometimes decline or disappear, shows that the amount of aggression in dreams is probably
closely related to cultural differences.
In closing, it must be stressed that future studies of gender similarities and differences in
a wider range of countries would be very useful in developing a better theory of dream
meaning. Specifically, in-depth studies of large samples of college students‘ dream reports
that are collected every few years in the same universities might be helpful in developing a
better understanding of how the relationship between cultural and personal conceptions
manifests itself in dreams. Such samples also could be used to look in more detail at the social
interactions with specific type of characters—e.g., unknown men, known women—that
appear in the dreams of both men and women.
In suggesting that college students could be the focus of a sustained research program
concerned with the development of a better theory of dreams, I am not arguing primarily from
their accessibility to researchers. Other factors are more important, starting with the fact that
the general similarities of college students‘ dreams in the United States and other
industrialized societies provides an excellent baseline for future studies, a baseline that is
lacking with teenagers and older adults. I also believe that college students have two
important cognitive qualities that are a function of their age and situation. They are open to
sharing their inner experiences because of their own desire for knowledge, and they are eager
to contribute to the development of knowledge. Both of these qualities make college men and
women ideal participants in the kinds of studies that are now needed in the field of dream
research. For researchers with a limited budget, this is an ideal research endeavor, especially
if they have access to the large number of students who take an introductory psychology
course each year.
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dreams. Archives of General Psychiatry, 32, 429-434.
Plenum.
Domhoff, G.W. (1999). New directions in the study of dream content using the Hall and Van
de Castle coding system. Dreaming, 9, 115-137.
Domhoff, G.W. (2003). The scientific study of dreams: Neural networks, cognitive
Association.
Dudley, L., & Fungaroli, J. (1987). The dreams of students in a women's college: Are they
different? ASD Newsletter, 4, pp. 6-7.
Dudley, L., & Swank, M. (1990). A comparison of the dreams of college women in 1950 and
1990. ASD Newsletter, 7, p. 3.
Hall, C. (1984). A ubiquitous sex difference in dreams, revisited. Journal of Personality and
Social Psychology, 46, 1109-1117.
Hall, C., & Domhoff, G.W. (1963). Aggression in dreams. International Journal of Social
Psychiatry, 9, 259-267.
Hall, C., & Domhoff, G.W. (1964). Friendliness in dreams. Journal of Social Psychology, 62,
309-314.
Hall, C., Domhoff, G.W., Blick, K., & Weesner, K. (1982). The dreams of college men and
women in 1950 and 1980: A comparison of dream contents and sex differences. Sleep, 5,
188-194.
Hall, C., & Van de Castle, R. (1966). The content analysis of dreams. New York: Appleton-
Century-Crofts.
Howe, J.B., & Blick, K. (1983). Emotional content of dreams recalled by elderly women.
Perceptual and Motor Skills, 56, 31-34.
Kramer, M., Winget, C., & Whitman, R. (1971). A city dreams: A survey approach to
normative dream content. American Journal of Psychiatry, 127, 1350-1356.
Lortie-Lussier, M., Cote, L., & Vachon, J. (2000). The consistency and continuity hypotheses
revisited through the dreams of women at two periods of their lives. Dreaming, 10, 67-
76.
Niedzwienska, A. (2003). Gender differences in vivid memories. Sex Roles, 49, 321-331.
Schredl, M., Petra, C., Bishop, A., Golitz, E., & Buschtons, D. (2003). Content analysis of
German students' dreams: Comparison to American findings. Dreaming, 13, 237-243.
Strauch, I. (2003). Traume im Ubergang von der Kindheit ins Jugendalter: Ergebnisse einer
Langzeitstudie. Bern: Huber.
Strauch, I., & Lederbogen, S. (1999). The home dreams and waking fantasies of boys and
girls ages 9-15. Dreaming, 9, 153-161.
Tartz, R.S., & Krippner, S. (2008). Cognitive differences in dream content between Argentine
males and females using quantitative content analysis. Dreaming, 18, 217-235.
Tonay, V. (1990-1991). California women and their dreams: A historical and sub-cultural
comparison of dream content. Imagination, Cognition, and Personality, 10, 83-97.
Underwood, M. (2003). Social aggression among girls. New York: Guilford.
Yamanaka, T., Morita, Y., & Matsumoto, J. (1982). Analysis of the dream contents in college
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International Journal of Aging and Human Development, 13, 37-41.
Chapter 12
PREGNANCY DREAMS
Marena Koukis
ABSTRACT
Whereas women‘s dreams during pregnancy have been studied for decades, it is only
in the last 20 years or so that expectant men‘s dreams have begun to be noticed as well.
Recently, researchers have investigated the idea that men‘s dreams may undergo a unique
transformation when their female partners are expecting. Prior research was taken one
step further by the present author‘s 2007 study, which directly compared dream reports of
expecting women and men to see if women demonstrated different levels of certain
dream content in comparison to men. Measurable differences were found in the dream
content of pregnant women and expectant men that were not identical to the differences
previously established.
INTRODUCTION
Whereas women‘s dreams during pregnancy have been studied for decades, it is only in
the last two decades that expectant men‘s dreams have begun to be noticed as well. Recently,
researchers have investigated the idea that men‘s dreams may undergo a unique
transformation when their female partners are expecting. The interplay of psychological
processes occurring between men and women during pregnancy is an exciting avenue for
exploration of the richness of the personal insights that dreams can offer.
THE MAYBRUCK STUDY

Research involving women and men from the United States has indicated that differences
occur in the dream content of individuals when they are expecting a child. Maybruck (1986),
who examined pregnant women‘s dreams, collected over a thousand dreams from 67 pregnant
women, 25 of whom also participated in descriptive interviews. She found that the dream
168 Marena Koukis
content of her study participants was similar to that of previous studies. She then combined
the dream content material recorded from the women‘s submissions into six major categories,
including past, emotions, threats and aggressions, significant others, life concerns, and birth
and pregnancy. Following her content analysis, Maybruck came to two significant
conclusions about the dream material. The first was that women‘s assertiveness in nightmares
was inversely linked to how long their labor would turn out to be; that is, this finding implies
that assertiveness in nightmares allowed women to work through some of their anxieties on
an unconscious level, lessening those feelings that might later hinder them during birth. The
second conclusion was that the dreams of first-time mothers and pregnant women who were
already mothers were similar.
Maybruck identified themes in the dreams of pregnant women that she believed had not
been clearly identified in previous research, namely: their mother‘s level of friendliness, their
own anxiety over parenting and working, the presence of aggressive animals in the third
trimester, and the occurrence of more husband characters than mother characters. Maybruck
hypothesized that the pregnancy dreams could be connected to, or reflective of, what was
happening with the woman‘s body, indicating the predictive nature of dreams. This idea was
supported by her findings that participants of the study sometimes experienced events during
birth that they had dreamt about while pregnant.
Like previous researchers, such as Van de Castle and Kinder (1968), Maybruck (1986)
found several water and architecture images in the dreams of mothers-to-be. She also found
that pregnant women have an easier time remembering their dreams, and dream more
intensely than women who are not expecting. Disturbing nightmares or dreams with some
form of anxiety were reported by 70% of the pregnant women in Maybruck’s study. More
than half of those dreams were upsetting nightmares that made a strong impression on the
women who dreamed them. In contrast, researchers have noted that less than 1% of non-
expectant men and women experience habitual or recurring nightmares, a drastically lower
number.
Since it is not possible for human beings to live a stress-free life, learning how to cope
with stress is more important than trying to avoid it. A few of the stress-related problems that
can surface during pregnancy are depression, high blood pressure, headaches, and fatigue.
Pregnant women who successfully manage stress during their pregnancies are less likely to
develop problems harmful to themselves and their unborn children.
Dream content has revealed psychological and physical changes in pregnant women. In
the first-trimester dreams of pregnant women who eventually had miscarriages, Van de Castle
was able to observe indications of the impending event. ―Dreams can sometimes act as
nocturnal sonograms and relay visual images that bear a symbolic resemblance to the
mysterious events transpiring in the mother‘s womb,‖ she observed (1994, p. 401). In
studying some of the dreams recorded by Van de Castle, Sholly (1989) also found specific
dream images that were predictive of later birth outcomes.
KRIPPNER AND SHOLLY STUDIES

A direct link between Sholly‘s study and previous research conducted by Krippner and
his associates (1974) is that both compared the dreams of pregnant women with those of non-
Pregnancy Dreams 169
pregnant women, using data from the Hall and Van de Castle scale (Sholly, 1989). The only
woman in Krippner‘s study who did not have a dream containing a threat from a small animal
experienced a spontaneous abortion. Krippner conjectured that the association between threat
and small animals could evidence ―a healthy displacement of the woman‘s hostility against
her unborn child‖; if that is true, then ―this displacement was stifled in the case of the subject
who later had a miscarriage‖ (p. 119).
Sholly‘s interpretive connection between her study and previous research originated in
the 14.3% higher incidence of images of catastrophe in the group of women with birth
complications compared to its counterpart group. Sholly cited two examples of dream reports
from participants both of whom delivered stillborn babies. One dream described a baby who
was ―too cold‖; the other told of a baby who had died, while other characters in the dream
were crying.
Predictive dreams have been understood to incorporate possible anomalous inferences as
well as sensory clues in order to foretell future events (Krippner, Bogzaran, & de Carvalho,
2002). Kron and Brosh (2003) conducted research expanding Sholly‘s ideas about dreams
during pregnancy that predicted birth complications. They examined the predictive nature of
dreams in relation to postpartum depression, which affects about 20% of women after they
give birth. One hundred sixty-six pregnant women in their third trimester offered dreams for
the study. These women were interviewed when their babies were approximately 2 months
old. Interestingly, the results of this study found that women who experienced postpartum
depression had displayed fewer anxiety dreams and nightmares during pregnancy than the
women who did not suffer from this emotional disturbance. The authors of the work believe
that these findings support the idea that expectant mothers‘ dreams can predict which women
are more susceptible to developing postpartum depression. Such information is valuable in
preserving the health of new mothers and helping them cope with a common affliction that
can be devastating to all members of the family.
Van de Castle (1994) described how the dreams of an expectant mother appear ―able to
monitor and detect biochemical imbalances, tissue abnormalities, or structural defects in the
uterine environment‖ (p. 400). This happens through what he calls oneirosomatic (or dream-
body) imagery. This imagery of the unconscious seems to ―communicate an awareness of
disturbed functioning through dream imagery, which is sometimes fairly literal, sometimes
symbolic‖ (p. 401). He does note that observations of predictiveness in studied dreams were
retrospective. It was not until after the miscarriages that the dreams were attributed with
imagery that foretold the events. This is a questionable research method, but one that
indicates an area of focus for further inquiry.
ADDITIONAL STUDIES BY VAN DE CASTLE, KINDER, WINGET AND

KAPPS, AND SIEGEL
Van de Castle (1994) made the important point that it is common for pregnant women to
have nightmares; moreover, the disturbing dream images do not always mean bad events will
happen in the future. For instance, expectant mothers‘ anxiety-ridden dreams collected near
the end of pregnancy have been correlated with the desirable benefit of shorter labor and
deliveries. Winget and Kapp (1972), studying the relationship between the length of the birth
170 Marena Koukis
process and dream content, discovered that, for the 70 women studied, the dream content
measure of anxiety was directly related to the length of the birth process. Women who took
over 20 hours to deliver showed anxiety in 25% of the dreams they reported, much less than
the women who gave birth in under 10 hours, whose dreams revealed anxiety images 80% of
the time. These observations imply that the more anxiety images an expectant mother
experiences in her dreams, the shorter her labor and delivery. This finding is hopeful for
women who desire a shorter and less traumatic birth process.
Winget and Kapp (1972) asserted that worrisome events that might happen to the
dreamer are explored in dreams. These events are worked out by the dreamer‘s unconscious,
creating some form of resolution that translates into how well they are able to cope with these
events. Some researchers also think the reason women with longer births show fewer anxiety
images in their dreams is because these women are unable to express their fears in their
dreams. Instead, the women carry the fears with them throughout the pregnancy and are
affected by them during the birth. In other words, the psychological stress transfers into their
bodies and causes physical problems. It is hypothesized that the women who had shorter
labors seemed less affected by the stress, because they were able to express and work through
some of it in their dreaming minds. The women whose birth lengths fell between the 10-hour
and 20-hour groups also revealed a moderate percentage of anxiety images in their dreams.
These women were believed to have somewhat dealt with their fears in their dreams, although
not as successfully as those women who experienced shorter births.
Siegel (2002) also has discussed anxiety as a major theme in pregnancy-related dreams,
one that manifests in disturbing scenes and feelings that can create alarm upon awakening. He
wrote, ―Despite how distressing these nightmares are, they are actually helping us to prepare
for the indispensable role we must play as parent to our helpless newborn child‖ (p. 62).
Anxiety-filled dreams can provide clues to the underlying fears that are concerning the
future parents, giving them a chance to address them in their waking lives. Siegel, like Van de
Castle and Winget and Kapp before him, stated that fears could be played out in dreams as a
form of rehearsal of possible problems that may arise in the birthing and parenting processes.
However, preemptively working out every scenario is not possible or even advisable. Trying
to anticipate every danger will only cause an overload of concerns that may be self-defeating.
However, unconsciously exploring some anxiety-provoking situations in dreams may identify
the parents‘ biggest worries about their new role and allow them to bring these concerns into
their conscious mind where they can be dealt with. Thus, ―A crucial function of pregnancy
dreams is to rehearse and develop our parenting skills and form an inner relationship with our
unborn child‖ (Siegel, 2002, p. 62).
Pregnancy dreams should not be feared, because they do not literally tell of horrors that
are to come (Siegel, 2002). Frequent and vivid anxiety dreams occur during the course of
pregnancy even when everything goes well. ―In fact, remembering a disturbing dream may be
a positive sign that the dreamer is actively coping with the emotional challenges of becoming
a parent‖ (Siegel, 2002, p. 64). At the same time, studies on the predictiveness of dreams
indicate certain aspects that provide clues into the future (Krippner, Bogzaran, & de Carvalho,
2002). Dreams, including those during pregnancy, can alert the dreamer to problems that need
attention, and may greatly benefit the familial relationships if dealt with before the baby is
born. Some of the benefits of working with pregnancy dreams are that they help one
understand differences in the needs of the mother and father, resolve barriers in the parents‘
sexual relationship, and strengthen the emotional connections between the couple and the
child. Also, the dreams can help the parents‘ transition into their new roles and identities,
enabling them to relate to each other in new ways by making room for continuous
communication and problem solving.
Van de Castle worked with Kinder (1968) in a study titled ―Dream Content During
Pregnancy.‖ One hundred expectant mothers‘ dreams were collected for the study, along with
500 non-expectant women‘s dreams. Water images were common in the pregnant women‘s
dreams, which the researchers believe were likely representative of the amniotic fluid of
pregnancy. Also, more images of pregnancy, diet, small animals, architecture, and physical
actions were noted amongst the dreams of expectant women. Anxiety dreams increased for
the mothers-to-be near the end of their pregnancies. The researchers also discovered that
many pregnant women reported dependency issues and insecurities in regards to their
physical appearance in their dream reports.
DREAMS DURING DIFFERENT TRIMESTERS

Dream content has been shown to change throughout the trimesters of pregnancy. During
the first trimester, images of fertility are usually present in women‘s dreams (Stukane, 1985).
Many of these images do not literally depict pregnancy, but are more symbolic in nature. The
expecting mother, at the onset of pregnancy, may start to have recurring dreams that often
include images of small enclosures and tiny animals.
Changes in dream images of expectant fathers are also evidenced throughout the
trimesters (Siegel, 1982). In the first trimester, distinct themes such as masculine flight, oral
needs, and sexuality are observable in their dreams. Men produce dream reports about
floating in enclosures, along with pregnancy images reflective of a shift toward new familial
relationships. The pregnancy references imply the man‘s attempt to adapt to the idea that he
will soon be a father.
As pregnancy enters the second trimester, more literal and direct images of pregnancy
begin to show up in women‘s dreams (Stukane, 1985). There are many layers to pregnancy
dreams, and even the images of the dream that appear to have nothing to do with pregnancy
may actually be representative of it. Human babies start to appear more frequently in
women‘s dreams, rather than the tiny animal images that had previously represented them.
Dreams about infants seem to materialize in relation to how comfortable the expectant mother
is with the idea that there is a new person forming inside her. The character of the baby in the
mother‘s dream can be reflective of the feelings and attitudes that she has about being
pregnant.
More themes in the fathers‘ dreams emerge in the second and third trimesters (Siegel,
1982). These themes may include feeling excluded or abandoned, concerns about the birthing
process, becoming a parent, and the mother‘s health. Towards the end of the pregnancy, men
have more dreams about celebrations, probably in anticipation of the new arrival. Also later in
pregnancy, the floating dreams evolve into dreams about coming through water and making
one‘s way out of enclosures. The oral and sexual themes lessen, potentially illuminating
growth in the man‘s development following his attempts to reconcile his unconscious issues
about becoming a parent.
172 Marena Koukis
In the last trimester, it is common for women to dream of a loss of control, water,
tremors, waves, animal births, and dangerous situations (Siegel, 2002). This trimester is full
of dream images representing the mother‘s concern for her rapidly changing body, its
attractiveness, larger infants, and the birthing process. Women also have dreams
demonstrating inquisitiveness regarding what the baby will look like, how he or she will act,
and what it will feel like to finally hold the new child. The ending stages of pregnancy reflect
dreams of possible challenges that may soon be in store for the mother-to-be and provide her
a chance to prepare mentally for these situations.
EXPECTANT FATHERS’ DREAMS

Studies of dreams have begun to show that men undergo significant emotional changes
during their wives‘ or companions‘ pregnancies. An expectant man has dreams that are
―intimately related to his role as a father, his changing relationship to his wife, and his newly
forming relationship with his child-to-be‖ (Siegel, 2002, p. 80). Zayas (1986) completed a
study that specifically focused on the dreams of expectant fathers. Two men who were about
to become fathers offered dreams near the end of pregnancy. Father characters observed in
the dreams indicated the establishment of paternal identity through reworking the father-son
relationship. More evidence for men‘s psychological transformation during their partners‘
pregnancies comes from various studies that compare the dream content of both men who are,
and who are not, expecting a child.
One psychological bond that has already been identified between men and women while
expecting provides insight into the gender differences noted. An emotional connection
between a pregnant woman and her husband that is manifested in observable physical
changes in the man has been dubbed the couvade syndrome; it has been explored by many
researchers (Siegel, 2002). The syndrome is characterized by psychological and physical
changes in the expectant father, which parallel those of the pregnant mother. Siegel describes
a couvade dream, which demonstrates the father‘s shared emotional experience with his
partner during pregnancy, as a ritual for an expectant father. The lack of psychological outlets
for expecting men in American culture may displace their needs for involvement in the
pregnancy into the dreaming state. Siegel termed a unique form of couvade dream observed
in the dreams of the expectant men he studied as ―a Magical Protection dream,‖ one that
―often portrays creative and sometimes amusing solutions to the fears of pregnancy‖ (p. 83).
These dreams illustrate, through clear pregnancy dream images, the man‘s powerful feelings
of wanting to keep his child and the child‘s mother safe. Because of the culture‘s focus on the
mother during pregnancy, the expectant father and his mate may not recognize his protective
feelings. In the absence of such recognition or validation, the man may feel isolated or
ignored during the pregnancy.
Stukane (1985) explained that men will be psychologically involved with their partner‘s
pregnancies regardless of the couvade symptoms they do or do not exhibit. She noted that
―old issues from his original family will come up in his dreams as he works through his
relationship with his father and his sense of the type of parent he would like to be‖ (p. 61).
The prospective father will evaluate himself throughout the pregnancy, working with fears
and concerns that arise along the way. Many of these conscious and unconscious processes
may be evident in the images of his dreams.
An expectant father‘s detachment from his partner may affect both him and her in their
psychological preparedness for birth and subsequent parenting (Siegel, 2002). However,
when feelings of the father-to-be are validated, the connection between the man and woman
can be significantly strengthened. Through means such as working with couvade dreams, the
father becomes in tune with his feelings and confident in the discovery of them. With
awareness comes the opportunity for the expectant father to convey his protective tendencies
to his mate in a direct way, and become more involved and psychologically included in the
pregnancy experience.
Zayas (1986), after conducting a study in New York that looked for themes in expectant
fathers‘ dreams, asserted that these dreams revealed thematic features through dream symbols
that represent unconscious concerns of the dreamers. Content analysis was performed on the
dreams of 10 married men and 10 men who were about to become fathers. Observations made
in the beginning stages of pregnancy were that the dreams of the 10 expectant men showed a
higher number of lonely feelings and references to the fetal environment and enclosures than
the dreams of the non-expectant men. Fathers-to-be described more images of plants as well
as scenes that were clearly symbolic of pregnancy. Feelings of isolation and vehicle, work,
and personal threat images exhibited in the men‘s dreams declined throughout the course of
their wives‘ pregnancies. This was also the case for the lonely feelings, whose higher
incidence lessened over the course of pregnancy. On the other hand, dream images that
increased during the trimesters of pregnancy for the expectant fathers were those of babies,
wives, water, protection, and scenes of birth and labor. Zayas used his findings to suggest that
therapy and prenatal education be employed to support the experience of men during the
major life transition to becoming a father.
Siegel (1982) created the Expectant Father Dream Scales for his study that compared
dreams of 33 married men without children to the dreams of 33 expecting men. He chose to
highlight the thematic scales in his method, because he believed they would provide insight
into the expecting men‘s adaptive processes. The final product of the scales was derived from
a blend of established content and thematic scales. The researcher observed distinguishable
differences between the two groups after performing dream content analysis. Dream images
such as rejection, babies, birth, celebrations, sexuality, and pregnancy were more present in
the dreams of the soon-to-be fathers than in the dreams of their counterparts.
Siegel‘s study (1982) made some solid and meaningful discoveries. A psychological
connection between the father and his unborn child is evident in the dreams of sympathetic
birth situations. A reorganization of the expectant man‘s unconscious psychological processes
was found to be triggered in the life transition to becoming a parent. Siegel saw this as a
healthy occurrence that supports the father in his new role as a parent. This natural process
can be supported and enhanced when the father joins his spouse in therapy, dreamwork, and
parenting classes during this important transition. Psychological conflicts previously
unknown to the expectant father can emerge from evaluating his dreams. These conflicts can
be identified and worked with in order to strengthen his bonds with his child and his mate.
Both parents can improve their birthing experience by supporting one another in an open and
willing way.
Discovery of gender differences in pregnancy dreams can uncover valuable knowledge of
the unconscious changes experienced by both women and men. Women‘s dreams have been
174 Marena Koukis
extensively studied during pregnancy and compared to the dreams of women who are not
expecting. Likewise, expectant fathers‘ dreams have been reviewed and compared to men
without children on the way. Prior research was taken one step further by the present author‘s
2007 study, which directly compared dream reports of expecting women and men to see if
women demonstrated different levels of certain dream content in comparison to men. This
study was designed to improve the pregnancy experience, allowing for an even closer bond
between parents and child. Measurable differences were found in the dream content of
pregnant women and expectant men that were not identical to the differences previously
established.
THE KOUKIS STUDY

The present author‘s 2007 study compared the content of dream reports from pregnant
women and expectant men utilizing the 1966 Hall and Van de Castle scale of content
analysis. A total of 64 dreams were gathered from 24 women and 24 men aged 18 to 42 years.
At least one dream report of 50 to 250 words was collected from each participant. The dreams
were categorized by trimester. All dream reports were collected from the United States,
except for one from Canada. All participants of the study were English-speaking. The study
was rooted in the humanistic desire to support the experience of pregnancy for both women
and men. Exploring the transformation that both genders undergo during pregnancy may help
couples relate to each other better during the experience and support each other along the
way.
Measurable differences in dream content for pregnant women and expectant men were
found that were significantly different from previously reported differences in gender norms.
Women‘s reports had more family characters than predicted by the norms, fewer friend
characters, and more references to the torso. Men displayed fewer aggressive interactions than
friendly interactions, more success, more family characters, and fewer male than female
characters. The one common thread between the dreams of the men and women of the study
is a high number of family members, of which both groups showed much more than people
not expecting babies.
Themes not unlike those identified in previous research on pregnancy dreams emerged
when examining the descriptive dream write-ups offered by the study‘s participants. Anxiety
and nightmares, acceptance, protection, predicting characteristics of the future child,
resolving negative feelings, animals, being lost, and inhibitions were all present in many of
the dreams.
Seventy-five percent of the pregnant women in this study experienced at least one
negative emotion in their dreams such as apprehension, anger, sadness, and confusion. The
researcher categorized 19 of all the women‘s dreams collected as nightmares containing some
form of anxiety. Eighty-five percent of the total emotions reported for women were negative.
Only 12.5% of women reported such pleasant emotions as happiness.
The same negative emotions were reported by 42% of men in the study. Anxiety dreams
or nightmares were experienced in 13 of the total men‘s dreams. Seventy-five percent of the
total emotions reported by men were negative. Four men (17%) shared happy emotions.
Dreams have been found to move the dreamer towards feelings of anxiety while
expecting a child (Siegel, 2002). The negative emotions in dreams reported in the U.S. are
amplified during this life transition. Fears are identified and clarified when observed and
worked with in dream material. Siegel observed, ―When we can share what troubles us with
our spouse, family, and friends, we have a chance to feel reassured, to understand and resolve
our changing emotional dreams" (p. 88). Through introspection and sharing anxieties from
dreams with loved ones, the dreamer can get a sense of what function these fears serve in
resolving psychological issues.
The data suggest that dreamers experience a connection to their unborn child that is often
played out in their dreams. The indications are that the unconscious allows the dreamer to
experience emotions more freely and uninhibitedly compared to the waking or thinking state.
If dreamers can relax and allow themselves to explore their feelings of the joys of parenthood
in their dreams, they may reaffirm their excitement at becoming a parent and solidify their
shared enjoyment of their growing family with their spouse. They also may achieve an
unconscious balance between the negative feelings about parenthood, such as fear and
anxiety, with the positive ones like happiness, connectedness, and acceptance of the new
family and the new role they will be playing in it.
A theme that arose from many dreams in this study was the desire for the dreamers to
save or protect the characters in their dreams, including themselves. The need to acknowledge
the importance of being a protector as a parent is demonstrated in dream images where the
dreamer carries out these behaviors. Curiosity about meeting the new addition to the family
often creeps into the subject matter of expectant parents’ dreams; sometimes one gender is
favored over the other, and certain physical characteristics are seen as desirable. The data
suggest that these desires are often clarified and explored in dreams. More often than not,
these types of dreams are a healthy way to work out fears before labor takes place (Siegel,
2002).
Many expectant parents in the 2007 study reported dreams that could be viewed as an
attempt by the dreamer to resolve negative or ambiguous feelings toward impending
parenthood. The animal theme, for example, supports prior research on pregnancy dreams;
that is, women have long reported dreams beginning at the onset of pregnancy containing
images of animals (Stukane, 1985), as these images often represent the fetus. The theme of
getting lost in dreams may be indicative of the confusing feelings that emerge while
expecting; dreamers may be literally trying to find their way through a time of feeling lost.
Having the desire to indulge in something forbidden and release inhibitions was also a theme
that arose in some expectant parents‘ dreams. The dream world may allow dreamers to break
free from inhibitions and express wishes otherwise being suppressed for the betterment of
their health and that of the future child.
Most of the participants of the study expressed the belief the dreams do have meaning.
Many also agreed that dreams might reflect waking aspects of life. After being married for a
year and a half, for example, one woman of 32 years of age in this study became pregnant for
the first time. She believed that her dreams reflected only the meaning that she herself gave
them. She assumed that the dreams providing her with meaningful information were the only
ones she remembered, viewing them as ―basically a random mix of current concerns and
things that happened during the day.‖ She noticed that waking events showed up in her
dreams as well as other random information. She confirmed that she could recall more
dreams, and that they were more vivid, now that she was pregnant.
176 Marena Koukis
Another member of the study was a 35-year-old mother of one who was pregnant with
her second child in her third trimester. She believed that dreams definitely had meaning:
―Dreams have a tendency to assist me in reexamining some element of my waking world that
I have not explored as fully as my conscious self might benefit.‖ Furthermore, she expressed
that emotional milestones in her life were documented in her dreams, which allowed her to
take the time to recognize these life transitions in order to absorb their meaning and impact.
She also believed that dreams reflected aspects of waking life.
The relationships in this woman‘s life were enhanced through conversations about
dreams. Dreams provided her with the opportunity to examine her own feelings and express
them with her loved ones, who also offered insight and support. She asserted that dreams
―foster an opportunity to probe how they might emotionally feel towards myself or an event,
such as the upcoming birth.‖ Dreams were valuable to this expectant mother because of the
dialog they created: ―They shift the reality of what people normally, socially choose to
discuss and open the parameters much more widely to encourage more honest discussion.‖
Through dreams she could work with her emotions, and identify issues in her life that needed
attention.
A man expecting his first child believed that dreams rarely have meaning. He told me that
the only influence of dreams on his waking life was that ―occasionally my mood has been
affected by a dream I‘ve had the previous night.‖
Dreaming multiple times a night became routine for one pregnant woman. She had not
recorded her dreams previous to this study, but could remember significant and recurring
dreams throughout her lifetime. She strongly believed that dreams had meaning, and that
some dreams were designed to deliver a message to the dreamer.
CONCLUSION
For future studies, it would be beneficial to include participants with a wider range of
ethnic, cultural, and socioeconomic backgrounds. The more diversity a study has, the greater
the opportunity to measure differences among populations of people. With greater diversity,
subgroups reflecting such factors as gender differences within each culture of the participants
can be studied.
Pregnancy dreams for both women and men have presented content reflective of the
distinctive changes they are undergoing. Siegel (2002) has found that pregnant women and
their mates have offered dreams revealing patterns that ―demonstrate how awareness and
exploration of these dreams can enhance our emotional preparation for parenting‖ (p. 63).
Pregnancy can be a frightening and thrilling, yet almost certainly anxious, time of life.
Becoming aware of oneself through any means can expand the experience for those involved.
To explore pregnancy through dreams with an expert in dreamwork, such as a psychologist or
medical doctor, can support the individual‘s growth in a healthy and purposeful manner.
Women and men can also use books that share knowledge gained from dream content
research to gain understanding about the unique and often extraordinary dreams they have
while expecting a child. In these ways, parents can gain confidence and quiet their fears while
positively influencing their birthing experience.
REFERENCES
Hall, C.S., & Van de Castle, R.L. (1966). The content analysis of dreams. New York:
Appleton-Century Crofts.
Koukis, M. (2007). Pregnancy dreams: Gender differences in dream content during
pregnancy. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, Saybrook Graduate School, San Francisco,
California.
Krippner, S., Bogzaran, F., & de Carvalho, A.P. (2002). Extraordinary dreams and how to
work with them. Albany: State University of New York Press.
Krippner, S., Posner, N., Pomerance, W., Barksdale, W., & Fischer, S. (1974). An
investigation of dream content during pregnancy. Journal of the Society of Psychosomatic
Dentistry and Medicine, 21, 111-123.
Kron, T., & Brosh, A. (2003). Can dreams during pregnancy predict postpartum depression?‖
Dreaming, 13, 67-81.
Maybruck, P. (1986). An exploratory study of the dreams of pregnant women. Unpublished
doctoral dissertation, Saybrook Institute, San Francisco, California.
Maybruck, P. (1990). Pregnancy and dreams. In S. Krippner (Ed.), Dreamtime and
dreamwork (pp. 143-151). Los Angeles: J. P. Tarcher.
Sholly, E.V. (1989). Dreams of pregnant women: A comparison of manifest dream content as
it relates to pregnancy complications and predictiveness. Unpublished doctoral
dissertation, Kansas State University, Manhattan, Kansas.
Siegel, A. (1982). Pregnant dreams: Developmental processes in the manifest dreams of
expectant fathers. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, California School of Professional
Psychology, Berkeley, California.
Siegel, A. (2002). Dream wisdom. Berkeley, CA: Celestial Arts.
Stukane, E. (1985). The dream worlds of pregnancy. New York: Station Hill Press.
Van de Castle, R.L. (1994). Our dreaming mind. New York: Ballantine Books.
Van de Castle, R.L., & Kinder, P. (1968). Dream content during pregnancy.
Psychophysiology, 4, 375.
Winget, C., & Kapp, F. (1972). The relationship of the manifest content of dreams to duration
of childbirth in primiparae. Psychosomatic Medicine, 34, 313-320.
Zayas, L.H. (1986). An exploratory longitudinal study of the manifest dream content of first-
time expectant fathers. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, Columbia University, New
York.
Chapter 13
DREAM REPORTS OF ANIMAL RIGHTS ACTIVISTS:

A CASE FOR THE CONTINUITY HYPOTHESIS
Jacquie E. Lewis
ABSTRACT
This chapter examines the nighttime dream experiences of animal rights activists.
The sample consisted of 284 activists who attended the Animal Rights 2004 conference.
Participants completed the Hall and Van de Castle Most Recent Dream Survey (Domhoff,
1996). The data on dreams were compared to statistical norms on dream content
developed by Hall and Van de Castle (1966). Results indicated that activists reported
animal dream characters at a much higher rate than the general population. Activists also
overwhelmingly had more friendly animal dreams than the general public.
INTRODUCTION
The belief that dreams reflect waking thoughts, emotions, feelings, and experiences has
been referred to as the ―continuity hypothesis‖ (Hall & Nordby, 1972). The idea that day
residue from waking activity is reflected in dreams was first introduced by Freud
(1900/1972). Adler (1931/1958) also believed that dreams indicate common concerns of the
waking mind and the dreaming mind. Recent research seems to support this view (Domhoff,
2001).
Dream studies demonstrate strong support for the argument that dreams are related to
waking consciousness and can tell us something meaningful about a person‘s waking life
(Domhoff, 1996, 2001; Hermans, 1987; King & DeCicco, 2007; Stauch & Meier, 1996).
Nightmares also appear to reflect waking concerns (Blagrove, Farmer, & Williams, 2003;
Levin & Nielsen, 2007; Patrick & Durnell, 2004; Schredl, 2003), as do waking traumas.
Earthquake survivors reflect their experiences in their dreams (Najam, Mansoor, Kanwal, &
Naz, 2006): for these survivors, dreams were more unpleasant, hostile, horrifying, and vivid
than the dreams of the control group. Also correlated to dreaming activities is the amount of
time spent driving or talking with friends in waking life (Schredl & Hoffman, 2003). In a
182 Jacquie E. Lewis
similar study, where the dream reports of truck drivers were examined, the authors found
continuity between emotional mood and time spent in the truck in waking life, on the one
hand, and dream emotions and dreams of being in a truck, on the other (Schredl, Funkhouser,
& Arn, 2006). Other studies have also found that emotional content in dreams is reflected by
waking life (Blagrove, Farmer, & Williams, 2004; Gilchrist, Davidson, & Shakespeare-Finch,
2007; Schredl, 2006; Zadra & Donderi, 2000). In studies comparing waking sports activities
with dream content it was found that dreams reflected active participation in sports or sports
themes (Erlacher & Schredl, 2004; Schredl & Erlacher, 2008).
Researchers who have focused on the dream reports of indigenous peoples report that
these dreams contain a high number of animal characters (Gregor, 1981; Van de Castle, 1986,
1994). Data indicate that the animal character percentage hovers around 30%. Because these
cultures interact with animals on a daily basis, it is not surprising that their members often
dream of animals. What seems clear from the literature on animals in dreams among
indigenous peoples is that they mirror the concerns, conceptions, and interests of the
dreamers. However, there has been little exploration to see if people in the U.S. who also
spend time with or are concerned about animals have similar dreams. It can reasonably be
assumed that this might also be true for people aligned with animals in the U.S. culture.
Anecdotal evidence points to this conclusion. Picone (2000), a person who considers herself
sympathetic to animals, finds it quite natural to dream of animals. She states:
I am an animal lover. My cat and I have a close relationship and mutual respect for each
other. I feed and care for the various birds, squirrels, mice, snakes, frogs and lizards and any
other animal that happens to come into our yard. It is no surprise, then, that I dream about
animals. (p. 22)
A way to systematically test the continuity hypothesis in the U.S. is to collect data on
people who have an intense interest in animal issues and compare their dreams with the U.S.
statistical norms established by Hall and Van de Castle (1966). This was the basis of my
research. I chose to test the continuity hypothesis by examining a group of animal rights
activists and comparing their dream reports to the U.S. norms. Hall and Van de Castle found
that in the U.S. population 5% of the characters in dream reports are animals and that most of
the dream scenarios involving animals are dreams of animal aggression, with the animal
threatening or attacking the dreamer. I hypothesized that, because of their sensitivity to and
interest in animals, animal rights activists would report a high percentage of animal dreams
and a higher rate of animal dream characters than would the general U.S. population. I also
speculated that animal rights activists would report a high rate of friendliness from animals in
their dreams.
METHOD
At the Animal Rights 2004 (AR2004) conference held in Washington, DC, July 8-12,
2004, I asked attendees to record their most recent dream on the Hall and Van de Castle Most
Recent Survey (Domhoff, 1996). The Survey asks participants to write down the most recent
dream they remember having, whether it was last night, last month, or last year. It also asks
them to describe, in as much detail as they can remember, exactly what happened in the
Dream Reports of Animal Rights Activists 183
dream, including the nature of the dream setting; whether it was familiar to them or not;
descriptions of the people and animals, including ages and genders; and the relationship of the
people and animals to the dreamer. They were also asked to describe their feelings during the
dream. Dreams were coded using the Hall and Van de Castle system (1966). Coding sheets
were completed by listing dream characters, acts of aggression, acts of friendliness, and
dream misfortunes.
RESULTS
Animal Character Percentages in Dream Reports
The total number of respondents who reported their most recent dream was 284. Of the
animal rights activist dream reports collected, 61.6% (175) were non-animal dreams and
38.4% (109) were animal dreams. Non-animal dreams are defined as those that contain
human characters or miscellaneous creatures, but have no animal characters. Animal dreams
are dreams that contain at least one animal character; these dreams often contain human
characters as well.
There were 431 dream characters in all the collected animal rights activist dreams. Many
dreams had multiple characters. However, when a character appeared more than once in a
dream, it was still counted as only one character. It also should be noted that, because the
dreamer was such a constant factor in almost every dream, he or she was not listed as a
character. Dream characters consisted of 292 humans, or 67.7%, and 128 animals, or 29.7%.
There were 11 miscellaneous characters, equaling 2.6%.
The dream report findings differ dramatically from the national norms established by Hall
and Van de Castle (1966; Domhoff, 1996). Female animal rights advocates reported 67.6%
human characters, 30% animal characters, and 2.4% miscellaneous creatures. The U.S. norms
for women are 96% human characters, 4% animal characters, and 0% miscellaneous
creatures. Male animal rights advocates reported 69.3% human characters, 27.7% animal
characters, and 3% miscellaneous characters. The U.S. norms for men are 94% human dream
characters, 6% animal characters, and 0% miscellaneous characters.
Relationship to Animals in Dream Reports
The 109 dreams that contained animal characters were analyzed in order to determine the
degree of aggressive and friendly interactions among characters. According to Hall and Van
de Castle (1966), dream aggression occurs when one character shows verbal or physical
aggression toward another dream character, steals or destroys another character‘s belongings,
or thinks hostile thoughts about another dream character. Friendliness in dreams occurs when
a dream character communicates friendliness, verbally or non-verbally, to another dream
character, offers a gift or loans a possession to a dream character, helps or rescues a dream
character, requests to accompany or visit a dream character, expresses or thinks of expressing
friendship or love to another dream character, or commits to a long-term relationship with a
character (Domhoff, 1996).
A total of 34 dreams with 51 aggressive acts were found. I was unable to compare these
data directly to the Hall and Van de Castle norms because they did not provide a table of
aggressive dreams involving animals. Acts of aggression were differentiated by eight levels
of action. These were covert hostility, which is felt but not expressed in the dream (first
subclass); verbal aggressions (second, third, and fourth subclasses); theft or vandalism (fifth
subclass); being chased or imprisoned (sixth subclass); physical abuse (seventh subclass); and
overt acts of aggressiveness that result in death (eighth subclass).
The highest percentage of aggressiveness was perpetuated on an animal by someone
other than the dreamer (31.3%). The second most prevalent form of aggression (17.6%) was
committed by a human character, other than the dreamer, on another human. Aggressions by
human characters toward the dreamer were reported 15.6% of the time. Aggressiveness on the
part of the dreamer toward another human character and aggressiveness by an animal
character toward the dreamer were equally represented at 11.7%. Animal character aggression
toward another animal character was reported at 9.8%. Aggression committed by the dreamer
toward an animal occurred only once in all the animal dreams, amounting to 1.9%. There
were no reported incidents of animal aggression toward other humans. This group of animal
activists dreamed of remarkably little aggression on their part toward animals, or animals
toward them. This finding is in sharp contrast to the Hall and Van de Castle study, which
suggested that almost all animal dream reports are aggressive (as cited in Domhoff, 1996).
Acts of friendliness were classified into seven subclasses: covert friendliness, when the
dreamer has friendly feelings, but does not openly express them (first subclass); greeting or
praising (second subclass); giving or loaning an object (third subclass); helping or rescuing
(fourth subclass); requesting to go along with or visit someone (fifth subclass); expressing
love (sixth subclass); and long term close contact, such as dreaming of getting married
(seventh subclass).
Fifty-four dreams with acts of friendliness were reported, for a total of 86 friendly acts.
These results are not compared to those of Hall and Van de Castle (1966), because they did
not provide a table of friendliness in dreams involving animals. Friendliness toward animals
on the part of the dreamer was reported at 60.4%. The vast majority of these dreams were at
the fourth subclass of friendliness, which indicates that the dreamer was helping, protecting,
or rescuing an animal. Twenty-nine instances, or 56%, of dreamers‘ friendly interactions with
animal dream characters were reported. This was much higher than any other categories of
friendliness.
The second highest category of friendly interactions reported in dreams was when a
human character, other than the dreamer, showed friendliness toward an animal (16.2%). The
majority of these interactions were also at subclass four, indicating the person was helping,
protecting, or rescuing an animal. Animal friendliness toward the dreamer occurred 10.4% of
the time, comprising the third highest category of friendly situations.
Put more succinctly, dreamers in this study reported that their dreams about animals were
overwhelmingly friendly. Unlike the national norms, these people see animals as non-
aggressive and often in need of human help. The data here indicate that there was only one
incident of dreamer-involved aggressiveness toward an animal, and six instances of animal
aggression toward dreamers.
Aggression-Friendliness Percentage in the Dreams of Animal Rights Activists
To compare aggressive and friendly dream interactions, Hall and Van de Castle (1966)
established the a/f percentage (aggression/friendliness percentage). The following formula
was used in this study to determine the a/f percentage:
Total number of dreamer-involved aggressions with animals /

Total number of dreamer-involved aggressions with animals + total number of
dreamer-involved friendly interactions with animals
According to Hall and Van de Castle, an a/f percentage over 50% indicates
aggressiveness and an a/f percentage under 50% constitutes friendliness. Aggressiveness is
further defined when an a/f percentage reaches 60%. It is at this level that the dream
characters are classified as dream enemies.
The data from this study indicate that there was only one incident of dreamer-involved
aggressiveness toward an animal, and six instances of animal aggression toward dreamers.
There were 52 occurrences of dreamer friendliness toward animals, and 9 occasions of animal
friendliness toward dreamers. Using the Hall and Van de Castle formula for the a/f
percentage, this study yields 10.3%, compared to the U.S. norms of 82% for men and 77% for
women. Since the a/f percentage here is extremely low, at 10.3%, examining gender
differences was not expected to shed further light on comparison of this analysis to U.S.
norms.
Misfortune in Animal Dream Reports
Another criterion described by Hall and Van de Castle (1966) is experiencing a

misfortune in a dream. This means that the dream contains a situation in which a dream
character experiences one of six negative situations: being unable to move, or being lost or
late (first subclass); falling (second subclass); confronting an environmental threat (third
subclass); having an accident resulting in no physical harm (fourth subclass); being injured or
ill (fifth subclass); and suffering illness or death due to an accident or unknown cause (sixth
subclass).
The data indicate that misfortunes involving animals were an important component of
animal rights activists‘ dreams. In 38 dreams there were a total of 47 incidents in which
misfortune transpired. Fully 65.9% of these dreams featured misfortunes to animals. These
results cannot be compared to the Hall and Van de Castle sample (1966; Domhoff, 1996),
because they did not provide a table on dreams of misfortune involving animals. However, by
also examining misfortunes in the dream reports of animal activists where animals are in
danger, more is revealed than would be evident by examining aggressive dream interactions
alone.
Additional Characteristics of Animal Dream Reports
Further examination of the dreams of animal rights activists revealed interesting

information. Of the dreams, 14.7% involved a deceased companion animal. Although there
are no established U.S. norms for dreams about deceased animals, Hall and Van de Castle
covered dead animals in a category that also includes dead humans, imaginary characters, and
metamorphosed characters (those changing into other forms). This cluster group comprised a
statistical norm for the general population, with men reporting only 1% and women reporting
only 2% of their dream characters as dead, imaginary, or metamorphosed humans or animals
(Domhoff, 1996).
Additional interesting trends reveal that beliefs that are central to the subculture of the
animal rights movement are also found in animal rights activists‘ dreams. Although the
numbers were small, vegetarian or vegan (vegetarian diet devoid of meat, eggs, dairy, and
honey) dream themes appeared in 3 (2.8%) of the animal dreams and 13 (7.4%) of the non-
animal dreams. An example of a non-animal dream involving a vegetarian theme is that of a
dreamer who was sitting with her family eating dinner when she realized, to her horror, that
she was eating chicken.
Similarly, other animal rights themes are represented in activists‘ dreams. Nine people
(8.3%) dreamed about being in a slaughterhouse, on a factory farm, or in a laboratory that
experiments on animals. For example, one dreamer described being in the slaughterhouse
thus:
Cow slaughter plant . . . The cows were hanging by their rear legs and I looked into their
eyes. They blinked and saw my eyes. Their eyes and blinking was like a Morse Code ‗SOS‘
telling me to help them from this torture and pain. I tried to stop the line many times to make
sure they did not suffer and [were] stunned properly. I did the best I could under the
circumstances. (animal dream 17)
Another dreamer described rescuing animals from a laboratory. ―I dreamed that I

liberated rabbits from a pharmaceutical company with my ex-boyfriend. It was so awesome. I
felt so much joy from saving their lives. We safely made it out and were not caught‖ (animal
dream 108).
There also were instances in five (2.9%) non-animal dreams in which the dreamer was
involved in discussions of animal rights issues with a dream character. One example of this is
a dream in which the dreamer was trying to convince his friend why he should stop eating
meat.
CONCLUSION
The data in this study lend strong support to the continuity hypothesis. People dream
about waking experiences. Almost 39% of the dreams collected for this study have animals in
them. Further, examination of the animal dream reports yields almost a third of the reported
dream characters as animals. When this result is compared to the U.S. norms established by
Hall and Van de Castle (1966), which include roughly 5% animal characters, the results are
striking. These findings demonstrate that animals are a significant aspect of animal rights
activists‘ dream reports much as they are in waking life.
The results reported in this chapter strongly suggest that dreams have psychological
meaning for the dreamer. This supports the conclusion of Adler (1931/1958) and Krippner
and Dillard (1988), who stated that dreams appear to mirror the same types of interests,
activities, and personality attributes of the dreamer‘s waking life. The results of this analysis
show that dreams about animals are common among those whose waking concerns reflect
animal issues. Rather than making a case for dreams as helping one forget waking events, as
Crick and Mitchison (1983) suggest, or for dreams as a byproduct of random neurological
activity in the brain, as Hobson (2001) has stated, the dream reports in this study demonstrate
a direct relationship to the psychological concerns of the dreamer. In addition, the friendly
attitudes that animal rights activists have toward animals and their desire to help them appear
to be just as important to animal rights activists in their dreams as they are in waking life.
These results also indicate that animal rights activists differ significantly from the general
population concerning dream content. Further examination of the characters who commit
aggressive acts in these dream reports shows that most aggressions were committed by
humans, other than the dreamer, and those aggressions were overwhelmingly perpetrated on
animals (31.3%). This percentage is twice that of dreams involving other humans harming the
dreamer (15.6%) and humans harming other humans (17.6%). This finding reveals that, just
as animal rights activists believe in their waking lives that animals are often at the mercy of
others who abuse them, this belief is also heavily reflected in their dream lives.
It follows from this that, because animal rights activists would intervene to help animals
during their waking hours, these actions would be reflected in their dreams. Of the friendly
interactions reported in their dreams, 60.4% involve the dreamer showing friendliness to an
animal. The majority of these dream scenarios, 56%, involve the dreamer intervening to help
the animal when someone is abusing it or when the animal is in a dangerous circumstance due
to environmental factors.
A great many of the dream scenarios involve an animal in danger, either at the hands of
another person (act of aggression) or because of an unsafe environment (act of misfortune),
with the dreamer attempting to solve the situation by helping or protecting the animal (act of
friendliness). Examination of the acts of misfortune in these dreams reveals that two-thirds of
the unfortunate situations happen to animals. Most of these dreams consist of animals facing a
threat in the environment (25.5%) or an animal being injured or ill (17%). When one
considers these results alongside aggressive acts committed on animals in these dreams and
then compares these results to the high percentage of acts of friendliness involving the
dreamer helping animals, a pattern emerges in the dream stories of animal rights activists. A
typical animal rights activist‘s dream report involves an animal that is found suffering, either
at the hands of another person or through environmental circumstances, whereupon the
dreamer steps in to help the animal.
The results of this study also indicate that animal rights activists differ significantly from
the general population concerning dream content. Hall and Van de Castle have stated that
aggression/friendliness percentages of over 50 indicate a preponderance of aggression, while
percentages of 60 and above indicate that the dream characters are viewed as enemies by the
dreamer. Hall and Van de Castle also determined that percentages under 50 indicate a greater
amount of friendliness. The national norms for the a/f percentage in terms of animal
characters, devised by Hall and Van de Castle (1966; Domhoff, 1996), are 82% for males and
77% for females. What this suggests is that the general U.S. public tends to view animals as
enemies in their dreams. Van de Castle (1994) found similar results in a later study. However,
the a/f percentage in this study was clearly at the very low end of the a/f range, at 10.3%,
indicating a highly significant level of friendliness to animals in these dream reports. It is
probably safe to say that this population is among only a small percentage of the U.S. public
that shows such a low level of aggression in relation to animals in their dreams.
In addition to the fact that virtually all members of the sample consisted of North
Americans, the basic limitation of this study is the possibility that some individuals may have
used dream ―discrimination‖ when reporting their dreams. Given the nature of the setting,
namely, an animal rights conference, some people may have more readily reported a dream
involving an animal. It is even possible that some individuals may have felt compelled to
record positive animal dreams where they are the rescuer of animals, rather than record
dreams where the animal showed aggression to them or they were aggressive to the animal.
Future studies investigating the dreams of animal rights activists should be conducted in non-
animal rights settings in order to compare results.
These findings about the dreams of animal rights activists are similar to those found
among indigenous people in terms of the percentage of reported animal dream characters.
However, the dreams of animal rights activists show extremely different plots from those of
the animal dreams reported by indigenous peoples. Animal rights activists report dreams in
which they are helping or befriending animals, while indigenous people have more aggressive
animal dreams. Van de Castle (1994) and Gregor (1981) found that the animal dream reports
among indigenous tribes reflected their waking concerns, with the dreamer being pursued by
a wild animal or the dreamer hunting an animal for food.
Animal rights activists also differ from the general population in the types of animals
they dream about. Van de Castle (1983) found that U.S. adults most often dream of
domesticated or companion animals rather than wild animals. He found this not to be the case
in the dream reports of children, who most often dream of wild animals. The findings
reported in this chapter suggest that activists most often dream of companion animals, cats
and dogs, but not exclusively. The data indicate that a wide variety of animals appears in the
dreams of animal rights activists. A total of 29 species were identified, including companion
animals, farm animals, and wild animals.
The investigation of dreams reported in this chapter reflects the interconnectedness of
dreams and waking life experiences among animal rights activists. Further research should be
conducted to determine whether these findings can be replicated with other subcultures. It
would be important to know whether members of other social justice movements such as
environmentalists, feminists, indigenous activists, or those who work with abused children or
battered women have similar dreams related to their waking life experiences.
The dreams by animal rights activists about deceased animals are also worthy of further
consideration. Barrett (1991-1992) has stated that dreams about the deceased are an especially
fruitful area to explore in understanding attitudes towards death. Because 15% of the animal
dream characters in this study were deceased companion animals, examination of these types
of dreams may produce revealing similarities or differences when compared to dreams about
deceased humans.
The results from this study appear to leave little doubt that the nighttime dreams of
animal rights activists reflect their waking concerns. Animal rights activists reported dreams
about animals in much higher proportions than did the general population. These dreams
illustrated heightened friendliness toward animals and involved plots in which they faced
challenges to help animals. The depth and richness of their animal dreams were further
demonstrated by the wide range of species that appeared in them.
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Chapter 14
A CONTENT ANALYSIS OF COLOR IN DREAMS
Robert J. Hoss
ABSTRACT
A series of studies was performed on the occurrence of color in dream reports, in
order to determine if such reports simply reflect our waking visual experience, or if the
colors reported might be influenced by neurological or psychological factors, or both.
Content analyses were performed for the presence of dream color in 15,245 dream reports
from the large diverse population in the DreamBank.net database, plus 12,841 dream
reports from eight long-term dream journals. A third analysis was performed on
individual long-term journal data, to determine how the reports for individuals compared
to those of the composite averages. The analysis revealed a nearly identical pattern in the
colors reported for both the large composite databases and for the individual long-term
journal data, but with a wide variation among individuals. The results suggest that dream
color recall may be influenced by a common factor, either neurological or psychological,
which, in turn, is influenced at an individual level by personal factors. A preliminary test
for the influence of personality and emotion on color recall provided a promising
indication that emotional factors do influence the colors either dreamed or recalled.
INTRODUCTION
Several studies have indicated that the majority of our dreams are in color. Van de Castle
(1994) cited a study by Kahn et al. (1962) of 38 participants, with 87 instances of dream
recall from 100 awakenings during the dream state, which found distinct color reported in
70% of the cases and vague color in another 13%. Schredl (2008) cited four studies from
1962 through 1992 that found about 80% of the dreams contained color, plus a fifth study by
Schwitzgebel (2003), in which only 4.4% of participants reported no color when asked about
color immediately upon waking. The Schredl team (Schredl, Fuchedzhiea, Hämig, &
Schindele, 2008) conducted a study with 32 participants who were asked to record the dream
they recalled immediately upon waking up, and to list the dream objects and the color of each
(colored objects, black and white objects, and objects without remembered color). The results
194 Robert J. Hoss
were that all 32 dreams included at least one colored element, and no one reported that all of
his or her dreams were in ―black and white.‖ This study further linked color recall in dreams
to color memory in the waking state. In contrast, color recall is lower for spontaneous dream
reports (normal daily dream recall). Van de Castle (1994) cited a content analysis by Hall of
over 3,000 dreams that resulted in only 29% of the dreams being reported in full or partial
color. The difference is likely due to memory factors, as Schredl suggested.
If dreams originate in full or partial color, then it is of interest to determine if dream color
simply reflects our waking visual experience, or if the colors might be influenced by
neurological or psychological factors, or both.
OBJECTIVES AND HYPOTHESES

The objectives of this study were to explore both physiological and psychological
connections with dream color, to the degree that patterns observed in a content analysis of
color recalled from dreams could shed some light on each of these areas. A series of content
analyses was performed on two databases totaling 28,086 dreams. Analysis was performed on
the composite databases, as well as on the data from individual long-term journals, in order to
compare patterns for groups and individuals. Because the databases were a collection of
spontaneous dream reports, I could test only for factors related to dream color recall. Perhaps
a future study of color contained in dreams immediately upon waking would help to clarify
how colors originate in dreams.
The study was designed to explore dream color as a reflection of five possible
mechanisms or hypotheses: 1) dream color is a direct reflection of the waking visual
experience; 2) dream color reflects our learned associations with color; 3) dream color is
influenced by the neurology of color perception; 4) dream color is symbolic of psychological
processes; 5) dream color reflects the human emotional response to color.
Hypothesis #1: Dream Color Reflects the Waking Visual Experience
If most dreams originate in full or partial color, then perhaps dreams reflect the colors we
experience most in our waking world. In the Schredl (2008) study, the colors of dream
elements were recorded immediately upon waking; although all dreams contained colored
elements, every element was not reported to have a color. Therefore it might be assumed that,
although dream colors may reflect waking life as the continuity hypothesis contends (Schredl,
2003) (for example, grass appears green and the sky blue), there may be a more complex
psychological process involved in the assignment of a color to a dream element. This may be
particularly true for spontaneous reports where factors such as color intensity, uniqueness, or
emotional importance may cause the dreamer to notice certain colors and ignore others. For
example, the unique redness of a car in a dream may be recalled, whereas colors that appear
as normal, such as a blue sky, may be ignored in the dream record. If dream color reflects
waking color, then the content analysis of dream color, on average, for a large population,
should represent the broad spectrum of our sensory experience, perhaps with a slight increase
A Content Analysis of Color in Dreams 195
in those colors that dominate our natural environment (such as blue, green, brown, and shades
of gray and white).
Hypothesis #2: Dream Color Reflects Learned Associations
If dream color represents our individual personal experiences and learned associations
with color, then the content analysis between large databases, as well as between individual
journals, should show a fairly broad and random result due to the random and varied nature of
individual experiences and associations. Furthermore, individual learned associations (such as
associating red with ―stop‖ or green with ―healing,‖ for example) presented in the context of
each dream would contribute to the random nature of color appearing across databases as the
context varies. Some cultural patterns may emerge among similar populations, but for large
culturally diverse populations the results should be fairly random between databases, with
little evidence of a common pattern.
Hypothesis #3: Dream Color Is Influenced by the Neurology of

Color Perception
We know from experience (with something as common as the TV screen) that our
perception of the full color spectrum can be created from the illumination of only three
primary colors, red, green and blue. Research (Schiffman, 1976, pp. 216-220) also tells us
that our eyes respond to colored light in a trichromatic manner using three receptors (3 types
of cones) with peak sensitivities at yellow-red, yellow-green, and blue-violet (575 nm,
535nm, and 445nm). The eye also contains a second set of receptors called rods that respond
to dark and light. The opponent-process theory (Schiffman, 1976) contends that the eye-brain
system then processes the trichromatic information from the eye at a more complex level
based on hue cancellation among three opponent channels: red versus green, blue versus
yellow, and black versus white. In other words, our brain perceives color based on the relative
presence and absence of not three but four colors (red, yellow, blue, and green), plus black
and white (or dark and light). The four colors (red, yellow, blue, and green) are often termed
the ―psychological primaries,‖ because they are perceived by the mind to be primary, likely
due to this processing phenomenon. If the colors we dream of or recall are influenced by the
neurology of color perception, then we might see the emergence of this four-color plus black
and white pattern in the dream report databases.
Hypothesis #4: Dream Color is Symbolic of Psychological Processes
In contemporary psychological theory, there is very little in the literature on color in

dreams other than some discussion by Carl Jung and F.C. Perls. Both observed the
appearance of the four ―psychological primaries‖ in dreams and considered it psychologically
significant when they appeared together as a group. They regarded the presence of this
balanced pattern of four colors as evidence of a balance of forces within the psyche, or an
196 Robert J. Hoss
evolving state of completion within the personality (Jung, 1972, 1973; Perls, 1974). Jung
(1972) went further to associate each of the ―primaries‖ to what he called the four orienting
functions of consciousness: red relating to feeling, yellow relating to intuition, blue relating to
thinking, and green relating to sensation. Jung (1973) also assigned a symbolic significance to
the appearance of black and white in dreams, black representing the unconscious realm and
white or light representing the conscious realm or conscious material. He contended that
when black and white appeared as a pair or in a pattern, an integration of conscious and
unconscious material was taking place, leading towards a balancing within the psyche.
Hypothesis #5: Dream Color Reflects the Human Emotional Response

to Color
Early studies on the human response to color provide significant evidence that color
illumination in the waking state results in fairly predictable physiological and emotional
responses (Birren, 1961; Birren, 1978; Brown, 1974; Ertel, 1973; Goldstein, 1942; Lűscher,
1971; Riley, 1995). These influences may carry over into the dream state. Therefore, both the
physiological and emotional connections with dream color are worth exploring.
Lüscher (1971) and Birren (1961) both cited studies where color was shown to evoke a
physiological response in the autonomic nervous system, which occurs below our threshold of
awareness. For example, they reported that blue illumination had a calming effect on the
parasympathetic branch that regulates automatic, involuntary functions such as heartbeat,
breathing, and digestion. The color red, on the other hand, was reported to have the effect of
exciting the sympathetic branch and causing certain processes such as heartbeat and breathing
to speed up. Brown (1974) determined that our brain responds directly to color in a similar
manner, as does our nervous system. She reported that the brain‘s electrical response to red is
one of alertness and arousal, whereas the response to blue is that of relaxation.
A connection between physiological response and emotion in the dream state was made
by Hobson and McCarley (1977), who hypothesized that the intensity of dreams is reflected
in the dreamer‘s respiratory rate, heart rate and skin potential. It is therefore likely that the
response-to-color associations that are common in the waking state may carry over into the
dream state, particularly since similar brain centers appear to be involved in both states.
According to Hobson et al. (Hobson, Pace-Schott, & Stickbold, 2003, p. 17) Nofzinger et al.
(1997), Braun et al. (1997), and Marquet et al. (1997) suggested that REM sleep plays a role
in the processing of emotion via a cortical interplay with the limbic system. Marquet (Hobson
2007, p. 16) proposed that the amygdala functions to selectively process emotionally relevant
memories in dreams. In the waking state, the amygdala is known to associate imagery with
emotion by placing an emotional ―tag‖ on every stimulus with which we come in contact
(Ratey, 2002), which would include color. The emotional response-to-color associations,
stimulated in both the waking and dream states, may, therefore, involve the limbic system
and, specifically, the amygdala.
Some of my preliminary studies have shown evidence of an emotional linkage with
dream color. I observed this possibility (Hoss, 1999, 2005) when I studied the emotional
responses from participants as they enacted a Gestalt role-play of colored dream images. I
compared the emotional responses during each role-play with: a) the feelings the participant
experienced in a recent waking situation, plus b) a description of common emotional
associations with color from color psychology studies. The Lüscher Color Test (Lüscher,
1971) was used as a standard instrument for these associations. While the comparisons were
qualitative, since they involved comparing narratives and self-scoring for accuracy, a strong
relationship was observed between the color of a dream image and the expected emotional
state.
The color-to-emotion response has been observed, in color psychology studies, to be
somewhat common or predictable on average for large populations. It would, therefore, be
expected that the content analysis for large population databases might show a broad but
stable pattern between databases. Comparison of individual long-term journal results should
show significant color variations due to individual differences in personality and/or emotional
state, which would be reflected by the different colors associated with each state.
METHOD
I performed three content analysis trials on two databases to look for patterns of reported
color count, which I refer to herein as a color pattern or color profile. The large database trials
compared 15,245 dreams of a large population of dreamers with varied demographics to
12,841 dreams from a small population of eight long-term journaling participants. The third
content analysis, which was applied to each of the eight long-term journal data sets in the
second database, was intended to study individual differences in comparison to each other and
to the larger composite databases. In a subsequent study (termed Study #2), summarized at
the end of this chapter, I performed a preliminary trial to look for indications suggestive of
emotion as an influencing factor in the individual reports.
Large Population Database Trials
The initial content analysis was performed on 15,245 dream reports from a large
population of dreamers of varied demographics, contained in the DreamBank.net database
(Domhoff & Schneider, 1999), herein referred to as the DreamBank database. This sample
represented a broad, but primarily U.S. base of dreamers, and contained 35% reports from
males and 65% from females. The sample included dreams from the following: Bay Area
girls in grades four to six and seven to nine; college women in their late 40s; groups of
females and males representing the Hall and Van de Castle norms; a lucid male dreamer; a
female artist; a natural scientist; a child molester; a factory worker; a psychologist; women
dreaming about weddings; West Coast teenage girls; University of California Santa Cruz
women from 1996; male and female blind dreamers; a female whose dreams were collected
from four periods in her life (childhood, high school, college, and post-college), as well as six
other individual female dreamers (three of them with from 40 to over 50 years of reports) and
one other male dreamer. The analysis was performed using a simple count of named colors
from the composite of all dreams in the database. The terms blond or gold were combined
into yellow, but no other attempt to re-categorize color mixtures into dominant colors was
made (such as re-categorizing pink as red, or yellow-green as either yellow or green), since
198 Robert J. Hoss
the number of mentions of these combinations turned out to be very small in relation to the
more dominant colors.
The sort on color resulted in 6,237 individual color reports from the 15,245 dreams.
Figure 1 illustrates the results for the nine most reported colors (plus violet). I then sorted the
Dream Bank database for gender, as shown in Figure 2 for males and Figure 3 for females, in
order to determine how gender differences might influence the results.
Small Population Long-Term Journaling Database Trial
A second content analysis, using the same methodology as with the large population trial,
was performed on 12,841 dream reports from a small population of eight participants, three
male and five female, who were long-term journalists (Hoss & Hoffman, 2004). These were
attendees at a long-term journaling panel and an on-line conference sponsored by the
International Association for the Study of Dreams, who responded to a request for a color
count from their journals.
Individual Long-Term Journal Trial
A third trial was conducted on the dream color counts from the individually received
long-term dream journals. The analysis, shown in Table 1, was performed in order to
determine whether individual color recall frequency profiles would differ significantly from
each other or from the larger composite database, and how the patterns in those individual
profiles would compare with any color profile pattern in either of the larger composite
databases.
RESULTS OF STUDY #1
Large Population DreamBank Database Results
The analysis of the large population DreamBank database gave the results shown in
Figure 1, indicating that, for a large diverse population, a specific color pattern does emerge
but not one that necessarily reflects the dominant colors in our waking environment. The
pattern might be characterized by the dominance of an almost equal frequency of black and
white (at about 20%), followed by a second dominant group of four colors (at about half this
level) consisting of red, yellow, green, and blue, with red perhaps appearing at about a 3% to
4% percent higher frequency than the others. This dominant pattern would be followed by the
color brown at just above 5%, with all other colors being reported at 5% or less.
From Dream Language, courtesy of Robert J. Hoss
Figure 1. Color recall from spontaneous dream reports from the DreamBank database, n = 15,245
dreams.
The gender differences of the DreamBank database are illustrated in Figure 2 for males
and Figure 3 for females. It appears that there is little difference between male and female
dreamers, with the possible exception of the color blue. Females reported blue more often
than males, by a ratio of 13% for females to 9% for males.
Figure 2. Dream colors reported by males from the population in Figure 1.

200 Robert J. Hoss
Figure 3. Dream colors reported by females from the population in Figure 1.
Small Population Long-Term Journaling (LTJ) Database Result
A second content analysis was performed on 12,841 dream reports from a small
population of 8 participants, 3 male and 5 female, who were long-term journalists (Hoss &
Hoffman, 2004). A sort for the 10 most reported colors provided the result shown in Figure 4.
Comparing this result with Figure 1 for the large population DreamBank database, we can see
that the two are quite similar. While this lower population was expected to show wider
variations, since individual dream reports or slight differences in color naming would have
greater influence on the results, it was surprising to see how well it compared with the results
from the broader DreamBank.net database population. The profile of the color recall pattern
was essentially the same within about 2 percentage points. As with the DreamBank study, an
equal pairing of black and white dominated at about the same percentage (18% of the colors
reported), and the four- color grouping of red, yellow, green, and blue again appeared as the
next dominant grouping at a similar percentage (10%), with red again about 4% higher than
the other three.
Hoss & Hoffman, 2004
Figure 4. Color recall collected from eight long-term journaling reports, n = 12,841 dreams.
Content Analysis of Individual Journals
A content analysis was performed on the dream color sets for each of the eight
participants making up the long-term journal database. The objective was to determine
whether individual color profile differences would appear, or whether individual results
would be similar to those for the large composite databases. The individual results are shown
in Table 1. The results from the first three participants are also plotted in Figure 5, so that the
typical pattern can be more easily seen.
The count of each color from the total dream reports of each participant is represented as
a percentage of all colors reported. The Count Average represents the total LTJ database
count for each color as a % of all colors in the database. Note that, because these were
voluntary journal submissions, the comparative results are likely affected to some degree by
the differences in the number of years over which the dreams were collected and by the
differences in the number of dream reports, as well as by the different percentages of colors
reported. Nonetheless, all eight participants showed the same dominant pattern as both the
DreamBank and LTJ composite averages. In all participants, there was also a dominant and a
near equal grouping of black and white (with the exception of white for participant 4). Also,
each of the eight profiles (with the possible exception of yellow in participant #6) illustrated
the next dominant colors to be the four-color grouping of red, yellow, green, and blue. In
contrast with the DreamBank and LTJ composite averages, however, there is a significant
variance in the relative frequencies of those four colors from individual to individual.
Table 1. Color content from the 8 individual long-term journals in the LTJ database
Participants
Colors Count
Reported #1 #2 #3 #4 #5 #6 #7 #8 Average
White 19.7% 17.2% 14.7% 14.9% 19.7% 17.1% 23.6% 23.6% 18.2%
Black 20.9% 14.2% 15.3% 29.9% 20.4% 19.7% 26.4% 26.4% 18.2%
Gray 0.0% 5.9% 3.7% 4.3% 7.5% 7.3% 0.0% 0.0% 4.9%
Brown 5.4% 7.7% 6.3% 3.6% 7.8% 8.6% 3.1% 3.1% 6.8%
Violet 2.5% 1.8% 4.7% 2.5% 2.5% 1.7% 0.8% 0.8% 2.0%
Blue 11.7% 8.7% 13.7% 16.4% 10.7% 12.2% 10.1% 10.1% 10.2%
Green 7.0% 9.5% 14.7% 5.3% 9.1% 11.9% 9.7% 9.7% 9.1%
Yellow 11.7% 15.1% 12.1% 10.0% 5.6% 5.4% 5.8% 5.8% 11.7%
Orange 2.3% 2.8% 3.2% 2.1% 4.7% 2.8% 0.0% 0.0% 2.6%
Red 18.9% 17.1% 11.6% 11.0% 11.9% 13.3% 20.5% 20.5% 16.2%
202 Robert J. Hoss
Subject #1 Subject #2 Subject #3

n=2787 dreams, 30yrs n=4791 dreams, 11yrs n=233 dreams, 4yrs
[.78 profile correlation] [.75 profile correlation] [.91 profile correlation]
colors
colors
colors
0.0% 5.0% 10.0% 15.0% 20.0% 0.0% 5.0% 10.0% 15.0% 20.0%
0.0% 5.0% 10.0% 15.0% 20.0% 25.0%
% presence % presence
% presence
Figure 5. Color content from three of the LTJ database participants.
CONCLUSIONS FROM STUDY #1

The content analyses revealed a notable pattern of four dominant colors plus black and
white, common between both large databases, at near equivalent percentages. It is also
notable that the pattern is relatively consistent between the two databases, considering data
collection variables such as differences in color naming and recall. The same basic pattern
was exhibited in the long-term journal records, although the relationship between the four
color ―primaries‖ varied widely between individuals. The emergence of a common pattern in
large populations as well as individual dreamers, but with wide variations between
individuals, leads to speculation that there may be a common factor influencing dream color
creation or recall, which is, in turn, influenced by other factors at the personal level.
The data do not support the hypothesis that our waking visual experience is a strong
influence of dream color recall. The four-color pattern, plus black and white, that emerged in
the content analysis does not correspond to a pattern of colors common to our natural
environment. These data also bring into question an earlier hypothesis regarding dream color
recall. The Schwitzgebel (2002) hypothesis (cited in Schredl, 2008) led to speculation that the
reason most people reported their dreams in black and white in early studies was due to the
influence of black and white movies at the time; thus, color was thought to have entered our
dreams as color entered the media. The dreams in the databases herein were collected at a
time when color dominated media, yet black and white still appeared as the dominant color
pair in both databases. If our media experience is a dominant influence on dream color, then
black and white should have appeared at a much lower frequency. While the continuity
principle may still apply for certain dream colors, some other mechanism appears to be
responsible for the dominant colors we recall from our dreams.
Although other colors are present, it is notable that the dream colors that form a dominant
pattern are the same colors involved in the opponent-process theory of color perception: red
versus green, yellow versus blue, and black versus white. Perhaps the neurology of color
perception influences the creation of the colors we most often see or report in our dreams. It is
also notable that these same colors are those that Jung and Perls observed clustered in dreams
to such a degree that they considered these colors psychologically significant. As discussed
above, Jung attributed archetypal significance to them, considering them symbolic of two of
the most powerful forces within the psyche, those of integration and balance. If indeed these
are dominant psychological forces during dreaming, then perhaps these forces exert a
dominant influence on the colors we report in our dreams. It is also highly likely that there
exists a symbolic relationship between the neurology and the psychology of color. While the
color pattern may have a neurological basis, it may take on a symbolic role in representing the
psychological forces described by Jung. For example, the equal presence of all four colors
would neurologically be equivalent to the balanced totality of our visual color experience.
The balanced presence of these four colors in a dream, therefore, might symbolically
represent a balanced totality within our personality, as Jung and Perls contended. Whatever
the relationship between neurology and psychology, the presence of this dream color pattern
across large populations as well as individual dreamers supports these hypotheses as
influencing dream color creation or recall.
Although we saw this common color pattern in all the databases, there were wide
variations within the pattern when comparing individual journals, which points to the
influence of individual or personal factors. Could learned associations with color be
responsible for the individual variations? The data do not support this supposition as having a
strong influence. The wide variation of personal and learned associations between individuals
should have produced a broad spectrum of colors plus a somewhat random relationship
between both of the large and the individual databases. Instead we saw a narrow grouping of
dominant colors present in all databases. It is more likely, therefore, that the individual
variations are caused by psychological or emotional influences.
From my perspective, the data from the long-term journal studies again tend to support
Jung‘s theories that attribute psychological significance to individual variations. It is notable
that the individual patterns show a wide variation among the four ―psychological primaries‖
and a nearly equal pairing of black and white, which is constant within seven out of the eight
individual studies. Jung‘s theories attribute the integration of unconscious and conscious
material (symbolic of the black and white) to a deeper collective unconscious process, less
affected by personality factors; thus, a black and white pattern might be expected to be more
constant between individuals. As for the ―psychological primaries,‖ Jung attributed the four
colors to the four orienting functions of consciousness: feeling, intuition, thinking, and
sensation. These vary widely from individual to individual as a factor of emotional state and
personality; therefore, wide variations between individual journals would be expected.
For example, the Myers-Briggs personality test instrument (The Myers and Briggs
Foundation) was developed on the basis of recognizing the relative dominance of each of
these four functions within an individual. It would be an interesting exercise to compare the
Meyers-Briggs results with the color plots for the individual long-term journals. However, it
may also be misleading, since the colors attributed to each ―orienting function‖ by Jung do
not correspond exactly with the color psychology literature.
The discussion under Hypothesis #5 also provides a clear neurological and psychological
mechanism for emotion to be a leading factor in the variation in color recall profiles between
individuals. The centers involved in emotional processing during the dream state (the limbic
system and the amygdala) also are suspected to form color-to-emotional associations that may
be the primary influence in color creation within a single dream or dream element. The
specific emotional linkages involved could not be determined from a content analysis alone,
however. Therefore, a second preliminary study was performed to determine whether there
204 Robert J. Hoss
was any indication of emotion and/or personality as a factor in the variability of color profiles
for the individual long-term data sets.
STUDY #2 – PRELIMINARY TEST FOR PERSONALITY

AND EMOTIONAL FACTORS
A preliminary test was next performed with the first three long-term journal participants
to determine whether the color profile differences might show any relation to the dreamer‘s
emotional state or personality. In order to do this, a testing tool was required that related color
profile to personality.
METHOD
The instrument used in this preliminary trial was the Lüscher Color Test, introduced in
1947 by Max Lüscher, Professor of Psychology at the University of Basel (Lüscher, 1971). It
is a testing tool that was used in clinical settings as well as for personnel screening, designed
to associate relative color preference with emotional state. The full Lüscher test is based on
aligning 43 colors by relative preference, from a base of 73 different colors. I used the simpler
8-color version of this tool, since it was more appropriate for the 10 dream colors that were
being studied. The Lüscher test was designed to derive an emotional profile based on a
participant‘s selection of colors in a sequence from highest preference to lowest preference. I
administered this test in the same way, only based on the appearance of dream colors rather
than waking-life colors. Although using it in this way was an untested premise, I assumed for
the purpose of the trial that the emotional factors that influence a person to select one color
over another in the Lüscher test might also influence attention to, and thus recall of, that color
in the dream state as well.
The Lüscher Color Test was administered in standard fashion by clustering the colors in
pairs and referring to the Color Test for a specific analysis of each color pair, based on
relative location in the sequence, from most frequent to least frequent color. The composite
analysis makes up an emotional profile, with each profile containing roughly 12 to 20
statements. All participants were sent the emotional profile for self-grading of each of the
statements against how they matched what the participants perceived as a characteristic of
their emotional state (+ = yes, it fits; 0 = it is a sometimes or partial fit, or it fits but not
exactly as stated; - = no, it does not fit). The scores were then assigned the following values:
+ = 1; 0 = .5; and - = 0, after which they were tallied and normalized to determine relative
accuracy.
PRELIMINARY TEST FOR PERSONALITY FACTORS

The initial test was for emotional factors that might define the participants‘ overall
personality. The total number of dream reports and color reports for participants #1 through
#3 were used to create the color profiles as shown in Figure 5. From these color profiles, an
emotional profile was derived from the Lüscher Test for each participant, each profile
containing the 12 to 20 statements as explained above. Each participant was then asked to
self-grade each profile statement, and the results were numerically compiled to determine
how close the emotional profile fit the participant‘s own perception of his or her personality.
The degree of fit numerically is identified on each chart. Each emotional profile was very
different, yet individual emotional profiles were considered by the participants to match their
personality characteristics with an accuracy of 78%, 75%, and 91% respectively, as shown.
While there are many assumptions and variables that require further validation and control,
this simple subjective trial provides a promising possibility that the stimulation and/or recall
of dream color is influenced by personality factors; perhaps the colors we dream of may
reflect the waking emotional states that we most often exhibit or attune to. That premise
should be further tested in more controlled trials with additional personality testing
instruments.
PRELIMINARY TEST FOR THE EFFECT OF EMOTIONAL EVENTS

The next trial was performed to test for the possibility that dream color recall might relate
to emotional events occurring in the dreamer‘s life at the time. In order to test this premise,
the color profiles from the 4791 dreams of participant #2 were evaluated, using the same
method as in trial #1, on an annual basis for each of the 11 years that the dreams were
recorded. This trial was of particular interest, since the dreamer indicated that, during that 11-
year period, that participant went through at least one emotional crisis. It would be very
interesting if, from dream color alone, that period of emotional crisis could be identified.
The 11-year journal was searched to establish the number of times on a per-year basis
that each of the 8 colors, applicable to the 8-color Lüscher Color Test, were mentioned in the
dream reports. When a color was named as a combination of multiple colors (tan, mauve,
blue-green, teal, etc.), it was eliminated from this initial trial in lieu of artificially forcing it
into a specific color category, particularly since these color names appeared relatively
infrequently. The sum total of all reports established the baseline profile shown for participant
#2 in Figure 5. Dream color profiles (ranking colors by high to low counts) were developed
for each year and normalized as a percentage of color recall frequency, as shown in Figure 6.
The 8-color Lüscher Test was applied to derive an emotional profile for each year. The
profiles were then sent to the participant, who self-graded each statement, in each profile, for
each year, as to how well that statement represented the emotional state that the dreamer
recalled from that year.
Five key periods in the year-by-year analysis are highlighted by arrows in Figure 6.
Below the chart is a simplified summary of the nature of the Lüscher emotional profile for
each of the highlighted periods. The numbers (in brackets) indicate the average self-grading
correlations between the Lüscher profile and the participant‘s recall of events in that
timeframe. A score of 1.0 means that the Lüscher emotional profile, based on the dream color
profile, was a 100% accurate match with the recall of events during that timeframe. Note that,
with the exception of the earlier years, which had fewer data and lower recall of events, the
correlation between color profile and recalled events came out relatively high, at 75% to
100%.
206 Robert J. Hoss
What is notable here is that the Lüscher emotional profiles, based purely on the recall of
dream color, accurately identified the timeframe of the emotional crisis indicated by the
participant in this 11-year period (marked as number 2, with an accuracy score of 81%). Also
of interest is that the Lüscher emotional profile identified a second period of emotional crisis
in 2003 (marked as number 5), which the participant rated as being described with 100%
accuracy. The intervening period of ‘99 through ‘02 produces emotional profiles that closely
matched the dreamer‘s baseline personality profile. The participant described these years as
―having not a lot going on.‖
2 4
1 (.81) 3 (.75)
(.57) (baseline) 5
(1.0)
colors by % by year
0.3
white
red
0.25
yellow
black
0.2
green
blue
%
0.15
brown
grey
0.1
clear
orange
0.05
violet
varied
0
92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 00 01 02 03 04
year
1 – Uneventful Period (note: lesser correlation may be due to recall period and small sample size)
2 – Primary Crisis Period (note: Lüscher profile indicated exaggerated emotional intensity and
opposition, self- esteem, and relationship issues)
3 – Uneventful Period (note: Lüscher profile was the same as or close to that of the baseline profile)
4 – Slight Emotional Change over Baseline (note: profile indicated being worn out emotionally or
physically)
5 – Second Crisis Period (note: large profile change surrounding disappointment, determination, and
stressful relationships)
Figure 6. Color recall correlation to waking emotional events.
Again the results here are preliminary, with further trials and additional controls
suggested. However, what is striking in even this simple trial is that the Lüscher emotional
profiles, created entirely from the colors recalled from dreams, were able to accurately
identify and fairly closely characterize two periods of emotional crisis over an 11-year period.
This poses a promising premise for future studies, namely, that the colors that are stimulated
and/or recalled in our dreams are influenced by emotional events in our lives.
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Books.
Birren, F. (1978). Color and human response. New York: John Wiley & Sons.
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Domhoff, G.W., & Schneider, A. (1999). Much ado about very little: The small effect sizes
when home and laboratory collected dreams are compared. Dreaming, 9, 139-151.
Ertel, H. (1973, September 17). Blue is beautiful. Time, p. 66.
Goldstein, K. (1942). Some experimental observations on the influence of color on the
function of the organism. Occupational Therapy and Rehabilitation, 21, 147-151.
Hobson, J.A., McCarley, R.W., & Wyzinki, P.W. (1977). The brain as a dream state
generator: An activation-synthesis hypothesis of the dream process. American Journal of
Psychiatry, 134, 1335-1348.
Hobson, J.A., Pace-Schott, E.F., & Stickbold, R. (2003). Dreaming and the brain: Toward a
cognitive neuroscience of conscious states. In E. F. Pace-Schott, M. Solms, M. Blagrove,
& S. Harnad (Eds.), Sleep and dreaming (pp. 1-50). New York: Cambridge University
Press.
Hobson, J.A. (2007). Current understanding of cellular models of REM expression. In D.
Barrett & P. McNamara (Eds.), The new science of dreaming: Vol. 1: Biological aspects
(pp. 77-80). Westport, CT: Praeger.
Hoss, R. (1999). The appearance of color in dreams. Dream Time, 16(4), 10.
Hoss, R. (2005). Dream language: Self-understanding through imagery and color. Ambler,
PA: Innersource.
Hoss, R., & Hoffman, C. (2004). Significance of color recall in dreams. Paper presented at
the 21st Annual Conference of the International Association for the Study of Dreams,
Copenhagen.
Hoss, R., & Hoffman, C. (2005). The significance of color in dreams. Dream Time, 27(1), 36-
38.
Jung, C.G. (1971). The transcendent function. In J. Campbell (Ed.), The portable Jung
(R.F.C. Hull, Trans.) (pp. 273-300). New York: Viking Press.
Jung, C.G. (1972). Mandala symbolism. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
Jung, C.G. (1973). Man and his symbols. New York: Dell.
Lüscher, M. (1971). The Lüscher Color Test. New York: Random House.
Perls, F.S. (1974). Gestalt therapy verbatim. New York: Bantam Books.
Ratey, J. (2002). A user‟s guide to the brain. New York: Random House.
Riley, C.A., II (1995). Color codes. Lebanon, NH: University Press of New England.
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Schiffman, H.R. (1976). Sensation and perception: An integrated approach. New York: John
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Schredl, M., Fuchedzhiea, A., Hämig, H., & Schindele, V. (2008). Do we think dreams are in
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Chapter 15
EVIDENCE FOR EXTRASENSORY PERCEPTION

IN DREAM CONTENT: A REVIEW
OF EXPERIMENTAL STUDIES
Chris A. Roe and Simon J. Sherwood
ABSTRACT1
Surveys and collections of spontaneous cases suggest that a large number of people
have had experiences during their dreaming life that they interpret as instances of so-
called ―extrasensory perception‖ or ESP. Interpretation of these accounts is made difficult
by the lack of control over the circumstances in which they occur, which leaves open the
possibility that such experiences can be explained in terms of ordinary modes of
communication or inference and errors of perception and memory. Experimentation
allows for the control of these ordinary explanations, so that we can determine if any
anomalous exchange of information remains unaccounted for. In this chapter we review
the experimental studies of dream ESP that have been conducted to date, beginning with
a substantial and influential series of experiments conducted at the Maimonides Medical
Center and continuing with those conceptual replications that have followed, termed
―post-Maimonides studies.‖ Combined effect size estimates for both sets of studies
suggest that judges could correctly identify target materials more often than would be
expected by chance, using dream reports. The Maimonides studies were significantly
more successful (p < 0.05) than post-Maimonides studies, which may be due to
procedural differences, including the fact that post-Maimonides receivers tended to sleep
at home and were generally not deliberately awakened from REM sleep. Methodological
shortcomings of some studies are discussed. Nevertheless, we conclude that home dream
ESP research has been successful and offers a more cost-effective and less labor-
intensive alternative to sleep-laboratory-based research.
1
This chapter is based upon material published previously by Sherwood and Roe (2003). We are grateful to the
Journal of Consciousness Studies for granting us permission to reproduce some of this material here. The
review covers only work published up until the time of the original publication.
212 Chris A. Roe and Simon J. Sherwood
INTRODUCTION
There is a long history of belief in an association between the dream state and the
2
occurrence of extrasensory perception (ESP) . Rush (1986), for example, claims that almost
every culture has had its lore concerning veridical dreams and that in antiquity precognitive
dreams were regarded as divinely inspired. Perhaps the best-known instances come from the
Old Testament: In Genesis:41 Joseph interprets the Pharaoh‘s dreams of seven fat kine
followed by seven lean kine as predicting seven years of plenty in Egypt to be followed by
seven years of famine; and in Daniel:2-4 Nebuchadnezzar recounts a number of dreams that
Daniel interprets as foretelling the king‘s own fate. Ullman and Krippner with Vaughan
(1989, p. 9) described an incident in which Alexander the Great‘s advisor was said to have
interpreted Alexander‘s dream of a satyr dancing on a shield as a good indicator that his siege
of Tyre would be successful (i.e., ―Sa Tyros” or ―Tyre is yours‖).
When the Society for Psychical Research was established in 1882 to ―examine without
prejudice or prepossession and in a scientific spirit those faculties of man, real or supposed,
which appear to be inexplicable on any generally recognised hypothesis‖ one of its first major
projects was to collect cases of experiences that bore on this issue. The resultant classic work,
Phantasms of the Living (Gurney, Myers, & Podmore, 1886), includes examples of people
who claim to have received information anomalously while dreaming. A number of
collections of cases have been described and presented as instances of dream ESP (e.g.,
Barker, 1967; Dunne, 1927/2005; Feather & Schmicker, 2005; Hearne, 1989a; Rhine, 1981;
Sannwald, 1963; Schouten, 1981; Sondow, 1988; Steinkamp, 2000). Analysis of these
collections suggests that precognitions are much more likely to be reported when the
percipient‘s awareness is shifted away from the outside world, with dreams predominating
(Orme, 1974; Rhine, 1981). They tend to feel different from ―ordinary‖ dreams in being
particularly portentous or imbued with meaning (Barker, 1967; Dunne, 1927/2005); to
involve others who are emotionally close rather than mere acquaintances or famous people
(Steinkamp, 2000); and to be of important, often negative, events (Schouten, 1981;
Steinkamp, 2000). But they can also be trivial (Orme, 1974; Sondow, 1988) and can elicit a
sense of déjà vu when witnessing the confirming event (Sondow, 1988; Steinkamp, 2000).
Interpreting such case collections presents some difficulties, however. For example, they
may give the impression that rare occurrences are quite common because the accounts are
typically solicited by national appeals (e.g., Barker, 1967; Hearne, 1989a) or are based on
correspondence received by research centers that are known nationally or internationally for
their work (e.g., Feather & Schmicker, 2005; Rhine, 1981), and so may reflect a relatively
small response from a very broad sampling frame. In fact, it seems that such experiences are
relatively common; recent surveys of the general public show that a significant proportion
believe that extrasensory perception (ESP) occurs and report that they have had personal
experience of ESP in dreams. For example, a MORI poll of a representative sample of U.K.
2
For present purposes, an ESP experience will be defined as ―one in which it appears that the experient‘s mind has
acquired information directly, that is, seemingly without the mediation of the recognized human senses or the
processes of logical inference‖ (Irwin & Watt, 2007, p. 5). ESP can be further classified in terms of telepathy
(involving information about the present obtained from another person), clairvoyance (information about present
events or objects obtained from the environment), precognition (information about future events), and
retrocognition (information about past events).
Evidence For Extrasensory Perception in Dream Content 213
residents (―Paranormal survey,‖ 2003) found that 54% believed in premonitions or ESP, and
25% believed that dreams could predict the future.
A primary driver of belief seems to be personal experience: of those who responded
affirmatively, 48% claimed to have personal experience of ESP, and 58% reported having had
a dream that later came true. An earlier poll by the same organization for The Sun newspaper
(―Three in five,‖ 1998) had found that 64% believed in premonitions/ESP, and 30% believed
that dreams could predict the future; of these, the proportion reporting personal experience of
these phenomena was 41% and 42%, respectively. Gallup polls of belief among Americans
give a similar picture. Newport and Strausberg (2001) found that 50% of those questioned
believed in ESP; when the poll was repeated in 2005, this figure was still 41%, with a further
25% unsure (Gallup News Service, 2005), while a CBS News poll in 2002 found that 57% of
the randomly-selected sample believed in ESP, with 16% of the whole sample citing personal
experience (which equates to 28% of those responding affirmatively).
Even if relatively common, these experiences may be explicable in ordinary terms. Zusne
and Jones (1982) noted most straightforwardly that, since we all dream each night, then some
dreams will have the appearance of coming true simply by coincidence. Vasiliev (1965, cited
in Ullman et al., 1989) described this explanation more prosaically:
Prophetic dreams are more often founded on misunderstanding. Nearly everyone has
dreams, sometimes many dreams in one night. In a week, a month, a person accumulates tens,
if not hundreds of dreams. Do many of them materialize? Of course not. Dreams as a rule do
not materialize; only in exceptional circumstances do they coincide, more or less, with future
events. According to the theory of probability this is as it should be: many dreams, many
events – some of them must inevitably coincide. There is nothing wonderful in this. (p. 9)
This objection may be weakened a little by the claim, noted above, that percipients often
are aware that this dream has a sense of importance or meaning that sets it apart from
common or garden-variety dreams, so that such basic calculations may be inappropriate, but it
nevertheless does draw attention to the fact that we have no clear way of determining how
likely the observed correspondences between dream and confirming event were just by
chance. This is particularly so where we cannot be sure that the description of the dream and
the description of the confirming event are completely independent. Rush (1986) has
summarized this concern:
Even with the utmost integrity and the best intentions, one‘s ability to observe and
remember the details of even an ordinary experience is surprisingly limited. If an experient
learns of the event to which a vision apparently relates before recording it, then any later
record of it is severely compromised by the inevitable tendency to tailor the memory to fit the
event. (p. 48)
But even where a description of the dream is recorded before it is apparently confirmed,
there is still a danger that the way experients perceive and recall the confirming event will be
colored by expectations that derive from their familiarity with the dream (which ironically
would have been reinforced by making a written record). For these reasons, inter alia,
Lambert (1965) listed five desiderata for a case to be of interest as evidence of ESP:
the dream should be reported to a credible witness before the occurrence of the
confirming event (so that the account is not influenced by knowledge of the event)
the time interval between the dream and event should be short (so that the
opportunities for chance coincidences are limited)
the event should be one in which the circumstances of the dreamer seemed
improbable (so that it does not simply reflect inference)
the description of the dream should be literally fulfilled rather than symbolically
foreshadowed (to reduce the scope for ―shoe fitting‖)
the details of the dream should tally with the details of the event.
Of course, in practice these conditions are rarely met (but see Sondow, 1988) and are
more likely to be satisfied through experimentation that allows for the following conditions:
an unequivocal estimate of the probability of achieving the observed degree of
correspondence, and the recording of dream and event such that they remain independent in a
way that effectively precludes communication by ordinary means. The remainder of this
chapter will consider those experimental studies that have ruled out these extraneous factors
to see if there remains any evidence for so-called ―psychic dreams.‖
STUDIES ON DREAMS AND ESP

Experimental work on dream ESP was made practicable by the discovery by Aserinsky &
Kleitman (1953) that participants who were awakened when they exhibited rapid eye
movements (REM) and produced a characteristic EEG pattern were more likely to recall
having been dreaming than when awakened during other stages of sleep. This allowed Ullman
and his colleagues to be able to concentrate their attempted ―sending‖ and to awaken
participants at times when they had most access to their dream material (Ullman, Krippner, &
Feldstein, 1966).
The Maimonides Dream ESP Studies
In their first formal investigation of dream ESP, Ullman, Krippner, and Feldstein (1966)
recruited 12 participants who reported that they were able to fall asleep easily, dream
frequently, and remember their dreams; moreover, they had positive attitudes towards the
possibility of telepathy. All participants contributed one trial, for which they were attached to
EEG-EOG monitoring equipment and slept in a sound-attenuated room in the laboratory.
Once each participant had fallen asleep, one of a set of art prints was randomly selected as a
target on the basis of emotional intensity, vividness, color, and simplicity. The member of the
laboratory personnel designated to be the sender for that night retired to another sound-
attenuated room in the building and removed the target from its sealed envelope. The
experimenter monitored the receiver‘s EEG-EOG throughout the night and, 5-10 minutes into
a REM period, awakened the receiver via an intercom and asked him or her to describe any
dream(s). The sender heard the receiver‘s dream report via a loudspeaker, which may have
reinforced his or her subsequent sending strategy. Responses throughout the night and in the
morning were tape-recorded and later transcribed. The receiver then went back to sleep. This
process was repeated for each REM period with the same target being sent each time.
In the morning, the receiver reported any associations to the dream mentation and was
then presented with 12 pictures consisting of a copy of the target and 11 decoys, which were
given confidence ratings and also placed in rank order according to their similarity to the
dream mentation, associations and/or guesses. Complete dream transcripts and target sets
were also sent to independent judges who made similar judgments. The ratings/rankings from
three ―blind‖ judges were combined. A trial was a ‗binary hit‘ if the target picture had been
ranked in the top half of the target set and a ‗binary miss‘ if ranked in the bottom half.
Participants gave 10 hits and 2 misses, while the independent judges‘ ratings gave 8 hits and 4
misses, results that are described (for the participants) as ―significant at the 0.05 level‖
(binomial p being .02 and .19, respectively).
The Maimonides procedure was developed and improved over time, and a number of
different procedural variations were explored, so that by the time the laboratory closed in
1978 (Krippner, 1991, 1993; Ullman & Krippner with Vaughan, 1973, 1989, 2002), a further
12 formal dream ESP studies and 3 separate pilot series had been conducted (see Table 1). Of
the 13 formal studies, 11 were designed to investigate telepathy and two, precognition. There
were also a number of pilot sessions for clairvoyance, telepathy, and precognition,
respectively.
During most of the telepathy studies (A-H), the receivers‘ dreams were monitored and
recorded throughout the night and the same target was sent during each REM period (Child,
1985). However, during two studies known as the ―Sensory Bombardment‖ and ―Grateful
Dead‖ studies (L, M), the sending periods did not occur regularly throughout the night and
did not necessarily coincide with the receivers‘ REM periods. In the study with Vaughan,
Vaughan, Harris, and Parise (Study O), some trials involved sending a different target during
each REM period.
Studies using the same receiver across all trials often used the same sender too (B, D, E,
F), but not always. Successful sender and receiver pairings from the two screening studies (A,
C) were used in later studies. Some studies used more than one sender (A, C, G, O), across a
series of trials either with the same receiver or with different receivers. There was not always
a single sender for each receiver, either; for some of the sensory bombardment trials (L), there
was a single sender for two receivers; for the Grateful Dead trials, a concert audience of about
2,000 people acted as senders; during precognition and clairvoyance trials, there was no
sender. The distance between the sender and receiver also varied across the studies (e.g., A &
B vs. L & M).
Some studies employed ―multisensory‖ targets rather than just static art prints: in the
second study with Erwin (F), for example, the sender was provided with objects related to the
art prints and asked to act out aspects of the scenes; in the first study with Bessent (I), Bessent
spent an hour the following morning looking at a picture and immersing himself in a
multisensory environment that accompanied this; in the second Bessent study (J), the targets
were slide sequences with accompanying soundtracks. Slide sequences with a soundtrack
were also used in the sensory bombardment study (L). In the final Maimonides study
(Honorton, Ullman, & Krippner, 1975), films were used.
Evaluating Dream ESP Success in the Maimonides Series
A common metric is needed in order to compare results across a series of studies. Thus,
when Child (1985) reviewed the Maimonides series, he converted study outcomes to the
number of binary hits and misses, which is a relatively crude measure of performance.
Nevertheless, he concluded that:
The outcome is clear. Several segments of the data, considered separately, yield
significant evidence that dreams (and associations to them) tended to resemble the picture
chosen randomly as target more than they resembled other pictures in the pool. (p. 1223)
A more recent meta-analysis of 450 Maimonides ESP trials (based upon the blind judges‘
data) found the overall success rate to be 63% (MCE = 50%) with odds of 75 million to 1
against achieving such a result by chance (Radin, 1997, pp.71-72). This meta-analysis also
found that the binary hit rate for 20 of the 25 sets of data analyzed was above the MCE
(binomial p = .002)
Although statistical significance can provide an indication of the probability of obtaining
such an outcome if the null hypothesis were true, it cannot provide an indication of the
magnitude of the effect, one of the elements (along with the power of the test and the sample
size) that determine whether or not a statistical test produces a significant outcome. Thus, for
this review we have converted the test statistics for the judges‘ ratings/rankings (either z or t
3
values) into an effect size measure r (see, e.g., Clark-Carter, 1997, pp. 550-551, 558) for the
4
12 formal studies and three pilot studies listed in Table 1 of Child‘s (1985) review. A
positive effect size indicates that performance was above chance expectations; a negative
effect size indicates that performance was below chance. Cohen‘s (1977) rule of thumb
suggests that r = 0.1 would be considered a small effect, r = 0.3 a medium effect, and r = 0.5
or above a large effect.
5
For the 15 sets of data, the effect size r ranges from -0.22 to 1.10 (see Table 1).
Interestingly, the studies with the largest effect sizes mostly involved gifted single
participants who had been pre-selected (i.e., William Erwin, Robert Van de Castle, &
Malcolm Bessent) and two of the least successful Maimonides studies were the two screening
studies (A, C) that were intended to identify successful senders and receivers for use in
subsequent studies. This suggests, quite reasonably, that people may vary in their natural
ability to succeed under task conditions and that more intensive work with selected
individuals may prove more fruitful than using a broader sample of unselected participants.
Precognition has been particularly associated with the dream state in case collections, so it is
interesting to note that those studies that focused on precognition (two formal experiments
and one pilot study: I-K) were very successful, with effect size ranges from 0.47 to 0.73. By
comparison, the telepathy experiments (A-H) were more varied in outcome, giving effect
sizes between -.22 and .96, whereas the clairvoyance trials (N) were somewhat less successful
3
The correlation coefficient r is one of the most commonly used effect size measures (Prentice & Miller, 1992).
4
The Honorton, Ullman, and Krippner (1975) study was not included in Child‘s review and cannot be included
here because complete statistical test results were not available.
5
As with other correlation coefficient estimates, r should fall in the range -1 to +1. However, where z scores are
large, it is possible for r to exceed this range.
(r = 0.35). This suggests that, under appropriate conditions, precognition tasks need not be
inherently more ―difficult‖ than forms of ESP supposed to operate in real time. The most
successful Maimonides dream ESP study (r = 1.10) was the sensory bombardment telepathy
study (L), and other studies that employed multisensory targets were also very successful (F,
I, J) (r = 0.65 to 0.88).
Table 1. Results for the Maimonides dream ESP studies based upon the blind judges’
data summarized by Child (1985)
Study Type of ESP Trials Test Effect size

statistic r
A Ullman, Krippner, & Feldstein Telepathy 12 z = 0.71 0.205
(1966) study 1
- 1st screening
B Ullman, Krippner, & Feldstein Telepathy 7 z = 2.53 0.956
(1966) study 2 - 1st Erwin study
C Ullman (1969) - 2nd screening Telepathy 12 z = -0.25 -0.072
D Ullman (1969) - Posin study Telepathy 8 z = 1.05 0.371
E Ullman, Krippner, & Vaughan Telepathy 8 z = -0.63 -0.223
(1973) - Grayeb study
F Ullman & Krippner (1969)
- 2nd Erwin study Telepathy 8 t = 4.93 0.881
G Krippner & Ullman (1970) - Van de Telepathy 8 t = 2.81 0.728
Castle
H Pilot sessions Telepathy 67 z = 4.20 0.513
I Krippner, Ullman & Honorton Precognition 8 t = 2.81 0.728
(1971) - 1st Bessent study
J Krippner, Honorton, & Ullman Precognition 8 t = 2.27 0.651
(1972) - 2nd Bessent study
K Pilot sessions Precognition 2 z = 0.67 0.474
L Krippner, Honorton, Ullman, Telepathy 8 z = 3.11 1.100
Masters, & Houston (1971) -
Sensory bombardment study
M Krippner, Honorton, & Ullman Telepathy 12 z = 0.61 0.176
(1973) - Grateful Dead study
N Pilot sessions Clairvoyance 8 z = 0.98 0.346
O Honorton, Krippner, & Ullman Telepathy 203 z = 0.63 0.044
(1972) - Vaughan, Harris, & Parise
--- Honorton, Ullman, & Krippner Telepathy unknown unknown
(1975)
1.2
1
0.8
0.6
0.4
Effect size r
0.2
0
-0.2
A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O
-0.4
-0.6
-0.8
-1
-1.2
Maimonides studies
Figure 1. Effect size r estimates based upon blind judges‘ data for the 15 studies.
Criticisms of the Maimonides Studies
The Maimonides studies have not been immune from criticism, particularly concerning
the variability in the number and type of statistical analyses across studies that could raise
suspicions concerning multiple analyses (see, e.g., Hyman, 1986; Parker, 1975, p. 89). Child
(1985) accounted for this variability by noting that the analyses had been passed to various
consultants who may have differed in their preferred approach, a possible explanation of the
inadequate description of analyses in some published reports as well as the fact that in some
cases the raw data were no longer available for scrutiny. However, concerns around multiple
analyses would not apply to summary analyses in which all study outcomes are converted to a
common statistic. Clemmer (1986) has pointed out that, in some earlier studies, the blind
judges‘ assessments may not have been completely independent in that they might have been
able to derive clues to the target identity from other transcripts. However, this would not
account for the successful results obtained from the participants‘ judgments or, in later
studies, where transcripts were edited for potential cues and presented in random order
(Krippner, 1991). Alcock (1981) criticized the studies for lacking a control group, but the
controls in such studies are the other non-target stimuli against which the transcript is also
compared. Fraud has also been suggested as a possible explanation for the results (e.g.,
Clemmer, 1986), but no plausible mechanism for perpetrating fraud has been given. Most
important among the criticisms of the claim that the Maimonides results provide evidence of
dream ESP is the apparent difficulty that others have reported in replicating the effects. We
turn to these in the next section.
Attempted Replications of Maimonides Studies

6
During the 1960s and 1970s there were six attempts by researchers at other laboratories
to replicate the Maimonides dream telepathy findings using EEG-EOG monitoring and
deliberate awakening from REM sleep (Belvedere & Foulkes, 1971; Dement, 1974; Foulkes
et al., 1972; Globus, Knapp, Skinner, & Healy, 1968; Hall, 1967; Strauch, 1970), though one
of these cannot be considered an independent replication attempt because some of the
investigators had been involved in a previous Maimonides study (Foulkes et al., 1972).
Three of the replication attempts are difficult to evaluate due to the limited amount of
detail available in the published reports (Dement, 1974; Globus et al., 1968; Strauch, 1970).
The first of these was a 17-night study involving a pair of friends (Globus et al., 1968). The
sender viewed, imagined, and acted out the activity portrayed in the target pictures during the
sending periods. Judgments were based upon a combination of hypnagogic, non-REM, and
REM mentation (Parker, 1975; Strauch, 1970), which is unlike the Maimonides procedure.
Although neither specific details of the outcome nor any statistical analyses were reported,
Globus et al. (1968) concluded, ―A consensus of judges was unable to correctly designate the
‗target picture‘ more often than would be expected by chance; thus, the null hypothesis was
not rejected‖ (p. 365).
Strauch (1970) conducted a study with 12 female participants who reported good dream
recall and previous parapsychological experiences. Each participant spent three nights at the
laboratory, but only on the latter two nights did the experimenter/sender attempt to send a
randomly selected picture. Participants were awakened from REM sleep and reported their
dreams. However, six independent judges did not identify the target pictures better than mean
chance expectation (MCE). It is not known how the judges (one of whom was the receiver)
performed individually, but it has been reported elsewhere that ―the judges differed widely in
their ratings‖ (Strauch, 1970, p. 50).
Dement (1974, pp. 58-59) described some pilot dream telepathy trials conducted in 1970-
1971, but the study itself is unpublished and only limited information about the methodology
and results is provided. Six hundred students attending one of Dement‘s classes were asked
simultaneously to send a slide of an object to six participants as they entered a REM period at
a sleep laboratory over a mile away. As Dement acknowledged, this experiment was very
problematic, not least because the senders were shown a photograph of the receiver and then
asked to decide which target they should send, which allows bias to enter the selection
process. Although the judging procedure is not described, Dement reported that none of the
targets were manifested in the receivers‘ dreams.
6
Rechtschaffen (1970) also described some unpublished pilot dream telepathy trials, but most of these involved the
use of hypnotic waking dreams. As the majority of these trials did not involve dreams reported during sleep, it
is not appropriate to discuss this pilot work here.
Of the studies reported in more detail, Hall‘s (1967) has been cited as a successful
7
replication of the Maimonides studies (see Krippner, 1975). There were six male participants
in this study, of whom the most successful was Van de Castle (see Van de Castle, 1989). Hall
(1967) was able to identify a connection between the dream mentation and the target in 56 out
of 121 dream transcripts, and this was confirmed in 29 cases by judgments made by a large
group of undergraduates. Although Hall (1967, p. 47) concluded, ―This result shows that it is
possible to influence dreams telepathically even under artificial experimental circumstances,‖
this could only be true in a conceptual sense as the judging and analysis method used was
unique to this study. Moreover, this study lacked adequate controls against sensory leakage
and involved arbitrary selection of data for analysis (see Parker, 1975; Strauch, 1970) and so
cannot here be considered a satisfactory replication of the Maimonides studies‘ dream ESP
effect.
Belvedere and Foulkes (1971) attempted a replication (albeit not entirely independently)
of the Van de Castle Maimonides study (Krippner & Ullman, 1970). Van de Castle again
served as receiver and, using dreams plus associations to make judgments, obtained three
binary hits and five misses. Judge 1 also obtained three hits and five misses; Judge 2 obtained
four hits and four misses. This contrasted with the eight hits obtained by Van de Castle and
six by the blind judges in the original study. Belvedere and Foulkes (1971) postulated that it
could either be that the Maimonides result was spurious or that some procedural differences
between the two studies might have interfered with any anomalous communication processes
that might have been operating. Van de Castle (1989), in arguing for the latter interpretation,
has drawn attention to those changes he regarded as being far from conducive, including the
following: the trials were conducted over a 2-week rather than a 44-week period, so that he
did not have sufficient recovery time; the target pools were not sufficiently heterogeneous, so
that discrimination during judging was very difficult; the psychological climate was not as
conducive as before and he was not able to select senders with whom he felt a particular
rapport. However, the onus is on parapsychologists to identify psi-conducive and psi-
inhibitory factors when operationalizing the claim so as to ensure that studies are designed to
maximize the former and minimize the latter; simply saying, after the fact, that the conditions
were not right can too easily be seen as an attempt to salvage a favored but unsupported
hypothesis.
Belvedere and Foulkes, along with members of the original research teams (Foulkes et
al., 1972) attempted to replicate another Maimonides study, this time the sensory
bombardment study (Krippner et al., 1971). The consensus judging of the three judges
resulted in five binary hits and three misses; this compares with eight binary hits and no
misses from the three judges in the original study. However, again this study cannot be
considered an exact replication attempt. As Foulkes et al. (1972) pointed out, ―Our
experiment deviated from the original in a number of ways…. It is not clear which set or sets
of factors may have contributed to the discrepancy in results between the two studies‖ (p.
734).
In summary, none of the studies that used EEG-EOG monitoring and deliberate
awakening can be considered an exact replication attempt because of variations in procedure.
7
Krippner (1975) also cites an unpublished study by Ross (1972) as being a successful replication but few details
are available.
Four of them cannot be considered successful conceptual replications either, in that

performance was not significantly better than MCE.
The Post-Maimonides Dream ESP Studies
We have seen that there were few replication attempts during the life of the Maimonides
dream laboratory. The prohibitive costs of maintaining a sleep laboratory may have
discouraged other researchers from replicating the Maimonides work. However, some
researchers have continued to investigate dream ESP, albeit using inexpensive and less labor-
intensive methods. A search of the literature has identified 22 formal reports of dream ESP
studies published between 1977 and 2002 (see Table 2). Unlike the Maimonides series, which
focused mainly on telepathy, less than half of the post-Maimonides studies did so; the
majority investigated clairvoyance, which is methodologically simpler in that it does not
require a sender and so rules out some channels of conventional communication.
Table 2. Results for the post-Maimonides dream ESP studies (based mostly upon the
combined judgments of participants and experimenters and/or senders)

statistic r
1 Braud (1977) Telepathy 50 z = -1.90 -0.27
- Pilot
2 Braud (1977) Telepathy 30 z = 1.29 0.16
- Experiment 1
Braud (1977) Telepathy 36
- Experiment 2
3 Child, Kanthamani & Sweeney Telepathy 8 t = 1.87 0.58
(1977) - Experiment 1 df = 7
4 Child, Kanthamani & Sweeney Telepathy 5 t = 2.69 0.80
(1977) - Experiment 2 df = 4
-- Kanthamani, Khilji, & Rustomji- Clairvoyance 4 --- ---
Kerns (1988) - Preliminary
5 Kanthamani, Khilji, & Rustomji- Clairvoyance 10 t = 0.75 0.24
Kerns (1988) - Pilot df = 9
6 Kanthamani & Khilji (1990) Clairvoyance 20 t = 1.79 0.38
df = 19
7 Kanthamani & Broughton (1992) Clairvoyance 40 t = 3.52 0.63
(20) df = 19
-- Hearne & Worsley (1977) Telepathy --- A = 1671 ---
df = 7
-- Hearne (1981a) Telepathy 2 --- ---
8 Hearne (1981b) Telepathy --- F(1,7) = 0.00

0.00
9 Hearne (1987) Telepathy 8 z = -0.39a -0.14
Table 2. (Continued)

statistic r
10 Hearne (1989a) Telepathy 10 z = 0.31 0.10
11 Weiner & McCain (1981) Clairvoyance 12 t = 2.30 0.57

df = 11
-- McLaren & Sargent (1982) Precognition 30 --- ---
12 Sargent & Harley (1982) Precognition 20 z = 0.30a 0.07
13 Harley (1989) Clairvoyance 20 t = -2.45 -0.49

df = 19
14 Markwick & Beloff (1983) Clairvoyance/ 100 z = 1.87a 0.18
Telepathy
15 Markwick & Beloff (1988) Clairvoyance/ 100 z = -0.39 -0.04
Precogniton
16 Dalton, Steinkamp, & Sherwood Clairvoyance 32 z = 3.58 0.63
(1999)
17 Sherwood, Dalton, Steinkamp, & Clairvoyance 28 z = 1.44 0.27
Watt (2000)
18 Dalton, Utts, Novotny, Sickafoose, Clairvoyance 16 z = 2.35a 0.59
Burrone, & Phillips (2000)
19 Roe, Sherwood, Luke, & Farrell Clairvoyance 31 z = 0.80 0.14
(2002)
20 Sherwood, Roe, Simmonds, & Biles Precognition 12 z = -1.16 -0.34
(2002)
21 Eppinger (2001) Clairvoyance 50 z = -0.07 -0.01
z score based upon rankings calculated by the authors.
Braud (1977) Studies
Among the first post-Maimonides studies were three telepathy studies conducted by
Braud (1977) that differed from the Maimonides work in two basic ways; firstly, participants
slept in their own homes, waking naturally and attempting to recall the content of their
dreams; secondly, multiple participants were run on single trial nights. In the first study, 50
(mostly) ―friends and acquaintances‖ kept a dream diary for a specific date. Between 2:00 and
2:30 a.m. on that date, Braud sent a randomly-selected target slide. Participants marked their
dream impressions for the presence or absence of 10 features. After the target slides had been
coded for the same binary features, Braud calculated the number of matches between the
target and dream codings. Apparently all 50 participants responded, but only three of these
correctly identified more than the MCE of 5 binary features. Participant majority votes
resulted in only two matches with the target. In the first of two confirmation studies Braud
restricted his sample to 10 ―close friends,‖ who attempted to identify six different targets sent
over three consecutive days. On each test night one target was sent at 10:00 p.m. and a second
target sent at 5:30 a.m. Braud (1977) did not report the performance for dream and
hypnagogic (HG) mentation separately, but only gave the overall mean majority vote score of
6.84, which was significantly greater than the MCE of 5 binary features. The second
confirmation study used the same participants and procedure except that the sending times
were changed to 10:30 p.m. and 6:00 a.m. Only seven respondents returned their protocols; of
these, three were incomplete. Participants who felt that they had not performed well might
have decided not to return their data. This notwithstanding, the findings from the previous
study were replicated, and performance (mean score = 6.33) was again significantly better
than MCE. Braud (1977) found that overall performance for the two confirmation studies
combined (mean score = 6.58) was significantly better than MCE. It was also apparent that
HG performance (mean score = 7.33) was better than dream performance (mean score =
8
5.83), but not significantly so .
Weiner and McCain (1981) Study
Over 22 nights, 19 of McCain‘s friends recorded their dreams and coded them for the
presence or absence of nine binary features (Weiner & McCain, 1981). Each night, Weiner
randomly selected a target (from the colored slides of the Maimonides Binary Target Pool)
for each of two conditions: one was allocated to a ―single participant‖ condition; the other
was allocated to the ―remaining participants in the group‖ condition. There were 12 individual
and 22 sets of group dream reports. Performance in the individual condition was significantly
better than MCE; however, no figure is reported for the group majority vote condition,
although performance was nonsignificantly lower than the individual condition. However,
Weiner had determined the target sequence before she independently judged the target and
dream codings and compared her judgments with McCain to check for discrepancies; thus her
memory of the target sequence might have influenced the resolution of any such
disagreements.
Child, Kanthamani, and Sweeney (1977) Studies
Child, Kanthamani, and Sweeney (1977) conducted two telepathy experiments, with
Sweeney acting as the only percipient. Sweeney slept at home, as Child selected and sent a
randomly-selected art print for ten minutes from 10:45 p.m. In experiment 1, judging took
place after the series. Each of the three authors (i.e., including the sender) independently rated
the eight dream transcripts against the eight pictures that had been selected as targets. No
detail is given as to whether the order of targets and/or transcripts was randomized (which is
essential, because the sender knew the order in which the targets were selected and the
receiver knew the order in which her dreams occurred), nor do the authors describe any
controls to ensure that sender and percipient did not come into contact between sessions.
8
A content analysis of the transcripts from the first Maimonides study with Erwin as receiver revealed that
hypnagogic and hypnopompic imagery, but not dream imagery, was significantly associated with target
content (White, Krippner, Ullman, & Honorton, 1971).
Performance, based upon the combined judgments, was better than MCE (the mean sum of
ranks [SOR] was 10.37 where MCE is 13.5) although this difference is not significant. In
experiment 2, the procedure allowed the percipient and Kanthamani to make their judgments
the following morning. Two of the seven sessions were later disregarded, because Sweeney
had not recalled any dreams. It is not clear why only seven trials were completed; it would
have been better if the decision to exclude any trials had been made a priori in order to avoid
accusations of optional stopping. The ranks awarded to targets were again combined to give a
mean SOR of 8.85, which is significantly better than the MCE of 13. When the results of
these two studies were combined, the cumulative result was significant. Child et al. (1977)
reported, ―In subsequent months we carried out similar experiments with the agent in
Connecticut and the participant in either Tennessee or Italy. These experiments showed little
deviation from chance‖ (pp. 92-93), but mentioned no further details. These replication
attempts do not appear to have been published and are therefore unavailable for review.
Sargent and Colleagues’ Studies
McLaren and Sargent (1982) conducted a dream precognition study with a single
participant who kept a dream diary. Seventeen trials were overt precognition (OP) trials in
which the participant was asked to rank a set of four pictures, determined by McLaren,
against each dream record and to mark any dreams that he felt had been successful with ―CC‖
(―confidence call‖). McLaren then randomly determined the target. The other 13 trials were
covert precognition (CP) trials in which the judging and determination of the target were
carried out by Sargent. Only the results for the overt trials are reported (though in two places
these appear to have been incorrectly labeled as CP trials). Overall performance on those was
significantly lower than MCE (SOR = 38, MCE = 27.5), although performance was
successful on the trials on which the participant felt he had been successful. Unfortunately,
too little information is provided concerning the methodological and security aspects of this
study for us to evaluate their adequacy.
Harley (1989) conducted an exploratory dream clairvoyance study, with himself serving
as participant and experimenter. Unlike the Maimonides studies, Harley ―tried to avoid
associating to the dream, so that the transcript was as far as possible pure dream material‖ (p.
3). The independent judge rated the dream transcript against two sets of four pictures in order
to look for possible displacement effects. Harley‘s rankings were suggestively poorer than
MCE, and his ratings were significantly poorer. An independent judge‘s performance was
also significantly worse than MCE. The author noted that none of the target pictures had
strong emotional connotations, and this may have been a contributing factor to failure here.
Markwick and Beloff Studies
Markwick and Beloff (1983, 1988) conducted two 100-trial dream ESP experiments with
Markwick as participant, based in London, and Beloff as experimenter, based in Edinburgh.
Randomly-selected target pictures or objects were placed in a box by Beloff. Markwick
recorded only ―selected dreams and hypnagogic imagery‖ (Markwick & Beloff, 1988, p. 77)
and then ranked each duplicate set of five target possibilities. Some of the trial judgments
were based upon multiple nights‘ dreams. In the first experiment (Markwick & Beloff, 1983),
overall performance was significantly better than chance but seemed to decline after trial 64
following a crisis in Markwick‘s personal life. This significant finding is of particular interest
given that ―It was obtained by a skeptically minded subject working under an ultra-rigorous
regime, with a reputed negative experimenter‖ (Marwick & Beloff, 1983, p. 229). Experiment
2 was similar, except that only picture targets were used and two of the runs involved
precognition rather than clairvoyance. Markwick‘s earlier success was not replicated and her
performance was worse than chance, though not significantly. Markwick and Beloff (1988)
speculated that the failure to replicate may have been due to a ‗balancing out‘ of direct hits
and extreme misses.
Hearne Studies
In the first telepathy study by Hearne (Hearne & Worsley, 1977), eight sender-receiver
pairs participated, half of whom were emotionally close. While the receivers were in the third
or fourth REM period of the night, the senders were presented during randomly sequenced
experimental periods with stimuli regarding which both participants had a phobia (e.g., a
spider). It was hypothesized that information received concerning the phobic target would
induce a fear response in the receiver that would be indicated by an increase in heart-rate at
these times compared with control periods; however, no significant differences were evident
in measures of heart-rate or eye-motility.
In another study (Hearne, 1981b), eight emotionally close sender-receiver pairs
participated in an experiment that investigated whether the receivers, in a waking, NREM, or
REM sleep state, could detect when electric shocks were administered to the sender. There
were no significant differences in the receivers‘ mean heart rate between the experimental and
control periods in any condition. One pair seemed to demonstrate a difference in the waking
condition, but two replication attempts with this pairing failed.
In an ingenious pilot study (Hearne, 1981a), the participant attempted to use ocular
signaling during a lucid dream to communicate a 4-digit target number being sent by the
experimenter. Of nine nights spent in the sleep laboratory, only two yielded lucid dreams.
During the first of these the participant awoke spontaneously without having signaled; during
the second, he saw several different numbers during his dream and made several abortive
attempts to signal them. None of the numbers suggested were correct. Even if the attempt had
been successful, however, the outcome may have been difficult to interpret. The experimenter
was not blind to the target because he also acted as the sender, so that if the signals in the
EOG output were sufficiently ambiguous as to require interpretation then this could have
been biased by his prior knowledge of the targets; in short, an independent blind judge ought
to have interpreted the EOG traces.
Hearne (1987) also conducted a telepathy study with a single participant who had a
history of writing about and interpreting dreams. She slept at home and was awakened during
REM by a home ―dream machine.‖ On eight non-consecutive nights, Hearne attempted to
send a randomly-selected magazine picture between 5:00 and 7:00 a.m. The participant
recorded any dreams that she could remember upon awakening after 5:00 a.m. The following
day, she ranked a duplicate set of eight pictures. However, it is not clear how the sender and
receiver were prevented from communicating between the sending and judging periods. The
participant scored below MCE. Hearne (1985) had earlier reported a case of ostensible
precognition involving his dream machine, but it is not clear whether this was part of any
formal investigation and the report is not particularly impressive.
In another dream telepathy study (Hearne, 1989b) conduced at home, readers of a
national newspaper attempted to dream about different randomly-selected target pictures that
Hearne sent each hour from midnight to 10:00 a.m. Readers recorded the most significant part
of any dreams plus the time(s) when they awakened. There were 511 usable dream reports
that were divided into 10 piles according to the awakening time. Two judges viewed a
different sample of dreams from each pile and judged whether each dream related to one of
two possible targets or neither. Surprisingly, the judges were unable to allocate two-thirds of
the reports, and these were consigned wastefully to an ―indeterminate‖ category and not
included in the analysis. The judges matched 97 of the 171 (56%) allocated dreams to the
correct target. The majority vote for each time/target period resulted in six hits and four
9
misses (MCE = 5). No attempt was made to control for the stacking effect or the fact that the
number of dream reports differed across the different target/time periods.
Dalton, Sherwood and Colleagues’ Studies
More recent work has concentrated on the question of whether consensus methods are
superior to individual performance. With consensus judgment procedures, the responses from
a number of individuals are combined to give a single judgment. This group-judging method
is different from that implemented by Kanthamani and co-workers, because here all
participants give ratings on the basis of their own dream transcripts rather than a number of
judges rating the same transcript.
Dalton, Steinkamp, and Sherwood (1999) acted as both experimenters and participants in
an investigation of dream clairvoyance. The experimenters were blind to the target, because
an automated system randomly selected and played each target video clip repeatedly during
the night (between 3:00 and 4:00 a.m.). During each of 32 trials, the participants slept at home
and kept a record of any dreams. In the laboratory the following morning, participants viewed
four video clips and individually rated and ranked the clips and then shared their night‘s
dreams. These individual ranks were then combined to generate an objective consensus rank.
The group consensus ratings and two of the three individuals achieved direct hit rates that
significantly exceeded MCE. As expected, objective consensus performance was better than
any of the individual performances, though no statistical examination of the difference was
conducted. Post hoc inspection of the trial data suggested that the group had been more
successful with emotional targets, particularly when they were negative. This is perhaps not
surprising, given that spontaneous cases of dream ESP often seem to feature negative life
events (see Ullman et al., 1989, chap. 2). Although experimental waking ESP studies are
equivocal with regard to the target emotionality issue (Delanoy, 1988), some research
suggests that emotional target materials are more conducive than neutral materials (e.g.,
Bierman, 1997).
9
A stacking effect occurs when more than one participant is making judgments based upon the same target
sequence (e.g., Milton & Wiseman, 1997, p. 93).
Sherwood, Dalton, Steinkamp, and Watt (2000) attempted to partially replicate these
findings in a 28-trial study that also considered a ―discussion consensus judging procedure,‖
in which the experimenter-participants read each other‘s dream mentation and discussed all of
the material before reaching a joint decision about the target identity based on the entirety of
the material. Results confirmed earlier findings, with a greater number of direct hits being
obtained by using their objective consensus judgments than by using their own individual
judgments. The discussion consensus was only marginally superior to the objective
consensus. Effect sizes for the group were slightly smaller than the previous study, but this
may have been because the consensus judgments were based on responses from two rather
than three participants. Again, a greater proportion of direct hits were obtained when the
target was negative.
Dalton, Utts, Novotny, Sickafoose, Burrone, and Phillips (2000) reported a 16-trial
extended replication attempt in which four undergraduate students acted as experimenter-
participants. Again, dynamic targets were used, but this study did not use a computer-
controlled testing system. A major difference between this and earlier work was that the
target for each trial was determined before the study began rather than on a trial-by-trial basis,
which could raise security concerns. The primary analysis was of binary hits, with the group
judgment giving rise to 13 hits in 16 trials, including seven direct hits, which was
independently significant and superior to the individual performance of three of the four
participants. The choice of outcome measure is surprising, given that earlier studies by the
lead author had used direct hits, although it is in keeping with the practice at Maimonides.
The superiority of emotional over neutral targets was not confirmed by the group
performance, but three of the four individuals were more successful with emotional targets.
Sherwood, Roe, Simmonds, and Biles (2002) conducted an exploratory investigation of
dream precognition using static targets. During 12 trial nights, three of the authors (SS, CR,
CS) slept at home and recorded their dream mentation. The following morning, they viewed
four static pictures, and rated and rank-ordered them. These individual rankings were
combined to form an objective consensus judgment. Once judging was completed, the
experimenter (CB) determined the target. The group and two of the individual participants
scored below MCE in terms of direct hits, while the other participant (SS) scored slightly
above MCE. The results of this study did not provide evidence for dream ESP or any definite
advantage of consensus over individual judging methods, in contrast to previous studies.
However, the two participants in this investigation who performed poorly also had poor
dream recall, and the static targets used were regarded by the participants as not especially
engaging or emotional; there may also have been problems with the randomization method
used.
Roe, Sherwood, Luke, and Farrell (2002) investigated dream clairvoyance by using
dynamic targets selected for stronger emotional content. In this study, a distinction was made
between the emotional valence and emotionality of targets. The procedure adopted was
similar to that of Dalton et al. (1999), with aspects of the study controlled via an automated
system. Contrary to predictions, neither the group nor any of the individual performances
were significantly better than MCE. Group consensus judgments were more successful than
those of two of the individuals but not significantly so. One individual (SS) again scored
above chance‚ but this was counterbalanced by another individual (DL) who scored below
chance with a similar effect size. There was a tendency for more emotional targets to be given
lower ranks, and a suggestion that engaging clips were better than non-engaging ones, but
these effects were generally quite small and – with one exception – did not achieve
significance.
Dream versus Ganzfeld ESP Performance

10
An alternative method for inducing a mild altered state that might be psi conducive is to
use Ganzfeld stimulation. This involves presenting the participants with an unpatterned
stimulus (such as red light diffused by eye shields, white noise, or unchanging proprioception
by having them remain still on a bed or recliner chair) such that they habituate to these
homogeneous sensory signals and their attention is directed to internal sources of information.
The Ganzfeld has been the dominant paradigm for ESP research since it was first adopted
independently by Braud, Wood, and Braud (1975), Honorton and Harper (1974), and Parker
(1975). The extent to which it induces an ASC is not clear (Alvarado, 1998), but it has been
claimed to offer some of the best evidence for the occurrence of ESP under controlled
laboratory conditions (e.g., Bem & Honorton, 1994; Bem, Palmer, & Broughton, 2001 – but
see also Hyman, 1994; Milton & Wiseman, 1999).
Kanthamani and colleagues conducted a number of further studies of dream ESP that
were intended to compare performance under those conditions with performance in the
Ganzfeld (Kanthamani et al., 1988). Rustomji-Kerns served as the sole percipient, as ―she had
rich experience in dream work and in maintaining a dream journal‖ (p. 414). In the
preliminary experiment, she completed four Ganzfeld and four dream trials. The order of the
conditions was not counterbalanced. After completing a Ganzfeld session, Rustomji-Kerns
slept at home and suggested that she would wake in the night and write down her dreams. She
added any further associations or impressions when she awoke the next morning. A common
target was used for the two conditions in each trial, which may be problematic, because the
participant, when dreaming, would have knowledge of her own Ganzfeld experience so that
the mentation for the two conditions may not have been independent.
The following morning, as a group, Rustomji-Kerns and the two experimenters judged
first the Ganzfeld and then the dream mentation against four pictures in the target set, using
ratings and rankings. However, the judges discussed any correspondences before making their
judgments, which could have compromised the independence of these judgments. In the pilot
experiment, involving 10 trials per condition, a fourth judge also judged both types of
mentation independently from the others in a counterbalanced fashion. Their ratings were
used to compute combined z-scores of ratings for target pictures. Once the judging had been
completed, the target envelope was opened. For the preliminary trials, the mean z-scores
indicated that in the Ganzfeld condition the targets were rated slightly higher than the non-
targets, but the reverse was true in the dream condition. However, neither of these means nor
the difference between them was statistically significant.
In the pilot experiment, Ganzfeld trials were not successful, giving a mean z score that
was suggestively below MCE. The mean z score for dream judgments was positive but not
significant. However, the difference between the conditions was suggestive. A secondary
analysis using sum of ranks showed the dream protocol to be significantly better than the
Ganzfeld protocol.
An attempted replication (Kanthamani & Khilji, 1990) involved a sample of 10

participants who, in this case, each contributed two trials of each type, completed in a
counterbalanced order. There were only two judges: the participant and the experimenter.
Again there was evidence of missing in the Ganzfeld condition and hitting in the dream
condition; although neither of these task performances deviated significantly from MCE, the
difference between the conditions was again significant. Analyses of the combined ranks
confirmed earlier findings, but here dream performance was also significantly better than
chance. However, we are not convinced of the validity of the t-test analyses conducted, given
that it would appear, from the reported degrees of freedom, that the two data points per
participant in each of the two conditions were treated as independent.
Kanthamani and Broughton (1992) reported a further confirmation of the superiority of
dream over Ganzfeld mentation. Each of 20 volunteers contributed a Ganzfeld-dream trial
pair followed by a dream-Ganzfeld pair, as this was the most successful order of presentation
based on the previous study. The results again showed a significant difference between
Ganzfeld and dreaming trials, with the latter being superior; on this occasion, performance in
the dream condition was significantly above MCE. The analysis for this study appears not to
have repeated the error of treating the participants‘ two data points in each condition as
independent.
11
Sargent and Harley (1982) reported a pilot study that tested for precognition both in the
Ganzfeld and in the dream state. In this study, Sargent served as both participant and
experimenter for all 24 Ganzfeld trials, while Harley performed a similar role for all 20 dream
trials. Sargent and Harley did not analyze the two conditions separately, but rather combined
performance for the two conditions, giving a sum of ranks of 101 that is better than an MCE
of 110. However, neither condition comes close to significance when considered separately;
the Ganzfeld performance was, in fact, slightly better, contrary to earlier findings (SOR for
Ganzfeld is 53, where MCE = 60; for dream trials SOR is 48, where MCE = 50).
A more recent Ganzfeld versus dream clairvoyance study, using a repeated measures
design, was conducted by Eppinger (2001). Fifty participants, pre-selected for their capacity
for dream recall, completed a Ganzfeld and a dream clairvoyance trial in a counterbalanced
order. Participants who could not remember their dreams from a given night were asked to
repeat the trial using the same target. After a dream trial, the participant came into the
laboratory with his or her dream report and rated and ranked four picture postcards. Unlike
the Kanthamani studies, there were no additional independent judges. Although performance
was lower than MCE in both conditions (dream SOR = 131, Ganzfeld SOR = 137, MCE =
125), it was marginally better in the dream condition.
Thus, in summary, four out of five studies found dream ESP performance to be superior
to Ganzfeld performance, and three of these found this difference to be statistically
significant. The discrepant study (Sargent & Harley, 1982) compared precognition
performance and found a trend in the opposite direction; however, this study used an
independent design for the two conditions, so the differences could have been due to
individual differences between the two participants. The superiority of dream over Ganzfeld
10
‗Psi‘ is a generic term used to refer to extrasensory perception and/or psychokinesis.
11
The reader should be made aware of an exchange between Blackmore (1987) and Sargent (1987) concerning the
adequacy of security and randomization measures taken in some of Sargent‘s Ganzfeld sessions.
ESP performance evident here suggests that the former warrants the kind of further
systematic investigation from which the latter has benefited.
Post-Maimonides Dream ESP Success
In order to make comparisons across the post-Maimonides studies we have again

converted the statistical test results to the common effect size measure, r, and these are shown
in Figure 2 for each of the 21 sets of data for which the statistical test results were available (4
studies did not provide the necessary information). Many of these studies did not use
independent blind judges, but instead employed participant and experimenter/sender judging.
However, as with the Maimonides studies, many of the post-Maimonides studies employed
combined/consensus judging procedures, and data from these judgments (which were mostly
rankings) were used to calculate the effect size whenever possible. We can see (from both
Table 2 and Figure 2) that the effect sizes for the post-Maimonides studies range from -0.49
to 0.80. Of the 21 studies for which effect sizes could be calculated, 14 give rise to positive
effect sizes, indicating that the targets were identified more often than mean chance
expectation, whereas 6 give negative effect sizes, indicating that the targets were identified
less often than mean chance expectation; this shift towards positive effect sizes is suggestive
(binomial p = .06).
It is apparent that some of the most successful post-Maimonides studies were conducted
by particular groups of researchers, particularly Kanthamani and colleagues (studies 3-7; r =
.24 to .80), and Dalton and colleagues (studies 16-18; r = .27 to .63). This suggests that
replication has been possible within laboratories and within a group of researchers; however,
independent replication across laboratories and across researchers is also required in order to
demonstrate the validity of an effect.
Despite having unequal numbers of studies for comparison, it seems clear that those
experiments testing for precognition were the least successful (studies 12, 15 and 20; r = -0.34
to 0.07, median -0.04); those testing for telepathy were more successful but more variable in
outcome (studies 1-4, and 8-10; r = -0.27 to 0.80, median 0.10); and clairvoyance studies
were most successful collectively (studies 5-7, 11, 13-14, 16-21; r = -0.49 to 0.63, median
0.25).
Differences between the Maimonides and Post-Maimonides

Dream ESP Studies
12
When the study effect sizes are combined for the Maimonides (r = 0.33, 95% C.I. 0.24
to 0.43) and post-Maimonides studies (r = 0.14, 95% C.I. 0.06 to 0.22), we can see that
performance was better than chance with both medium and small effect sizes. We can be 95%
confident that the true effect size is positive and therefore better than chance expectations for
12
The combined effect size calculation involved the use of Fisher‘s transformed values of r (see Clark-Carter,
1997, pp. 558-559, 644-646). Due to the difficulty in carrying out a Fisher‘s transformation of an r greater than
1 for the sensory bombardment study (Study L), we have been conservative and used the Fisher‘s
transformation associated with r = 0.999.
both sets of studies. The Maimonides studies were significantly more successful than the
post-Maimonides studies in terms of effect size (t = 2.14, df = 34, p = 0.04, two-tailed),
although there are a number of differences between the two sets of studies that may have
contributed to this. A meta-analysis of the studies that involves coding of the
presence/absence of particular features and evaluates study quality is needed to determine
which factors affect study outcomes.
1.2
1
0.8
0.6
0.4
Effect size r
0.2
0
-0.2 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17
-0.4
-0.6
-0.8
-1
-1.2
Post-Maimonides studies
Figure 2. Effect size r estimates based upon participants‘ and/or experimenter /senders‘ data for 21
post-Maimonides data sets.
For example, the vast majority of post-Maimonides studies did not involve laboratory
monitoring of EEG-EOG (or some other physiological measure) or deliberate awakening
from REM sleep in order to record dream recall (with the exception of Hearne, 1981a,
1981b). The advantage of awakening participants from REM sleep is that dream recall is
much more likely and can lead to more detailed and longer overall reports. Reviews of studies
involving laboratory awakening from REM have concluded that dreams are reported in about
75-80% of cases (see Empson, 2002; Goodenough, 1991). Spontaneous awakenings in the
morning are less likely to lead to dream recall, with any dreams reported tending to be those
from the last REM period only (Empson, 2002), or indeed may lead to no dreams being
recalled at all. The Maimonides procedure also typically asked participants for their
associations as well as their guesses, which means that the judges probably had more, and
richer, information upon which to base their judgments.
Another potential advantage of the Maimonides procedure is that, in the telepathy studies,
sending efforts were synchronized with REM periods, whereas in post-Maimonides research
the relationship was more haphazard. However, one way of increasing the likelihood of at
least some overlap is to show or send the target repeatedly for a period of at least 90 minutes
(equivalent to one sleep cycle); this method was indeed used in some successful post-
Maimonides clairvoyance studies (e.g., studies 16-17).
The majority of post-Maimonides studies also involved the participants sleeping in their
own homes (1-7, 10-21) rather than in a laboratory (8-9). The advantages of having the
participants sleep at home and awaken naturally are that they are likely to feel more
comfortable and their sleep routines are disrupted less. Where a sleep laboratory is utilized it
would be preferable to allow participants time to acclimatize before the experiment begins –
indeed, incorporating a practice night would be preferable for home dream ESP experiments
as well. We would also argue that it is important not to schedule trial nights too close together
and to avoid testing on too many consecutive nights because of the unpredictable effects of
compounding any disruptions to normal sleep patterns.
Another difference is that the Maimonides program tended to use independent blind
judges, whereas post-Maimonides studies tended to use participant judging. It is possible that
some judges, by aptitude or through experience, may be better able to discriminate between
―conventional‖ dream material and potentially psi-mediated material. Some recent post-
Maimonides research has also suggested that consensus judgments might offer a slight
advantage over individual judgments (e.g., 16-18).
Some senders and receivers, and certain pairings, might have been better than others too.
The Maimonides researchers went to some lengths to screen for effective senders and
receivers (including the recruitment of participants with prior success in psi studies) and to
exploit conducive pairings. Post-Maimonides studies have tended not to screen so carefully or
to use ―gifted‖ participants. It is clear that post-Maimonides studies did not always select
participants even for having good dream recall (e.g., 20). This is likely to be a sine qua non
for studies that do not employ deliberate awakening from REM sleep.
The majority of Maimonides studies investigated telepathy, whereas the majority of post-
Maimonides studies investigated clairvoyance; moreover, the presence of a sender in many of
the Maimonides studies may have contributed to the overall success of the research program.
It could be that the sender plays some active role in the psi process or that there is simply a
psychological effect in that the receiver feels more comfortable and/or optimistic (for an
extended discussion, see Roe, Sherwood, Farrell, Savva, & Baker, 2007; Sherwood, Roe,
Holt, & Wilson, 2005). Certainly the Maimonides team felt that ―the active involvement of
the agent [sender] is an important ingredient for success‖ (Ullman et al., 1973, p. 212).
Nevertheless, many of the post-Maimonides studies did not use a sender (3-5, 8-11, 15-21)
and, if they did, did not select them on the basis of prior success.
Finally, target materials used by the Maimonides team were chosen because of their
emotional intensity as well as for their vividness, color, and simplicity, and this was regarded
as a crucial feature of the protocol (Ullman et al., 1973; Van de Castle, 1977). Recent dream
ESP research has supported the idea that emotional targets might be more conducive than
neutral targets, but the target pools used in post-Maimonides research do not seem typically to
have been selected on their basis of emotionality characteristics.
CONCLUSION
Our review has shown that dream ESP remains a promising, if somewhat neglected, area
for parapsychological research. Combined effect sizes for both Maimonides and post-
Maimonides studies suggest that judges may be able to correctly identify target materials
using dream mentation more often than would be expected by chance. There is evidence of
conceptual replication within both sets of studies, although this seems to be concentrated
within certain research teams. Overall the Maimonides studies were more successful than the
post-Maimonides studies, but this may be due to procedural differences. There is a need for a
meta-analysis of the experimental dream ESP literature, not only to provide an estimate of the
overall effect size but also to identify process-oriented factors that might influence study
outcomes. We hope that future researchers will also note some of the methodological
shortcomings we have identified and address these in their study designs. Home dream ESP
research, which is a cheaper and less labor-intensive alternative to sleep-laboratory-based
research, merits further investigation. We hope that this review will help revive interest in this
neglected but promising paradigm.
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Chapter 16
VIDEO GAME PLAY: WAKING

AND DREAMING CONSCIOUSNESS
Jayne Gackenbach, Ian Matty, Beena Kuruvilla, Ashley Nicole

Samaha, Alexis Zederayko, Jordan Olischefski
and Heather Von Stackelberg
ABSTRACT
Hard-core video game players have developed a culture of their own, which has
become large and potentially influential in today‘s society. While much of the research
and media attention into the effects of gaming have focused on the negative
consequences, there are also numerous positive effects, including those on various
aspects of consciousness. The focus of this chapter is an exploration of various states of
consciousness, including dreams, through interviews of 27 hard-core college student
gamers. Video game play is found indeed to affect dreams, though there are still more
similarities to than differences from the dream norms. The differences may be significant
in their implications for the relationship between waking conscious experience of video
game play and dreams.
INTRODUCTION
Despite the familiarity with gaming by early childhood for most in the industrialized
West, the average age of serious gamers is now mid-20s to mid-30s. With the explosion of
gaming into the wider population, we also see video game playing among middle-aged
women immersed in ―casual‖ games such as Tetris as well as among elderly adults playing
other games such as Wii. Although gaming is moving out of its core market, the focus of this
chapter, and indeed most research into gamers, is the hard-core gamers – that is, men or
women for whom playing video games constitutes a large part of their lived world.
The effects of video game play on these hard-core gamers are frequently discussed in the
literature, including examinations of aggression (Andersen et al., 2003), various cognitive
242 Jayne Gackenbach, Ian Matty, Beena Kuruvilla, et al.
skills (Greenfield & Cocking, 1996; Huh, Rosen, Sherry, & Bowman, 2006), socialization
(Lim & Lee, 2007), and addiction (Griffiths & Davies, 2005). Also widely discussed are the
various attributes of games that make them attractive to players (Wood, Griffiths, Chappell, &
Davies, 2004). Less often analyzed is the effect of game play on states of consciousness.
The concept of waking consciousness has been reduced in the past to the simple idea of
paying attention, but, more recently, researchers have come to appreciate that there is much
more to it. Not only do current consciousness researchers talk about different states of
consciousness (i.e., waking, sleep, arousal), but they also increasingly consider the study of
consciousness from a variety of perspectives (i.e., perception, emotion, philosophy, biology)
(Blackmore, 2004).
Game play has been found previously to be associated with changes in consciousness.
Waking consciousness and gaming may be thought of in a variety of ways. Frequently
examined are attentional demands (Green & Baveller, 2003) and degree of presence or
immersion in the virtual reality of gaming (Calleja, 2007). Related to these two are absorption
and flow. Attention might be thought of as a focus on what is immediately on our minds;
however, the capacity of attention can be altered through gaming (Green & Baveller, 2003).
Video games can capture the players‘ attention if they have features that increase the
sense of presence in the game. When presence is accomplished, which, of course, is the goal
of video game designers, players not only talk about being absorbed in the game but also
about being in the flow of the experience.
Altered states of consciousness (ASCs) also have been examined previously as associated
with video game play. Glicksohn and Avnon (1997-1998) found that some of their
participants reported experiences during video game play indicative of ASCs (e.g., drifting,
flying, or changes in visual or auditory perception). This is not very surprising, as virtual
reality (VR) has been used to bring about ASC experiences (Preston, 1998, 2007). In this
inquiry, informants were asked whether they experienced an array of ASCs based upon
Glicksohn and Avnon‘s, and Gackenbach‘s (2008) previous work. Research had found that
there were some, but not many, self-reports of ASCs such as precognitive, mystical, and out-
of-body experiences, so in this instance direct questions were expected to result in only a few
positive responses.
Dreams could be thought of as another altered state of consciousness, even though recent
research has shown that most dreams are a reflection of waking experience. In this instance,
video gamers‘ dreams are considered in the wider context of game play and the experiences
of consciousness associated with it.
There are a number of theories about the psychological function of dreams in humans
(discussed in Barrett & McNamara, 2007). These include adaptation to stressful events
(Wright & Koulack, 1987) or a result of a lack of adaptation, as in the case of post-traumatic
stress nightmares (Barrett, 2001). Other theories include emotional regulation (Kramer,
2007), memory consolidation (Nielsen, Kuiken, Alain, Stenstrom, & Powell, 2004), and the
evolutionary theory that dreams center around ancient and current survival threats (Revonsuo,
2006). Dreams may also involve play or practice for later events (Bulkeley, 2004), or they
may perform more than one of these functions simultaneously or sequentially. In fact, it has
been suggested that dreams offer a better model of the nature of consciousness itself than the
currently favored visual attention model (Revonsuo, 2006).
The function of dreams as play or practice is especially relevant to this chapter, as dreams
and virtual reality simulations such as games are both experiences of an artificially generated
Video Game Play: Waking and Dreaming Consciousness 243
world (biologically generated in dreams, technologically generated in VR). These models of

the self in the world (dreams, VR, waking reality) impact each other, sometimes in profound
ways, such as the nightmares of trauma victims that arouse them from sleep and make it
difficult for them to cope with the trauma, not to mention getting back to sleep. Sometimes
the impact is less profound, such as in playing a video game for so long that, when you stand
up from the sofa, you are a bit dizzy, as you acclimate to the new ―world‖ of waking reality
from that of the virtual game reality.
Some previous research on video gaming and dreams has found this type of a relationship
between the two. Specifically, Van den Bulck (2004) found that computer games were less
likely to show up in nightmares than television, but that computer games were also present in
children‘s pleasant dreams. Players of the puzzle-type game called Tetris reported intrusive,
stereotypical, visual images of the game at sleep onset (Stickgold, Malia, Maguire,
Roddenberry, & O‘Connor, 2000). Bertolini and Nissim (2002) recognized fragments or
characters from the video games in the material of children‘s dreams. Finally, Nielsen,
Saucier, Stenstrom, Lara-Carrasco, and Solomonova (2007) found that a VR maze task
showed increased incorporation into dreams when someone was actively engaged and used a
computer mouse, as compared to passively watching it on TV.
These studies suggest that video game content appears in dreams, but it is important to
consider the implications. So, for instance, Schredl, Anders, Hellriegel, and Rehm (2008)
reported that ―interindividual differences in nightmare frequency were not explained by
interindividual differences in TV viewing or computer game playing habits‖ (p. 69) of
children. In other words, contrary to popular lore associated with watching movies, playing
computer games does not automatically cause nightmares in children.
The present inquiry, a different approach to the game play experience and its impact,
follows from a series of studies conceptualized by Gackenbach and Karpen (2007) and
summarized by Gackenbach (2008) that examine the effects of gaming on consciousness and
especially on dreams. They found that a dream change that seems to be occurring as a
function of video game play is the emergence of lucidity in gamers‘ dreams (Gackenbach,
2006, 2008; Gackenbach & Reiter, 2007). That is, gaming as well as high use of interactive
media is associated with knowing you are dreaming during the dream. The Gackenbach group
has also found that gamers exhibit more dream control. Both lucidity and control, one could
argue, come directly from practice in the world simulation during waking of VR (game play),
translating into the world simulation of dreams that night. In other words, if one is used to
knowing that one is in an artificial reality while gaming, it is not surprising that such
awareness becomes learned and then later relevant in sleep in the other artificial reality called
dreaming.
The finding of more lucid dreaming in gamers is not surprising, because there are several
aspects in common between lucid dreaming and gaming. Spatial skills are high for lucid
dreamers (Gackenbach, Heilman, Boyt, & LaBerge, 1985) and gamers (Greenfield, Brannon,
& Lohr, 1996), and both lucid dreamers and gamers seem to be much less prone to motion
sickness (Gackenbach, Snyder, Rokes, & Sachau, 1986; Preston, 1998). Finally, meditation,
as a type of focused attention, has been shown to be associated with lucid dreaming
(Gackenbach & Bosveld, 1989; Mason et al., 1995), and focused attention is a very necessary
part of serious game play (Maynard, Subrahmanyam, & Greenfield, 2005).
In the present inquiry 27 hard-core gamers were interviewed about their waking
consciousness during gaming as well as about their experiences of altered states of
consciousness associated with such play and their subsequent dreams.
METHOD
Participants
Students at a Western Canadian college were asked through emails and posters if they
would be interested in being interviewed about their experiences of game play. Potential
participants were also informed that they would be asked about their dreams. In order to be
interviewed they had to say ―Yes‖ to these four questions:
Do you play video games on average several times a week?

Is your typical playing session more than two hours?
Have you been playing video games since before grade three?
Have you played 50 or more video games over your lifetime?
Twenty-seven individuals were interviewed, involving 25 men and 2 women. This gender
imbalance is, in fact, characteristic of most research in the field – that is, while women do
play video games, the vast majority of hard-core gamers are male (Griffiths, Davies, &
Chappell, 2004). The majority (85%) of participants were 25 years of age or younger.
When interviews were scheduled, by either phone or email, the selection criteria were
confirmed. The interview was semi-structured, beginning with questions about the players‘
favorite and most frequently played game types. Following these closed-ended questions, a
series of open-ended questions were asked in the same order. Each question was followed by
prompts, which may or may not have been used depending on how forthcoming the
interviewee was with the initial answers. The order of the questions progressed from the least
psychologically invasive to the most. Thus, the questionnaire started with confirmation of
game play questions, gender, and age, moved on to the type of game play preferred, and
followed with various open-ended inquiries into the gamers‘ experiences of consciousness
during play. Then a series of questions regarding dreams was posed, with questions about
waking altered states of consciousness while playing being left to the last.
The 27 interviews ranged in length from 30 minutes to an hour. All interviews were tape-
recorded and subsequently transcribed. Analyses of this copious data set were undertaken
using both qualitative and quantitative methods for the waking questions, a combination that
is increasingly recommended by qualitative researchers (Patton, 1990). Two types of
quantitative content analyses were used to examine the dreams. Finally, quantitative methods
were used to compare the waking and dreaming components. This combination of types of
analyses was accomplished through previously established content analysis system for
dreams, the evaluation of responses by independent judges using a questionnaire based on the
interview questions, and a grounded theory qualitative analysis of the responses to the waking
consciousness questions. The discussion of the outcomes and conclusions of the interviews
will be general herein.
WAKING CONSCIOUSNESS ANALYSIS

In discussions about the types of games they preferred, interviewees made it clear that the
preference for role-playing/strategy-type games emerged as they matured. Many commented
that, while they still liked the first-person shooters (action games), their preference shifted to
more complex game types as they left high school. One gamer explained:
I really like [action games] and I like them because they are like a good book. It‘s
basically like reading but you‘re more involved, and I read a lot of books.
The remainder of the questions regarding the nature of consciousness during play dealt
with various aspects including emotions, thinking processes, physical responses, sense of
time, and sense of self, as well as various alterations in consciousness. While this part of the
study will not be gone into in detail, Table 1 summarizes the general responses.
Table 1. Major components of waking consciousness queried in interview and responses
Self-Consciousness Query Primary Responses

Emotions Joy, frustration, anger (rarely to sometimes) ; excitement,
sadness, fear (never to rarely)
Thinking Absorption most intense (high); time passing awareness (rarely);

problem solving (sometimes)
Body Awareness (sometimes); motion sickness (almost never, except

in the case of eye strain); discomfort (rarely)
Self General self-awareness (sometimes)

Altered states Never to rarely for all questions
† Frequency was rated as often, sometimes, rarely, or never, while intensity was rated none, low,
medium, or high.
This finding of the centrality to game play of focused attention reflects research on
gaming and its relationship to attention (Green & Baveller, 2003), absorption (Wood,
Griffiths, Chappell, & Davies, 2004), and flow (Sherry, 2004). All of these contribute to the
felt sense of being there, or presence. Indeed, this theme came out at various places in the
interviews. These findings will be integrated with the dream content findings later in this
chapter.
DREAM ANALYSES
The content of the 56 dreams that were gathered was analyzed in two ways. First, the
Hall and Van de Castle (1966) system as described by Schneider and Domhoff (2006) was
used. This was followed by an analysis based upon previous research on lucid/control
dreaming (Gackenbach, 1988).
In the Hall and Van de Castle classic system of dream content analysis, eight general
categories are coded, based on the assumption that frequency equals intensity. They are:
Character (Number, Gender, Identity, Age)

Social Interactions (Aggression, Friendliness, Sexual)
Activities (Movement, Verbal activity, Visual activity)
Striving (Success, Failure)
Misfortune/Good Fortune (Sickness, Falling, Winning)
Emotions (Apprehension, Confusion, Happiness)
Physical Surroundings (Settings and Objects)
Descriptive Elements (Color, Size, Velocity)
Dreams: Hall and Van de Castle Analysis
Table 2 lists the various subscales from the Hall and Van de Castle dream content
analysis system as calculated using the Schneider and Domhoff (2006) method. The
percentage results in each category are shown relative to the male norms, as there were only
two female respondents. The first column is the results of this study in percentage, the second
the comparison percentage of norms from the content analysis system. When these
percentages differ significantly it is indicated by an asterisk next to the variable name. The
third column is the total number of instances found in this study, and the last column that of
the total number found in the process of creating the male norms.
The biggest differences in the dreams of these video game players relative to the Hall and
Van de Castle norms were in the frequency of dead and imaginary characters, the
aggression/friendless percentage, and physical aggression. The higher incidence of dead and
imaginary characters showing up in dreams seems to be typical of the virtual world of many
of today‘s games. In fact, in interviews one gamer commented that there is no reason to be a
human in a game, as humans have fewer powers than other types of creatures. Here is an
illustration of an imaginary dream character:
I dreamt I was a character in Underworld 2; it was a werewolf character, and then I

became a third person. It was the two main characters; it was the vampire girl and a hybrid
werewolf character.
Significant differences were also found in gamers‘ dreams, which were lower in bodily
misfortunes and lower in experiencing at least one instance of friendliness; also, gamers‘
dreams had more familiar but fewer friendly characters. There were also fewer instances of
aggression, sexuality, and both misfortune and good fortune. It can be seen in Table 2 that,
while gamers‘ dreams had significantly less of both misfortune and good fortune, the absolute
difference was considerably larger for misfortune (7% versus 36%) than for good fortune (0%
versus 6%). The difference in misfortune may be more meaningful, as it might imply that
lower instances of misfortune equals lower instances of nightmares (Barrett, 2001).
Bodily misfortunes include any accident in which a person is hurt, experiences an illness,
or has other unexpected negative events. Since misfortune is a typical feature of nightmares, it
is interesting that, even though some of these dreams are filled with violence, the dreamers
have a very different perspective on that violence. They appear to take it in stride, often
viewing battles or altercations as a challenge.
Table 2. Hall and Van de Castle Content Analysis Results
Interview Series Male Norms N for N for

Subscale Inter- Male
views Norms
Characters
Male/Female Percent 67% 67% 45 873
Familiarity Percent* 58% 45% 81 1108
Friends Percent** 16% 31% 81 1108
Family Percent 15% 12% 81 1108
Dead & Imaginary Percent* 21% 00% 92 1180
Animal Percent 04% 06% 92 1180
Social Interaction Percents

Aggression/Friendliness Percent** 100% 59% 25 546
Aggressor Percent 33% 40% 18 253
Physical Aggression Percent** 86% 50% 35 402
Settings
Indoor Setting Percent 47% 48% 43 586
Familiar Setting Percent 56% 62% 32 320
Self-Concept Percents
Self-Negativity Percent* 84% 65% 25 809
Bodily Misfortunes Percent* 00% 29% 4 205
Negative Emotions Percent 81% 80% 16 282
Dreamer-Involved Success Percent 40% 51% 10 141
Torso/Anatomy Percent 27% 31% 22 246
Dreams with at Least One:

Aggression* 32% 47% 57 500
Friendliness** 02% 38% 57 500
Sexuality** 00% 12% 57 500
Misfortune** 07% 36% 57 500
Good Fortune** 00% 06% 57 500
Success 09% 15% 57 500
Failure 09% 15% 57 500
Striving 18% 27% 57 500
The asterisk signs (* & **) indicate significant p values at .05 and .01 levels respectively.
In this way, playing a game during the day may transfer to a game-playing attitude in the
dream world. The majority of the interviewees expressed a preference for role-playing games
with a battle motif, with World of Warcraft most frequently mentioned. First-person shooters
were also mentioned often by these gamers. However, this interpretation flies in the face of
the higher self-negativity percent for gamers. Perhaps this is an instance of gamers
reprimanding themselves for errors made while dreaming as they would in an actual game.
In terms of aggression, a closer analysis shows that, although there was more physical
aggression in their dreams overall and a higher aggression/friendliness percent overall, when
examined in terms of the number of dreams reporting at least one instance, there were
relatively fewer aggressive dreams in this sample than in the norms. In part, this may be due
to the low sample size of dreams, but it may also be that, when gamers dream of aggression,
there is more of it in those dreams, but they do not dream of it as often. Here is an example of
high-end aggression when it did appear:
So I went outside with my cat and shot these criminals that were trying to eat my dad,
and they were on top of my dad trying to eat his arms, and he was fighting them off, and they
were trying to hold him down and bite his shoulders, and there was blood and stuff. And it
was a very graphic shootout for a dream; it was very blood and guts, ya know?
In terms of positive social interactions, gamers‘ dream characters were more likely to be
familiar, but compared to the male norms they were not so likely to be friends. In the end, no
clear-cut theme of a positive or negative social nature emerged for this group of hard-core
gamers relative to the norms.
Dreams: Lucid/Control Analyses
The second dream content analysis was based upon the interview question prompts
regarding dream lucidity and control. These were asked about because of previous research
into gamers‘ dreams (Gackenbach, 2006).
Only 10 of the 56 dreams were seen as lucid by the judge, with one of those rated as
―unsure.‖ Since lucid dreams usually involve the dreamer having control within the dream,
evaluating lucidity or dream control was done in terms of control of the dream self, events,
characters, and scenery. Control of self in the dream was deemed as high in 39 of the 56
dreams, while control of events was non-existent. Control of characters was rarely noted, as
was control of scenery. Of particular interest in these dreams was the dreamer perspective. It
was originally investigated due to the Gackenbach and Bosveld (1989) model of
consciousness in sleep. They point to two levels of such consciousness: one is lucidity, which
is engaged in the dream activity, and the other is witnessing, which is detached from the
dream activity. Accessing this information required some probing by the interviewer,
although some dreams were spontaneously reported as having been experienced from the
position of a watcher (i.e., the third-person perspective). However, contrary to the
Gackenbach and Bosveld (1989) idea that this represents a detached perspective, there still
tended to be an emotional attachment to the events as they progressed. This suggests that the
third-person perspective was developed in gamers due to their game play experiences directly
translating into the dream.
Video Game vs. Non-video Game Dreams
Since dreams are generally viewed in the dream research literature as reflecting daily
concerns, it was thought useful to examine the dreams of these hard-core video game players
as a function of whether or not a video game was featured in the dream. This was intended to
shed some light on whether the dream effects found were a function of gaming exposure per
se in the case of video game dreams, or simply characteristic of the gamer‘s life in the case of
non-video game dreams. Here is a clear example of the translation from waking gaming
activity to the dreamed game:
I had played a game called Bomber Man where you just run around and put bombs down
and explode areas so that you can leap past…. There‘s, like, monsters running around that can
kill you or you have to blow them up, and I remember in the dream I was down, like in 3D, I
was the bomber man type guy, and there were these monsters on these blocks, and I was
running around, and my whole family was there actually, and we were running away from
them as fast as we could.
Of the 56 dreams shared in the interviews, and based on the gamer‘s own classification,
33 were identified as video game dreams and another 21 as not being gaming dreams, with
two classified as unsure. There were significantly more words used to describe the video
game dreams (mean = 210) than those classified as not video game/unsure (mean = 122).
Since higher word count generally indicates better recall of the dream, and better recall
generally indicates a more intense experience and a higher likelihood of lucidity, the number
of words was used as a statistical control in the analysis comparing video game and non-video
game dreams.
Both the video game and the non-video game dreams were analyzed further using the
Hall and Van de Castle system. Only two scores showed a significant difference in the two
sets of dreams: emotional references and use of modifiers in descriptions. For both scores, it
was the non-video game dreams that had more emotional references and more modifiers,
implying a more emotionally engaging experience. More importantly, the inclusion of a game
motif in a dream for the most part did not alter the nature of the dream.
The second round of analysis compared the two sets of dreams in 10 ways relating to
lucidity and control. In this case, three dream content lucid/control type variables were found
to be significant. They were balanced emotions, control of environment, and control of
characters. In all three cases, video game dreams were rated higher than non-video game
dreams – that is, emotions were more balanced, not dominated by highs and lows, in video
game dreams, and there was more control of both environment and characters in them than in
non-video game dreams.
It is important to note that in both analyses there were more similarities between dream
types than differences, although the differences were illuminating. Specifically, it was
assumed that the ability to control the game world in video game play was related to dream
control; the analyses comparing the two types of dreams seems to support this assumption.
The more emotional non-gaming dreams compared to those with game elements suggest that
it is non-gaming dreams that do the emotional regulation work often ascribed to dreams
(Kramer, 2007; Nielsen & Lara-Carrasco, 2007).
ALTERED STATES OF CONSCIOUSNESS QUESTION ANALYSIS

The final set of questions dealt with other altered forms of consciousness associated with
video game play while awake.
Over half said they had the experience of still playing when they left the game. Regarding
the latter, one young man told a story of having spent an afternoon playing a game and then
going out to the barn on the family farm to do his chores. He found himself initially trying to
make button moves when he tried to pick up a bucket.
Some had the experience of feeling as if they were outside themselves, which is nicely
explained by this young student:
You‘re just kinda there, and then you know that you‘re there, but it‘s almost kind of a
delayed reaction. Like, you know that you‘re physically there, but you know that you‘re
physically in your body, but for me it‘s a more mental point of view, for others it could be
more of a spiritual point of view, like you‘re outside of yourself and you realize, like, you
can‘t look into your eyes but you feel, I guess, that you‘re looking from an inch to the left, or
an inch to the right kinda thing, so you‘re sort of outside yourself.
Another explained: ―It‘s almost like that thing where you lose feeling with your body and
it‘s almost like you‘re splitting up.‖ Over half were judged to have said they lost awareness of
themselves and their surroundings while playing.
Finally, the potential transcendental nature of game play is captured by this gamer:
―There were a lot of times where they would be hiding just around the corner, and I would
somehow know that they were there and be able to … even though they were waiting and
getting ready to shoot me, I‘m able to get them first, not because I was faster or better but
because I knew what they were going to do.‖
THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN WAKING INTERVIEWS

AND DREAM CONTENT ANALYSES
The interview included questions regarding the gamer‘s waking consciousness

experience of gaming; these answers were analyzed in comparison with the content analysis
of their dreams. The comparison of these data sets was conceptually organized using a
statistical technique called factor analysis. This technique allows researchers to determine
correlations between factors, though not necessarily the specific relationship between them,
such as causation. Separate analyses were computed around questions related to aggression,
emotions, physical body, thinking, time, watcher perspective, and altered states of
consciousness.
Five of the seven factor analyses showed associations between waking interview content
and dream content. These were aggression, thinking, time, watcher perspective, and mystical
questions. For aggression, all subscale totals from the Hall and Van de Castle dream content
analysis, as well as the frequency and intensity of expressions about gaming excitement,
frustration, and anger expressed during the interviews, were entered into the factor analysis.
Only waking expressions of frustration showed an association with any of the dream content
variables, and these expressions of frustration while awake were associated with the
dreamers‘ lack of involvement in aggression in their dreams and the absence of an aggressor
in the dream. This would seem to support the idea that gaming has already fulfilled an
emotional need and is thus not needed again in sleep.
In another factor analysis, four dream control variables showed a correlation with the
intensity of attention while playing. This analysis also showed an association between dream
verbal activities and gaming problem-solving frequency and intensity; however, thinking in
dreams did not show a correlation with those two factors. Thus the more gamers solved
problems in gaming, the more their dreams were associated with verbal but not thinking
activities. It must be kept in mind that this is not a causal relationship.
A third analysis connected a lack of lucid dreams with the first-person perspective in the
dream, as opposed to the third-person perspective, outside of the dream ego. In the final
analysis related to dream control, lucid dreaming correlated with both verbal and thinking
activities within the dreams, and with high attention skills in the gamers when they were
gaming while awake. It is this analysis in particular that seems to show the connection
between intense attention in gaming and lucid dreaming, suggested in other research
(Gackenbach, 2006, 2008).
The next two factor analyses were fairly small, with Time loading only four variables and
Watcher loading five. In both cases, at least one factor loaded both waking- and dreaming-
type variables. In the case of the Time factor analysis, time references in the dream were
associated with the intensity of reporting being aware of time during gaming in the interview.
A lack of time sense in gaming has been associated with a high sense of being immersed in a
game world (Kurita, 2005). In this case, then, the opposite of immersion in VR – that is,
being aware of time passing – was associated with similar time references in dreams. This
could be an individual difference variable or one related to the type of game played.
Interviewees unanimously reported more awareness of time in first-person shooter type
games as compared to role playing/adventure games such as World of Warcraft.
In the Watcher factor analysis, two sets of associations emerged. The first connected
neutral emotions in the dream by the third-person perspective (Watcher dream ego) with
reports of experiences of still playing a game after you were done while awake, having out-
of-body experiences during play, and not being aware of the body during play. This
correlation seems to indicate that the disengagement of emotions in the dream when in the
third-person perspective is linked to the player‘s disengagement with his/her body during or
after game play. The second factor loaded the same dreamer emotional neutrality positively
with self as located primarily within the third-person perspective during a dream; these two
dream variables loaded negatively with ―still feeling like you are playing when you are done.‖
This is perplexing, as one would think that the blend of realities suggested by the ―still
thinking you are playing when you are done‖ question would lead to a disengagement of self
from the dream body, as indicated in the first factor, but the opposite was the case here. This
could be due to the wide array of answers to the question of whether the gamer felt like he
was still playing after he stopped. It was asked to see if the gamer‘s perspective of oneself had
changed during or after gaming, but some answered the question with regard to whether they
were still thinking about the game afterward, rather than if they were still feeling the game.
The last factor analysis computed was on items that could be considered to be mystical.
The significant correlation found here was a connection between lucid dreaming with the
first-person perspective in dreams, and the absence of feelings of unity. Explanations for lucid
dreaming have included those that embrace it as a stage in the process of enlightenment, in
other words mystical in nature (Varela, 1997), to others that see it as merely a cognitive skill
(LaBerge, 2007). This association of a lack of unity feelings, which is a classical aspect of
mystical experiences, to lucidity in the first person argues for a cognitive skill interpretation.
CONCLUSION
Does game play while awake impact nighttime dreams? As expected, gamers reported
that they do dream about gaming. Well over half of the dreams reported included easily
recognized references to games. Thus, a simple answer to the research question is ―Yes,
gaming impacts dreams.‖
Since emotional regulation is thought to be a central feature of dreams, gaming emotions
that range from joy to anger and sadness were investigated in their social contexts with mixed
results. Although gamers showed more self-negativity in these dreams, other indications of
positive emotional environments were found, such as fewer misfortunes and more familiar
characters. In sum, while gamers had more negative social/emotional elements (n = 7) than
positive ones (n = 4), 12 social/emotional elements resulted in no gamer/norm differences.
Thus, one might say that these dreams are managing the emotional regulation needed for
gamers, while not dramatically distorting their dream lives from the norms. This conclusion is
supported by the analyses comparing video game to non-video game dreams. That is, most
content variables showed no difference.
However, some of the differences are noteworthy, in addition to what has been discussed.
The higher number of imaginary and dead dream characters in gamers‘ dreams was replicated
by Gackenbach and Kuruvilla (2008a). Additionally, in a follow-up, Gackenbach and
Kuruvilla (2008b) found that gamers‘ dreams collected shortly after they happened were
evaluated as more bizarre on two of three major dimensions of a major system of bizarre
dream content analysis (Revonsuo, 2006). There is some indication that this may be due to
higher creativity in gamers (Dopko & Gackenbach, 2009).
Secondly, the aggression/misfortune finding – that is, a lower number of aggressive
dreams but more aggression in a dream – if it appears combined with less misfortune, implies
that gamers take their honed battle skills into their dreams. This too was largely replicated in
Gackenbach and Kuruvilla (2008a). In a related study from this group, Gackenbach and
Kuruvilla (2008b) showed that the function of dreams as practice on reacting to threats to
survival (Revonsuo, 2006) may be fulfilled in waking video game play and thus not so likely
to appear in dreams.
The hypothesis that gamers would show more dream control and more lucid dreams as
indicated by an earlier study (Gackenbach, 2006) was somewhat supported in the analysis.
Dream control and lucidity were not initially asked for explicitly in the interviews, in order to
ensure a spontaneous report. However, when probed, 10 of the 56 dreams were lucid, which
is a higher incidence than that discussed by Snyder and Gackenbach (1988). In addition, in 39
dreams control over the dream self was evident.
Game play can shift from first- to third-person perspective in order to improve game
performance. This third-person perspective, which is not even scored for in most dream
content analysis systems, including that of Hall and Van de Castle, was seen in some of these
dreams. It may be that more people‘s dreams have this third-person perspective; it is just not
noticed unless carefully looked for, and it may be a product of increased media absorption
today relative to when the dream content analysis system was initially developed (i.e., the
1950s and 1960s). Other research by this group has found more of this watcher perspective
among gamers (Gackenbach, 2006). The question is, Why? It could be sheer practice, as
many games are best played from the third-person perspective, or it could be, for some at
least, the emergence out of lucidity of detached witnessing dreams. This concept, put forth by
Gackenbach and Bosveld (1989), is that there are two types of dream awareness: lucidity, an
active and engaged awareness that one is dreaming, and witnessing, a quieter and detached
third-person perspective. As noted earlier, the lucidity/gamer connection is not too surprising,
given the other relevant correlations to each, i.e., spatial skills, lack of motion sickness, and
focused attention during waking. However, these analyses do not support the gamers‘ lucidity
as much as the higher detached form called ―witnessing‖ by Gackenbach and Bosveld (1989).
One of the limitations of this study is the small number of interviewees and dream
reports. In addition, the self-report nature of the data collection is always a cause for concern.
That is, both the game-playing experiences and the dreams were recalled retrospectively.
While this study is a good first step in understanding a particular phenomenon, it was clear
that the interviewees were sensitive to the negative stigma often associated with gaming and
expressed their awareness with various self-conscious remarks about playing too much. At
the same time, the interviewer endeavored to make the interviewees comfortable and relaxed
in order to obtain the most honest responses possible.
In conclusion, the flow model of consciousness (Csikszentmihalyi, 1990) in gaming
(Sherry, 2004) is the best way to understand the nature of waking consciousness during play.
That is, there is sufficient challenge to engage, with not so much as to frustrate. As a result,
flow or deep absorption is the primary characteristic of the experience of gaming and may be
responsible in part for some of the dream effects, especially lucidity.
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INDEX
aging, 55, 152

9 aid, 4, 44, 105
air, 80, 94, 130, 219
9/11, 117
alcohol, 109
alertness, 88, 186
A altered state, 10, 89, 128, 179, 218, 223, 232, 234,
240, 244
abortion, 159 alternative, xv, 25, 37, 64, 116, 201, 218, 223
absorption, 66, 128, 232, 235, 243 altruism, 133
abstinence, 11 Amazon, 91
accessibility, 151 Amazonian, 5
accidental, 25, 119 American culture, xiii, 3, 8, 91, 162
accuracy, xi, 114, 187, 194, 195, 196 American Indian, 9, 46
acetylcholine, 39, 112 American Psychological Association, 27, 45, 66, 67,
achievement, 21, 27 117, 119, 135, 152, 225
acoustic, 223 amniotic, 161
activation, 4, 6, 7, 8, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, amniotic fluid, 161
25, 27, 30, 38, 39, 40, 41, 44, 45, 113, 114, 197 amorphous, xvi
acts of aggression, 173 amplitude, 3
adaptation, 12, 131, 232, 246 amygdala, 111, 113, 114, 186, 193
addiction, 232, 244 anger, 4, 22, 111, 115, 145, 149, 151, 164, 235, 240,
adjustment, 67 242
adolescence, 22, 126, 151 Animal Rights Activists, vi, xv, 171, 175
adrenaline, 108 animals, 2, 3, 4, 38, 44, 145, 148, 151, 158, 159, 161,
adulthood, 5 164, 165, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 180
adults, 1, 8, 18, 21, 22, 24, 28, 145, 146, 151, 178, Animals, 173, 180
231 anomalous, xv, 26, 42, 46, 159, 201, 210, 223, 224,
advertising, 6 226
affective experience, 63 ANS, 3
affective states, 8 anterior cingulate cortex, 6, 23, 40
Afghanistan, xiv, 103, 107, 108, 109, 115, 117, 118 anthropology, 3, 10
African-American, 146 antidepressants, 9, 115
afternoon, 34, 240 antisocial personality, 110
age, 6, 9, 20, 21, 22, 24, 25, 89, 151, 165, 231, 234, antisocial personality disorder, 110
245 anxiety, 40, 104, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 128,
agent, 214, 222, 225 158, 159, 160, 164, 165
aggression, 20, 21, 112, 145, 147, 148, 151, 152, Anxiety, 160, 161, 164
172, 173, 174, 175, 177, 178, 231, 236, 238, 240, APA, 104, 110
242 appetite, 113
258 Index
application, xiv, 58 beliefs, 7, 18, 91, 95, 123, 124, 125, 126, 128, 129,
appraisals, 117 130, 132, 176
aptitude, 222 benefits, 47, 160
archetype, 42 beta-blockers, 115
Argentina, 21, 41, 146, 148 bias, 9, 209
argument, 171 bipolar disorder, 8
Aristotle, 88 birds, 3, 5, 8, 172
Army, 108, 117 birth, 5, 119, 158, 159, 160, 163, 166
arousal, 2, 3, 4, 7, 106, 111, 112, 113, 114, 186, 232, blame, 105
245 blocks, 37, 239
artistic, 22, 132 blood, 27, 34, 111, 158, 238
ASCs, 232 blood pressure, 111
ASD, 152 blood stream, 34
Asian, 89, 96 body temperature, 2
assaults, 109 bonds, 163
assertiveness, 65, 158 borrowing, 124
assessment, 7, 119 Boston, 10, 45, 99, 135, 244, 246
assignment, 184 bounds, 128
assumptions, 62, 95, 195 boys, 27, 151, 152
attachment, 238 braids, 34
attacks, 106, 109, 110, 148 brain, xiii, xv, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 10, 11, 17, 18, 20, 23,
attitudes, 9, 66, 119, 124, 126, 129, 161, 177, 178 24, 25, 28, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 43,
attractiveness, 162 44, 45, 46, 56, 57, 98, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114,
attractors, 39 118, 128, 134, 135, 177, 185, 186, 197, 244, 246
aura, 105 brain activity, 35, 39, 40, 112
authority, 7 brain damage, 40
autobiographical memory, 27 brain development, 5
autonomic nervous system, 2, 186 brain injury, 110, 118
autonomy, 9, 104 brain size, 5
avoidance, 246 brain stem, 17, 24, 56
avoidant, 115 brain structure, 3, 5, 11, 111
awareness, xiv, 8, 4, 8, 33, 35, 46, 88, 90, 94, 95, 97, brainstem, 38, 56
123, 124, 125, 127, 128, 129, 133, 159, 163, 166, branching, 3
186, 202, 233, 235, 240, 241, 243 breakfast, 39
breathing, 2, 94, 97, 186
broad spectrum, 124, 184, 193
B bubble, 126
Buddhism, 87, 91, 92, 93, 97, 127, 131, 135
babbling, 8
Buddhist, 37, 87, 92, 93, 94, 96, 98
babies, 8, 159, 161, 163, 164
buildings, 6
back, xii, 8, 56, 63, 65, 73, 88, 97, 107, 108, 110,
by-products, 25
119, 129, 205, 233
backfire, 111
background noise, 47 C
baggage, 78, 79
bank failure, 41 Cambodian, 117
barriers, 9, 115, 118, 160 Canada, 22, 82, 83, 164
basic needs, 64 candidates, 124
battered women, 178 car accidents, 106
beer, 80 caregivers, 105
behavior, xiii, xiv, xvi, 1, 2, 41, 46, 56, 67, 95, 112, case study, 123
113, 143 cast, 17
behavioral change, 65 CAT, 23
behavioral dispositions, 9 CAT scan, 23
Index 259
category a, 5, 216, 236 combined effect, 220

Catholic, 126 communication, xiii, 1, 7, 10, 42, 89, 110, 126, 134,
cats, 178 161, 201, 204, 210, 211, 224, 225
causal relationship, 241 communication processes, 210
causation, 240 community, xi, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10, 30, 38, 88, 90, 103,
cave, 132 116, 126, 131, 132, 146
CBS, 203, 224 compensation, 24, 66
cell, 41 competence, 117
censorship, 129 complement, 133
central nervous system, 112 complex systems, 41
cerebral blood flow, 27 complexity, 21, 56, 93, 110, 114
channels, 185, 211 complications, 159, 167
chaos, 39, 46 components, 34, 114, 234, 235
childbirth, 167 composition, 5
childhood, 22, 64, 187, 231 comprehension, 97
children, 6, 18, 20, 21, 24, 25, 158, 163, 164, 178, computer mouse, 233
233, 243, 245 concentration, 104, 115, 128
cholinergic, 39 conception, 18, 43, 58
Christians, 125 conceptual model, 243
circadian, 2, 35, 45 concrete, 130, 132
circadian rhythms, 35, 45 conditioning, 9, 65, 114
civilian, 107 confidence, 58, 166, 205, 214
classes, 4, 27, 37, 132, 163, 209 configuration, 37, 39
classification, 45, 239 conflict, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 110, 129
classroom, 5 confusion, 22, 108, 145, 149, 151, 164
clients, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 104, 116 Connecticut, 214
clinician, 119 conscious awareness, 8
closure, xiv, 3 consciousness, xiv, xv, 6, 4, 8, 9, 10, 19, 28, 29, 33,
clustering, 194 35, 36, 37, 41, 42, 45, 46, 47, 87, 89, 91, 92, 94,
Co, 118 95, 97, 98, 99, 123, 125, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131,
codes, 197 132, 133, 134, 135, 171, 179, 186, 193, 223, 226,
coding, 21, 146, 152, 221 227, 231, 232, 233, 234, 235, 238, 240, 243, 244,
coffee, 91 245, 246
cognition, 7, 17, 18, 22, 23, 26, 29, 35, 127, 135, 244 consensus, 3, 91, 129, 209, 210, 216, 217, 220, 222,
cognitive abilities, 1, 5, 21, 25 224, 227
cognitive development, 20, 27, 128, 152 conservation, 12
cognitive function, 26 consolidation, 1, 5, 24, 30, 44, 47, 232
cognitive perspective, 18, 25, 127 constraints, 80, 91
cognitive process, 23, 24, 128 consulting, 8
cognitive style, 98 content analysis, 27, 28, 45, 152, 158, 163, 164, 167,
cognitive system, 18 179, 184, 185, 187, 188, 190, 191, 192, 193, 213,
cognitive tasks, 11 234, 236, 238, 240, 242, 244, 245
cognitive therapy, xi continuity, xv, 22, 150, 152, 171, 172, 176, 180, 184,
coherence, 19, 22, 35 192
cohesion, xiii, 1, 10, 8 contractions, 134
cohort, 119 control, 29, 37, 38, 77, 88, 92, 105, 107, 113, 118,
collaboration, 112, 129 128, 144, 147, 162, 171, 195, 201, 208, 215, 216,
collective unconscious, 17, 24, 37, 193 233, 235, 238, 239, 241, 242
college students, xiii, 28, 146, 151, 153 control group, 171, 208
Colorado, 131, 134 controlled trials, 195
colors, xv, 95, 132, 183, 184, 185, 187, 188, 189, convergence, 125
190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 197 conviction, 61
Columbia, 11, 10, 167 cooking, 40
260 Index
Copenhagen, 197 deficits, 23

correlation, 195, 196, 206, 241 definition, 63, 126, 147
correlations, 47, 195, 240, 243 degrees of freedom, 219
cortex, xiv, 3, 10, 23, 33, 38, 39, 40, 44, 55, 56, 58 delivery, 115, 160
cortisol, 111, 113 delusion, 94, 99, 129, 131
cost-effective, xv, 201 demographics, 187
costs, 211 denial, 118
counseling, 5, 61 density, 57
couples, 164 Department of Defense, 108, 115
cows, 73, 176 depressed, xii, 8, 34
creative potential, 134 depression, 8, 35, 40, 109, 111, 113, 115, 117, 158,
creative process, 131, 134 159
creativity, 40, 42, 95, 98, 123, 132, 242, 244 deprivation, 2, 4, 9
criminals, 238 designers, 232
critically ill, 117 destruction, 78, 106
criticism, 109, 151, 208 detachment, 163
cross-cultural, 1, 10, 46, 144, 145, 146, 148 detection, 11
cross-sectional, 20, 22, 28 developmental process, 56
cross-sectional study, 28 developmental psychology, 244
cross-talk, 6 deviation, 214
crying, 8, 9, 125, 159 Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental
CST, xiii, 1, 7 Disorders, 110
cues, 109, 111, 113, 208 diagnostic criteria, 105
cultivation, xiv, 123, 124, 125, 127, 133, 134 diamonds, 94
cultural differences, 151 diet, 96, 126, 161, 176
cultural practices, 9, 124 differentiation, 56
cultural stereotypes, 148 diffusion, 124
culture, 10, 4, 9, 20, 25, 89, 107, 110, 125, 132, 143, digestion, 186
162, 166, 172, 202, 231 dimensionality, 94
curiosity, 35 disappointment, 196
cycles, 2, 35, 58 disaster, 104, 105, 223
discharges, 3, 7
discipline, 95
D discomfort, 235
discounting, 105
daily living, xiv, 55, 114
discrimination, 143, 178, 210
dairy, 176
disorder, xiv, 45, 103, 104, 105, 107, 109, 117, 118,
dances, 39, 132
119, 179
danger, 160, 175, 177, 203
displacement, 105, 159, 214
data collection, 192, 243
dissociation, 28, 117
data set, 187, 194, 221, 234, 240
distortions, 19
database, 11, 20, 183, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192,
distress, xiv, 103, 105, 106, 112, 113, 115, 119, 179
223
distribution, 28
David Bohm, 43
divergence, 4
death, xi, xii, xiv, 22, 87, 88, 92, 93, 105, 106, 108,
diversity, 5, 22, 133, 166
115, 119, 127, 131, 174, 175, 178
diving, 94
debates, 45, 133
divorce, 105
debts, 82
doctors, xii
decision making, 8, 23
dogs, 38, 178
decisions, 1, 8, 9
domestic violence, 108
Decoding, 58, 135
dominance, 39, 188, 193
deep-sea, 72
donkey, 5, 11
defense, 129
dopamine, 112
deficit, 6
Index 261
dopaminergic, 6 empathy, 7, 67
dorsolateral prefrontal cortex, 6, 23 empowerment, 134
draft, 107 encoding, 114
Dreamwork, v, xiii, 3, 5, 124, 127, 130, 131 endogenous depression, 110
drug dependence, 110 energy, xii, 7, 8, 12, 7, 34, 42, 80, 81, 126, 132
drug use, 96 engagement, 8, 130
drug-induced, 25 England, 90, 98, 224
drugs, 36, 82, 89, 109 Enlightenment, 90
DSM-IV, 104 entertainment, 88, 96
dualism, 4 enthusiasm, 34, 131
duration, 56, 58, 167 environment, 8, 42, 93, 95, 97, 111, 128, 130, 159,
163, 177, 185, 188, 192, 202, 205, 239
environmental factors, 177
E environmentalists, 178
EOG, 2, 204, 209, 210, 215, 221
early retirement, 81
episodic memory, 28
earthquake, 117, 179
epistemological, 131
eating, 21, 26, 42, 145, 176
equating, 44
economics, 18
equilibrium, 97
ecstasy, 95, 98
etiology, 104
educators, 90
evening, 34
EEG, 2, 4, 5, 6, 11, 18, 45, 112, 204, 209, 210, 221,
evil, 72, 108
228, 245
evolution, 2, 3, 5, 7, 10, 11, 12, 25, 46, 47, 58, 134
EEG activity, 45
evolutionary process, 97
EEG patterns, 5
exaggeration, 80, 113
ego, 94, 241
examinations, 26, 231
Egypt, 42, 202
excitation, 7, 56
elbow, 73, 75, 76
exclusion, 151
elderly, 152, 231
exercise, 7, 87, 127, 134, 193
elders, 9
existentialism, 129
electricity, 81
experimental design, 227
electroencephalogram, 2, 35, 226
expertise, 244
electroencephalograph, 112
explosions, 110
electronic circuits, 41
exposure, 4, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 118, 239
email, 234
Exposure, 107
EMG, 2, 4
externalization, 124
emission, 29
extinction, 3, 113, 114, 115
emotion, 20, 23, 24, 35, 44, 113, 145, 151, 164, 183,
eye, 2, 3, 4, 5, 9, 10, 11, 27, 29, 34, 37, 45, 46, 112,
186, 187, 193, 232, 245
185, 204, 215, 218, 223, 235
emotion regulation, 245
eyes, 37, 75, 76, 80, 81, 88, 127, 176, 185, 240
emotional, xi, xiii, xiv, 1, 6, 7, 8, 10, 7, 24, 25, 33,
34, 36, 40, 41, 58, 96, 97, 106, 113, 114, 125,
128, 130, 133, 134, 150, 159, 160, 162, 165, 166, F
172, 179, 180, 183, 184, 186, 187, 193, 194, 195,
196, 204, 214, 216, 217, 222, 232, 238, 239, 241, fabric, 9, 36
242, 245 facial expression, 113
emotional connections, 134, 160, 186 factor analysis, 240, 241
emotional responses, 113, 186, 245 failure, 21, 144, 145, 214, 215, 223, 224, 228
emotional state, xiii, 187, 193, 194, 195 familial, 131, 160, 161
emotional valence, 217 family, 6, 18, 63, 91, 92, 106, 146, 151, 159, 162,
emotionality, 216, 217, 222, 227 164, 165, 176, 239, 240
emotions, xi, xv, 7, 8, 11, 12, 21, 33, 34, 36, 40, 63, family members, 106, 146, 164
114, 128, 130, 131, 133, 144, 149, 158, 164, 165, famine, 202
166, 171, 172, 179, 235, 239, 240, 241, 242 fasting, 126
262 Index
fat, 202
fatigue, 158
G
FDG, 30
Gallup, 203, 224
fear, xii, xiii, xiv, 36, 103, 105, 106, 111, 113, 114,
gambling, 82
115, 128, 150, 165, 215, 225, 235
games, 231, 232, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 241, 242,
fear response, 111, 113, 114, 215
243, 246
fears, xii, xiii, 9, 63, 150, 160, 162, 165, 166
garbage, 73
feedback, xiv, 61, 62, 128
gauge, 2
feelings, 7, 33, 34, 35, 36, 40, 63, 64, 72, 73, 95,
gender, 4, 6, 9, 20, 36, 107, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147,
104, 105, 127, 128, 158, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164,
148, 150, 151, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 175, 188,
165, 166, 171, 173, 174, 186, 241
189, 234
fees, 5
gender identity, 4
females, 107, 146, 152, 178, 187, 188, 189, 190
gender role, 107
feminist, 4, 9
gene, 18, 143
fertility, 161
general knowledge, 18
fetal, 45, 163
generalizations, 18, 143
fetus, 165
generation, 93
fight or flight response, 106
genes, 7
films, 91, 205
genocide, 117
financial markets, 41
genre, 5
fire, 89
Gestalt, 62, 129, 130, 186, 197
first-time, 158, 167
gift, 58, 147, 173, 224
fishing, 80
gifted, 38, 206, 222
fitness, 7, 8
gifts, 126, 131
flashbacks, 108, 111, 115
girls, 27, 151, 152, 187
flexibility, 95
globalization, 123
flight, 106, 111, 161
goals, xi, 9, 5, 6, 96, 129, 131, 133
floating, 79, 80, 161
God, 79, 82, 95, 126, 228
flood, 73, 79
gold, 75, 187
flow, 27, 29, 33, 34, 36, 43, 96, 123, 232, 235, 243
grades, 187
fluid, 39, 161
grading, 194, 195
focusing, 87, 92, 130, 131
grain, 41
food, 21, 24, 145, 178
grandparents, 63
Ford, 89
grassroots, 4, 5, 6, 7
forebrain, 40
grouping, 190, 191, 193
forgiveness, 128
groups, xiii, 1, 3, 9, 10, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 18, 26, 98,
fossil, 3
105, 123, 124, 132, 160, 163, 164, 184, 187, 220
fragmentation, 9
growth, xi, xiv, 6, 55, 56, 88, 93, 103, 129, 131, 161,
fraud, 208
166
freedom, 9, 80, 81, 107, 219
guidance, 7, 8, 25, 126, 127, 129
Freud, 22, 23, 27, 28, 38, 41, 45, 61, 88, 129, 134,
guidelines, 80, 96, 130
171, 179
guilt, 115
friction, 41
Gulf War, 106, 119
Friday, 35
friendship, 173
frontal cortex, 23 H
frontal lobes, 6, 46
frustration, 235, 240 hallucinations, 28, 227
fulfillment, 88, 96, 107 handling, 96, 105
functional aspects, 2 hands, 7, 57, 74, 78, 79, 90, 177
hanging, 176
happiness, 22, 145, 164, 165
harm, 4, 111, 147, 175
Index 263
Harvard, 28, 38, 46, 120, 243 hypothesis, xv, 5, 11, 21, 22, 25, 26, 30, 38, 42, 43,
headache, 36, 37 44, 45, 171, 172, 176, 180, 184, 192, 197, 202,
healing, xiv, 10, 46, 87, 94, 98, 120, 126, 131, 185 206, 209, 210, 242
health, xii, 97, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 159, 161,
165
health care, 106, 108, 115 I
hearing, 108
id, 77, 90, 209
heart, xii, 2, 7, 56, 76, 111, 186, 215
identification, 108, 127, 129
Heart, 76
identity, 4, 6, 36, 40, 76, 131, 162, 208, 217
heart rate, 2, 7, 111, 186, 215
ideology, 4
heartbeat, 186
IEDs, 107, 110
helplessness, 104, 105
Illinois, 244
hemisphere, 4, 5
illumination, 185, 186
heterogeneous, 7, 210
illusion, 97, 134
hibernation, 12
images, xii, xv, xvi, 9, 10, 7, 9, 38, 40, 42, 43, 46,
high blood pressure, 158
55, 56, 57, 63, 64, 65, 92, 128, 129, 130, 158,
high school, 187, 235
159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 165, 186, 226, 233, 246
hippocampal, 114, 118
imagination, 40, 134, 243
hippocampus, 6, 111, 113, 114
imbalances, 159
histamine, 112
immersion, 232, 241
holistic, 4, 103, 116, 133
immigration, 131
homework, 81
inactive, 88
honesty, 1, 10
incidence, 28, 159, 163, 236, 242
honey, 176
inclusion, 66, 239
hormones, 34, 112
incubation, 94, 125, 126, 127, 133, 135
host, 6, 43
independence, 218, 244
hostility, 20, 106, 147, 159, 174
India, 10, 21
House, 45, 180, 197
Indian, 9, 46
household, 145, 151
indication, 106, 183, 194, 206, 242
hue, 185
individual differences, 26, 143, 187, 219
human, xii, xiii, xiv, 1, 2, 7, 8, 10, 4, 18, 21, 27, 29,
induction, 96
37, 41, 42, 44, 45, 46, 57, 58, 88, 103, 104, 105,
industrialized societies, 151
106, 119, 123, 135, 147, 158, 173, 174, 184, 186,
ineffectiveness, 110
197, 202, 236, 245
infancy, 12, 55
human brain, 41, 88
infants, 8, 44, 161, 162
human experience, xiv, 103, 104
inferences, 22, 159
human nature, 37
infinite, 37, 95
humanistic psychology, 118
information processing, 1, 2, 6, 38
humanitarian, vii
inherited, 17, 58
humanity, 1, 131
inhibitors, 115
humans, xiii, 1, 2, 3, 7, 9, 25, 88, 123, 173, 174, 176,
inhibitory, 210
177, 178, 232, 236
initiation, 112
hunter-gatherers, 9
injuries, 23, 107, 110, 118, 120
hunting, 131, 178
injury, 104, 105, 110, 118
hurricanes, 104
insight, xii, 7, 8, 62, 64, 66, 67, 127, 130, 132, 133,
husband, vii, 64, 158, 162
135, 162, 163, 166
hybrid, 236
insomnia, 11, 112, 115
hyperarousal, 11, 104, 105, 108, 109, 111, 112, 115
inspection, 9, 36, 216
hypnagogic state, 97, 223
inspiration, 25, 88, 90, 132
hypnosis, 129
instabilities, 2
hypnotic, 209
instability, 56
hypothalamus, 6
instruction, 91, 92, 130
instruments, 8, 39, 195
264 Index
integration, xiv, 1, 2, 6, 123, 130, 133, 186, 193

integrity, 105, 203
L
intelligence, 8, 10, 38, 245
labeling, 104
intentionality, 87, 94, 96, 103, 124, 128, 133, 134
labor, xv, 158, 159, 163, 165, 201, 211, 223
intentions, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 109, 126, 203
laboratory studies, 17, 18, 21, 22, 23
interactions, 7, 9, 11, 19, 20, 21, 22, 29, 42, 103,
labor-intensive, xv, 201, 211, 223
113, 144, 145, 147, 148, 151, 164, 173, 174, 175,
lack of control, 201
177, 238
land, 109
interdisciplinary, 90
landscapes, 36, 37
intermediaries, 131
language, 10, 28, 58, 131, 135, 197
internet, 244, 245
lattices, 95
interval, 204
laughter, 36
intervention, xiv, 103, 115, 116
leadership, 5
interviews, 3, 109, 157, 231, 234, 235, 236, 239,
leakage, 210
240, 242
learning, xii, 1, 5, 8, 24, 63, 65, 72, 81, 93, 96, 97,
intimacy, 8, 133
158
intrinsic, 8
Lebanon, 197
introspection, 165
lens, 104
intrusions, 26
lenses, xi
intuition, 186, 193, 223
lesions, 6, 18, 23
invasive, 234
liberation, 80, 81, 94, 99
invertebrates, 3
life changes, 58
investment, 8, 9
life experiences, 62, 105, 178
ions, 107
life sciences, 46
Iraq War, vi, xiv, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109,
life span, 8
110, 119
lifestyle, xiii, 10
Ireland, 109, 118
life-threatening, 104, 109
iron, 8
lifetime, xi, 58, 166, 234
isolation, 39, 116, 163
likelihood, 8, 19, 107, 108, 115, 130, 151, 221, 239
Italy, 214
limbic system, xiv, 7, 33, 40, 44, 56, 111, 113, 114,
186, 193
J limitations, 178, 243
linear, 103, 112, 115, 116
Japan, 21, 145 linguistic, 21
jaw, 57, 82 linkage, 186
Jordan, vi, 231 links, 18, 63
journalists, 188, 190 listening, 64, 116, 145
judges, 42, 201, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 216, loading, 241
218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 234 loans, 173
judgment, 216, 217 location, 6, 24, 40, 42, 194
Jung, 23, 24, 29, 37, 38, 41, 42, 46, 61, 185, 192, locus, 105, 127
193, 197 London, 28, 45, 47, 99, 214, 224, 225, 226, 227, 245
Jungian, xiii, 9, 17, 19, 22, 24, 41, 62, 129 long-distance, 226
justice, 178 longevity, 12, 6
juveniles, 8, 9 longitudinal study, 167
loss of control, 162
love, 78, 80, 128, 173, 174
K LSD, 36, 37
luminosity, 92
Kierkegaard, 103 lying, 18, 73, 75, 78, 88
killing, 105
Index 265
models, 7, 30, 46, 62, 103, 116, 197, 233

M modulation, 8, 38
momentum, 4
magical thinking, 228
money, 145
mainstream, 8, 91
mood, 7, 8, 9, 11, 111, 113, 166, 172, 179
maintenance, 119
morning, 7, 9, 27, 34, 43, 205, 214, 216, 217, 218,
males, 146, 147, 150, 151, 152, 177, 187, 188, 189
221
mammal, 38
morphology, 97
Mammalian, 12, 40
mortality, 117
mammals, 3, 4, 5, 8, 25
mothers, 4, 8, 9, 6, 9, 158, 159, 161
mapping, 130
motion sickness, 233, 235, 243
marijuana, 36
motivation, 92, 93, 98, 109
marine mammals, 5
motor activity, 30
market, 35, 41, 73, 231
motor skills, 46
maternal, 7, 9
motorcycles, 80
maturation, 5
mountains, 42
meanings, 7, 38, 61, 64, 90, 130
mouse, 233
measurement, 21, 144
movement, 2, 10, 3, 4, 5, 6, 9, 10, 29, 38, 46, 89, 90,
measures, 5, 22, 110, 112, 116, 206, 215, 219
91, 112, 129, 132, 176, 244
media, xv, 192, 231, 233, 243, 245
multidimensional, 125
medial prefrontal cortex, 6
multiplicity, 10, 94, 98, 124, 135
median, 20, 220
murder, 108
medication, 113, 115
muscle, 2, 3, 9, 58
medicine, 11, 12, 29, 30, 46, 89, 91
music, 36
meditation, 37, 88, 89, 91, 96, 97, 128, 233
mutual respect, 172
melatonin, 112
Myers-Briggs, 193
melt, 76
mystical experiences, 242
membership, 6
memory, xv, 1, 5, 6, 7, 23, 24, 27, 28, 29, 30, 35, 40,
44, 47, 56, 63, 65, 96, 111, 113, 114, 131, 184, N
198, 201, 203, 213, 232
men, xiv, 19, 21, 42, 77, 104, 107, 119, 143, 144, naming, 190, 192
145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 157, 158, narcolepsy, 112
161, 162, 163, 164, 166, 173, 175, 176, 231, 234 narratives, 25, 26, 39, 187
mental activity, 27 nation, 117
mental disorder, 117, 118 Native American, 91, 98, 135
mental health, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 115, natural disasters, 104
118, 119 natural environment, 185, 192
mental imagery, 21, 25, 27, 128 natural selection, 10
messages, 9 neck, 73, 74, 79
meta-analysis, 206, 221, 223 negative attitudes, 66, 231
metabolic, 2, 7, 35 negative emotions, 22, 34, 145, 149, 164, 165
metabolism, 12, 41 neonatal, 5, 7
metaphor, 3, 36, 94, 128, 130 neonate, 7, 21
metric, 206 nerve cells, 41
mice, 172 nervous system, 34, 186
middle-aged, 231 network, 18, 23, 26, 29
military, 75, 106, 107, 109, 110, 115, 117 networking, 4
mirror, 125, 128, 172, 177 neural connection, 44
miscarriages, 158, 159 neural network, 18, 23, 26, 40
missions, 9 neural tissue, 56
misunderstanding, 203 neuroanatomy, 29, 46
MIT, 10, 45, 179, 244, 245 neurobiology, 38
modeling, 27, 29 neurochemistry, 34, 37
266 Index
neuroimaging, 11, 29 paradoxical, 10, 41, 96, 106

neuronal circuits, 30, 128 parasympathetic, 97, 186
neurophysiology, 114 parenthood, 165
neuroplasticity, 128 parents, 8, 160, 163, 164, 165, 166
neuropsychology, 11, 12, 30, 116, 118 parietal lobe, 40
neuroscience, 28, 38, 46, 197 Parkinson, 112
neurotransmitter, 111, 112 participant observation, 3
neurotransmitters, 112, 115 passive, 9, 40, 94
New World, 99, 131 paternal, 162
newspapers, 109 pathways, 56
Nielsen, 20, 24, 26, 29, 30, 171, 179, 232, 233, 239, patients, 6, 8, 18, 23, 24, 29, 112, 117
245 patterning, 6, 39
nightmares, xii, xiii, xiv, 45, 65, 87, 88, 90, 103, 104, peer group, 5
108, 109, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 119, 158, perception, xiii, 29, 35, 88, 113, 116, 126, 184, 185,
159, 160, 164, 232, 233, 236, 245, 246 192, 195, 198, 201, 202, 219, 225, 226, 232
noise, 41, 47, 72, 218 perceptions, 36, 95
non-clinical, 5, 6 periodic, 7
nonlinear dynamics, 46 permeability, 128
nonparametric, 144 permit, 55, 94
nonverbal, 8 personal communication, 89
norepinephrine, 39, 112, 115 personal life, 215
normal, 24, 29, 111, 113, 114, 184, 222 personality characteristics, 179, 195
norms, 144, 145, 164, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, personality factors, 193, 195
177, 187, 231, 236, 238, 242 personality test, 193, 195
nose, 74 PET, 27, 30
novelty, 19, 28, 40, 105 pharmaceutical, 176
null hypothesis, 206, 209 pharmacological, 117
phenomenology, xiv, 8, 30, 91, 98, 129
phenotypes, 3
O philosophers, 88
philosophy, xv, 89, 232
objectivity, 4
phobia, 215
observations, 17, 105, 159, 160, 197, 224
phone, 81, 234
occipital lobe, 38, 40
phylogenetic, 3
occlusion, 18
phylogenetic tree, 3
old age, 22
physical abuse, 174
older adults, 151
physical activity, 35
olfactory receptor, 111
physical aggression, 22, 148, 151, 173, 236, 238
one dimension, 130
physical health, 179
online, 90, 109, 188, 244
physical world, 36, 42
operant conditioning, 65
physiological, 2, 25, 30, 112, 184, 186, 221
opposition, 196
physiology, 6, 7, 9, 29
oral, 88, 96, 98, 161
Piagetian, 128
organic, 58, 130
pilot study, 206, 215, 219, 228
organism, 35, 42, 128, 197
placental, 3, 4, 5
oscillations, 35
plants, 163
overload, 160
play, xv, 1, 5, 9, 4, 21, 29, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 44, 64,
oyster, 41
91, 105, 112, 131, 160, 186, 231, 232, 233, 234,
235, 238, 239, 240, 241, 242, 243, 244, 245, 246
P pleasure, 77, 78
politics, 18
pain, 110, 176 pond, 46, 81
panic attack, 109 pons, 38
Index 267
pools, 210, 222 psyche, 23, 42, 134, 185, 193

poor health, xii Psychoanalysis, 10, 129
population, xv, 1, 119, 171, 172, 176, 177, 178, 183, psychological connections, 184
184, 187, 188, 189, 190, 231 psychiatrist, xi, 89
porous, 56, 57, 123 psychological functions, 25
positive attitudes, 66, 204 psychological problems, 110
positive interactions, 7 psychological processes, 44, 157, 163, 184
positron, 29 psychological states, 179
positron emission tomography, 29 psychological stress, 160
postmortem, 119 psychologist, xi, 89, 166, 187
postpartum depression, 159, 167 psychology, xv, 11, 10, 30, 46, 82, 118, 119, 124,
posttraumatic stress, xiv, 45, 103, 104, 107, 117, 125, 129, 131, 132, 151, 179, 180, 187, 193, 197,
119, 179 227, 228, 243
posttraumatic stress disorder, xiv, 45, 103, 104, 117, psychopharmacology, 118
119, 179 psychophysiology, 30, 224
posture, 2 Psychosomatic, 167, 226
pouches, 4 psychotherapeutic, 116, 129
power, xi, xiv, 6, 8, 37, 64, 76, 77, 80, 98, 117, 123, psychotherapy, 4, 46, 61, 67, 82, 115, 116, 117, 119,
126, 131, 133, 135, 206, 224 124, 129
powers, 127, 236 PTSD, xiv, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110,
pragmatic, 131 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119
prayer, 126 public, xv, 3, 4, 5, 61, 90, 171, 178, 202
predators, 8 public awareness, 90
predictors, 106 pulse, 58
preference, 194, 235, 237 pumping, 76
prefrontal cortex, 6, 23, 40
pregnancy, xiv, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163,
164, 165, 166, 167 Q
pregnant women, xv, 157, 158, 159, 161, 164, 166,
Qualitative evaluation, 245
167
qualitative research, 234
prejudice, 9, 202
quanta, 45
preparedness, 163
quantum, 42, 43, 47, 71, 72, 80, 82
pressure, 9, 57, 63, 111, 158
questionnaire, 234
prevention, 118
quotas, 5
preventive, 116
primaries, 185, 192, 193
primary visual cortex, 23, 38, 40 R
primates, 2
prior knowledge, 215 race, 2, 9
pristine, 94 radio, 108
probability, xii, 104, 203, 204, 206 rain, 73, 74, 78, 79, 81
probe, 166 random, xv, xvi, 17, 38, 127, 165, 177, 185, 193, 208
problem solving, xiv, 25, 66, 87, 88, 161, 235 range, xiv, 6, 8, 34, 35, 37, 103, 104, 106, 145, 151,
procedural memory, 24 166, 178, 179, 206, 220, 242
production, 9 rape, 104, 105, 111, 113
professionalism, 4 rapid eye movement sleep, 2, 11, 27, 45
profit, 66 rat, 11, 81, 215
program, 55, 91, 95, 108, 132, 151, 222 ratings, 19, 205, 206, 209, 214, 216, 218
proliferation, 124 Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy, xi
protection, 163, 164 reactivity, 128
protein, 55 reading, 26, 63, 91, 180, 235
protocol, 56, 218, 222 real time, 207
PSI, 42
268 Index
reality, 4, 17, 34, 36, 40, 42, 43, 45, 80, 81, 88, 106, risk, 7, 8, 105, 106, 109, 115
124, 125, 131, 166, 232, 233, 244 rods, 185
REBT, xi, xii, xiii, xv role-playing, 235, 237
recall, xv, 1, 6, 20, 21, 25, 26, 27, 29, 39, 66, 111, rolling, 2, 43
112, 113, 165, 183, 184, 185, 188, 189, 190, 192, routines, 222
193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 203, 204, 209, 212, 217, rural, 6
219, 221, 222, 224, 239
recalling, 89
receptors, 110, 111, 185 S
recognition, 47, 92, 93, 162, 202, 214, 217, 227
sacred, 9, 126, 134
recollection, 77, 114, 124, 130
sadness, 22, 34, 36, 41, 145, 149, 151, 164, 235, 242
reconcile, 161
safety, 7, 57
reconciliation, xiii, 30, 33
sample, 20, 66, 145, 171, 175, 178, 187, 196, 202,
reconstruction, 135
203, 206, 212, 216, 219, 238
recovery, 6, 115, 118, 120, 210
sand, 39, 41
recurrence, xii, 115
sarcasm, 41
red light, 218
satisfaction, 106
reflection, 27, 62, 93, 124, 125, 127, 128, 129, 133,
savings, xiii
184, 232
schemas, 18
regular, 6, 66, 93, 114
schizophrenic patients, 29
regulation, 8, 40, 112, 113, 133, 232, 239, 242, 245
school, 3, 6, 20, 21, 24, 25, 93, 129, 187, 235, 245
rejection, 106, 109, 151, 163
scientific community, 88, 90
relationship, 4, 21, 22, 26, 39, 41, 55, 56, 57, 64, 65,
scientific knowledge, 43
126, 127, 132, 151, 159, 160, 162, 167, 172, 173,
scientific validity, 90
177, 179, 180, 187, 192, 193, 196, 221, 231, 233,
scores, 194, 206, 218, 239
235, 240, 241, 244, 246
scripts, 18
relativity, 83
seals, 4
relaxation, 65, 88, 108, 112, 116, 186
search, 12, 130, 180, 211
relevance, 61
searching, 94
reliability, 1, 10, 21
secret, 87, 98, 99
religion, 7, 93, 132
secular, 123, 125, 134
REM, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 17, 18, 19,
security, 214, 217, 219
20, 21, 23, 24, 27, 28, 29, 30, 33, 34, 35, 37, 38,
selective attention, 244
39, 40, 41, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 112, 114, 135, 153,
selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, 115
186, 197, 201, 204, 205, 209, 215, 221, 222, 225,
Self, 39, 46, 67, 76, 149, 197, 235, 237, 244
228
self-control, 18, 128
replication, 179, 209, 210, 211, 214, 215, 217, 219,
self-help, xiv, 61, 62, 66
220, 223, 224, 226, 227, 228, 244, 245
self-image, 88, 94, 128
representative samples, 1
self-observation, 29, 89
repression, 129
self-organizing, xiii, 33, 38, 46
reptiles, 3
self-reflection, 36, 40, 88, 96, 127, 133, 134
residential, 8
self-renewal, 127, 132
residues, 41
semantic, 114
resilience, 103, 106, 113, 116
sensations, 44, 56, 186, 193
resistance, 41
sensitivity, 172, 244
resolution, 129, 160, 213
sensorimotor cortex, 23
resources, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 6
sensory cortices, 23
respiratory rate, 186
sensory experience, 184
responsibilities, 107, 151
series, xv, 18, 19, 71, 99, 183, 184, 201, 205, 206,
responsiveness, xiii, 33
211, 213, 233, 234
retaliation, 106, 115
serotonin, 39, 111, 112, 115
rhythms, 35, 45
services, 106, 110, 115, 120
rigidity, 57
severity, 104, 106
Index 269
sex differences, 9, 24, 134, 152 spectrum, 94, 124, 184, 185, 193
sexual assaults, 109 speculation, xiii, 109, 192
sexuality, 148, 161, 163, 236 speech, 19, 35, 113, 128
shamanism, 8 speed, 186
shape, 7, 5, 56, 57, 58, 72, 81, 103, 113, 124 spheres, 123
shaping, 8 spiritual, xiv, 4, 6, 37, 64, 87, 88, 90, 93, 94, 95, 96,
sharing, 1, 9, 12, 6, 7, 8, 10, 91, 151, 165 97, 123, 124, 126, 127, 132, 133, 134, 240
shipping, 39 spirituality, 66, 90, 125
shocks, 215, 225 spontaneous abortion, 159
shoot, 240 sports, 172
short-term, 10 spouse, 163, 165
shoulder, 73 SRIs, 115
shoulders, 238 stability, xi, 22, 55, 56, 144
signaling, 7, 8, 9, 10, 215 stages, 3, 6, 7, 18, 20, 24, 43, 44, 55, 57, 62, 64, 112,
signals, 1, 7, 8, 9, 10, 24, 33, 41, 55, 112, 215, 218 128, 162, 163, 204
significance level, 146, 148 standards, 19, 36
signs, xiii, 2, 3, 4, 5, 9, 3, 237 stars, 95
similarity, 205 statistical analysis, 144
simulation, 22, 27, 233, 243, 244 statistics, 109, 144, 206
simulations, 18, 232 stereotypical, 233
sine, 222 stigma, 106, 109, 115, 243
sites, 6, 108, 125 stimulus, 3, 5, 29, 38, 113, 186, 218
skating, 7 stochastic, 33, 41, 46
skills, 6, 7, 21, 25, 28, 46, 58, 67, 82, 94, 96, 123, stochastic processes, 46
127, 129, 133, 134, 160, 232, 233, 241, 242, 243 stock, 35, 41
skin, 76, 186 stomach, 36
sleep, xi, xii, xv, xvi, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, storms, 7
12, 17, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, strain, 235
30, 33, 34, 35, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 43, 44, 45, 46, strategies, xiv, 1, 7, 65, 123, 124, 125, 129, 130, 133,
47, 65, 87, 92, 98, 99, 111, 112, 113, 114, 119, 134
125, 127, 129, 134, 135, 179, 186, 201, 204, 205, stream of consciousness, 29
209, 211, 215, 221, 222, 223, 224, 225, 232, 233, stress, xii, xiii, xiv, 45, 65, 103, 104, 105, 107, 108,
238, 241, 245 109, 110, 111, 113, 116, 117, 118, 119, 158, 160,
sleep disturbance, 111, 112 179, 232, 246
sleep stage, 2, 6 stress level, 113
sleep-wake cycle, 27 stressful events, 232
slow-wave, 11 stressors, 105, 106, 108, 110
smoking, 65 structural characteristics, 246
snakes, 172 structural defects, 159
social acceptance, 109 students, xiii, 21, 28, 66, 91, 92, 95, 144, 146, 151,
social construct, 107 152, 153, 179, 180, 209, 217
social context, 242 subgroups, 166
social environment, 7, 8, 9 subjective well-being, 114
social justice, 178 substance abuse, 109
social life, 9, 133 substances, 109
social problems, 117, 119 suburban, 6
socialization, 232 success rate, 206
socioeconomic background, 166 suffering, vii, xii, 134, 175, 177
sounds, 35, 66, 72, 73, 96 suicidal, 8, 109, 120
spatial, 243 suicidal ideation, 8, 109
specialization, 89 suicide, xi, 105, 107, 109, 118, 119
species, 1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10, 178, 179 suicide rate, 109, 118
specificity, 123 Sun, 203
270 Index
superiority, 217, 219 thresholds, 3, 4

supervisor, 77 Tibet, 92, 99
Surgery, 228 tides, 33, 34
surprise, 77, 81, 172 time periods, 216
survivors, 104, 117, 171, 179 timing, 38
susceptibility, 111, 116 tincture, 41
swelling, 57 tissue, 41, 56, 119, 159
symbolic, 56, 62, 96, 129, 130, 158, 159, 161, 163, title, 38
184, 186, 192, 193 tonic, 4
symbols, 17, 114, 163, 197 torture, xii, xiii, 176
sympathetic, 111, 163, 172, 186 tracking, 2, 109
symptomology, 104, 105, 106, 110, 115 tradition, 19, 37, 87, 88, 91, 92, 93, 94, 96, 98, 131
symptoms, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 110, 111, 113, traffic, 109, 123
115, 116, 162 training, xiv, 5, 37, 61, 62, 65, 88, 95, 106, 127
syndrome, 162 trajectory, 131
synthesis, 17, 19, 20, 21, 22, 24, 38, 45, 197 trans, 160
transcripts, 205, 208, 210, 213, 216
transfer, 223, 226, 237
T transformation, 9, 42, 82, 92, 94, 99, 127, 128, 157,
162, 164, 220
tactics, 108
transition, 6, 17, 43, 95, 161, 163, 165
Taoism, 96
transitions, 40, 44, 166
target number, 215
translation, 132, 239
target stimuli, 208
transparent, 38, 132
targets, 205, 207, 209, 212, 213, 215, 216, 217, 218,
trauma, 104, 105, 111, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118,
220, 222, 224, 227
119, 233
task conditions, 206
traumatic brain injury, 110
task performance, 219
traumatic events, 104, 105, 113, 114
TBI, 110
traumatic experiences, 103, 113, 116
teachers, 98
travel, 34, 38, 56
teenage girls, 187
trees, 42, 63, 145
teenagers, 21, 27, 146, 151
trial, 187, 188, 194, 195, 196, 204, 205, 212, 214,
teens, 22
216, 217, 218, 219, 222
teeth, 78
tribal, 1, 9, 10, 42
television viewing, 246
tribes, 9, 178
temperature, 2
tricyclic antidepressants, 115
Tennessee, 214
triggers, 63, 96, 111
tension, 105, 126
trust, 7, 116
territory, 94, 108
turnover, 6
test statistic, 206
turtles, 3
thalamus, 38
theft, 174
therapeutic approaches, 115 U
therapists, 5, 61, 62, 65, 66
therapy, xiv, 4, 8, 9, 45, 62, 66, 67, 115, 116, 117, undergraduate, 66, 217
124, 131, 135, 163, 197 unhappiness, 72
thinking, xiii, 8, 17, 18, 19, 25, 26, 29, 39, 65, 72, United States, v, xiii, 3, 4, 21, 22, 107, 108, 109,
76, 105, 106, 126, 128, 145, 165, 186, 193, 235, 118, 131, 145, 148, 151, 157, 164
240, 241 universe, 36, 43, 95, 126, 227
Thomson, xvi, 67 unpredictability, 35
threat, 105, 109, 111, 159, 163, 175, 177, 243, 244
threatening, 104, 109, 172
three-dimensional space, 244
threshold, 2, 186
Index 271
93, 95, 96, 97, 112, 114, 124, 125, 127, 128, 130,
V 132, 133, 135, 143, 150, 151, 152, 160, 165, 166,
171, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 183, 184, 186, 188,
vacuum, 42, 43
192, 194, 195, 196, 209, 212, 215, 216, 225, 231,
validation, 162, 195
232, 233, 234, 235, 239, 240, 241, 242, 243
validity, 90, 219, 220
walking, 26, 42, 145
values, 8, 123, 126, 194, 206, 220, 237
war, xiv, 89, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 110, 115,
vandalism, 174
116, 117, 118, 119, 120
variability, 194, 208
water, 39, 64, 73, 74, 79, 81, 158, 161, 162, 163, 226
variables, 153, 192, 195, 223, 228, 239, 240, 241,
weakness, 115
242, 244
wealth, 7
variance, 191
weapons, 145
variation, xv, 28, 183, 193
websites, 91, 124
vasomotor, 7
wellbeing, 8, 10, 114, 117, 179, 180
vegetation, 63
wholesale, 71
vein, 37, 41, 44
wild animals, 178
veterans, xiv, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110,
William James, 35
111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120
wine, 37
vibration, 39, 41
winter, 9, 63
victims, 104, 117, 145, 233
wisdom, xi, 8, 167
video clips, 216
wives, 162, 163
video games, 231, 233, 234, 246
women, xiv, 6, 19, 21, 29, 42, 73, 104, 105, 107,
Vietnam, xiv, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109,
119, 135, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150,
115, 117, 119, 120
151, 152, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164,
vignette, 119
165, 166, 167, 173, 175, 176, 187, 231, 234
village, 63
workers, 216
violence, 104, 106, 107, 237, 243
working memory, 29, 40
violent crime, 117
workplace, xii, 6
virtual reality (VR), 232, 244
World War, 105
visible, 132
worm, 8
vision, 36, 41, 46, 88, 125, 203
writing, 63, 88, 215
visual images, 41, 158, 233
visual perception, 113
visuospatial, 6, 21 Y
vocalizations, 8
voice, 41, 77, 78, 135 yawning, 2
voting, 227 yield, 5, 130, 206
vulnerability, 106, 114, 118 young adults, 1, 21, 28, 145, 146
waking, xi, xii, xiii, xiv, 3, 4, 9, 11, 6, 8, 17, 18, 19,

20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 34, 35,
36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 43, 45, 61, 63, 64, 65, 66, 89,

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PSYCHOLOGY RESEARCH PROGRESS

PERCHANCE TO DREAM: THE

Suicide and the Creative Arts

Suicide and the Creative Arts

Jung Today: Volume 1- Adulthood

Psychological Scientific Perspectives on Out of Body

Jung Today: Volume 2- Childhood and Adolescence

Psychology Research Yearbook, Volume 1

Psychology of Burnout: Predictors and Coping Mechanisms

Perchance to Dream: The Frontiers of Dream Psychology

PERCHANCE TO DREAM: THE

Nova Science Publishers, Inc.

NOTICE TO THE READER

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Krippner, Stanley, 1932-

Published by Nova Science Publishers, Inc.  New York

Chapter 8 Lucid Dreaming: History and Practice 97

For Albert Ellis, Ph.D.

A beloved and respected friend and colleague (S. K.)

Stanley Krippner and Debbie Joffe Ellis

THE EVOLUTION OF SLEEP AND DREAMS

Patrick McNamara and Paul Butler

Land-based, or Terrestrial Mammals

Summary of the Phylogeny of REM

REM SLEEP: WHAT WE KNOW AND DO NOT KNOW

Dreams as Costly Signals

THE EMERGENCE OF THE GRASSROOTS

GRASSROOTS DREAM APPRECIATION GROUPS

CULTURAL IMPLICATIONS OF DREAM GROUPS

Finally, just as people in therapy often dream of the process, so do dream-group

A NEUROCOGNITIVE THEORY OF DREAMING

LABORATORY STUDIES OF ADULTS

DEVELOPMENTAL STUDIES OF CHILDREN

STUDIES OF HOME-REPORTED ADULT DREAMS

MAKING A COGNITIVE APPROACH NEUROCOGNITIVE

DO DREAMS HAVE AN ADAPTIVE FUNCTION?

DAYLIFE, DREAMLIFE AND CHAOS THEORY

Allan Combs and Stanley Krippner

Edward Clarke & Oliver Wendell Holmes,

THE FABRIC OF EXPERIENCE, THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS

DAYLIFE AND NIGHTLIFE

THE PHANTASMAGORIC LIFE OF DREAMS

DREAMING STATES OF CONSCIOUSNESS

perform such rearrangements, as do some techniques of meditation and shamanic training

THE DREAMING BRAIN

DREAMING AND NEURAL SELF-ORGANIZATION

BRAIN IMAGING OF REM SLEEP

SUBTLE INFLUENCES IN CHAOTIC SYSTEMS

DREAMS AND PSI

DREAMS AND THE BODY

WORKING WITH A PERSON AND HIS DREAM

SK: Tell me your dream.

WORKING WITH DREAMS: A COGNITIVE-

Clara E. Hill and Aaron B. Rochlen

EVIDENCE FOR THE MODEL

USE YOUR DREAM TO BE THE WHOLE NEW PERSON

Do You Need Any Special Qualities or Characteristics or Proficiencies To

What Should You Picture as a “Whole New Person”?

1. Tell the Dream, or Play the Recording of the Dream

5. You Have Succeeded in Discovering What Is Deeper When There Is a Commonality

LUCID DREAMING: HISTORY AND PRACTICE

Alexandra David-Néel & Lama Yongden, 1967, p.13

(1976); and controversial anthropologist Carlos Castaneda‘s Journey to Ixtlan (1974)