Dream Weaver: Where I Began, Woven in Dreamlight

Lauren Nixon-Matney • May 26, 2025
Dream Weaver: Where I Began, Woven in Dreamlight

Gary Wright: Dreamweaver

Audio Book Style

Apparently, I was conceived to Dream Weaver by Gary Wright.

That’s a sentence I probably shouldn’t know.

And definitely shouldn’t be starting a story with.

But here we are.


I didn’t find out in a heartfelt, candlelit, parent-to-child moment of family origin stories. No. I found out the way most weird truths seem to land—in the middle of a movie I wasn’t supposed to be watching, with my mom sitting beside me on the couch, momentarily forgetting I was there.


The movie was Wayne’s World, and the scene—if you know, you know—is iconic. Wayne sees Cassandra for the first time. Time slows. Lights glow. The music fades from chaotic, glorious Ballroom Blitz to the twinkling, spacey opening of Dream Weaver. He’s stunned. Love-struck. Tongue-tied. And right as Gary Wright’s voice starts floating through the screen like a cosmic lullaby, my mom—out loud—goes:


“Oh! Lauren was conceived to this song at Camp Creek…”


Her eyes widened in horror.

Mine did, too—just for very different reasons.


Oh my god.

“Ew, Mom. Why would you tell me that?!”

I was like 8 maybe. Still just a kid. A very long way from understanding the beauty of that memory…and suddenly I had this weird, glittery song stapled to my conception story like a sticker I couldn’t peel off.


It stuck with me, though. That moment. That song.

At the time, it was just embarrassment.

But as I got older, Dream Weaver started showing up again—quietly, like background static. On the radio, in passing, in conversations. And always, always in that Wayne’s World scene—still one of my all-time favorites.


It never stopped being funny.

But it also stopped being just funny.


Because something strange happens when you grow up. The things that once embarrassed you—if they’re real enough, meaningful enough—they start to change shape. They soften. They shimmer. They start to feel like… part of you. Like home. Like truth.


And that’s what Dream Weaver became for me: this oddly perfect little metaphor for my beginning. For who I am. For how I see the world.

I mean—what better song to kick off a life like mine than a trippy, glitter-drenched synth ballad about love and soul travel?

It’s not just a slow jam. It’s a portal.


And maybe that’s the point.

Camp Creek.

That was the place.

The lake house. The night. The song.


According to my mom, it was John’s place—her friend with a cabin out by the water. Peaceful, private, stars overhead. She doesn’t talk about it in too much detail (thankfully), but I know enough to imagine the rest.

There was love. There was music. There was Dream Weaver. And out of that strange, ethereal mix—there was me.


I used to think it was weird. Now I think it’s kind of… beautiful.

Because what is love, really, if not a kind of dreamweaving? What is birth if not a bridge between realms? Two people, once strangers, collide in the wildness of this world—and from that collision, a whole universe forms. A tiny galaxy with eyes and bones and breath.


Me.


I didn’t understand the song when I was little.

It felt slow, sparkly, almost too floaty to hold onto.

But as I got older—especially after becoming a mother myself—I started to feel it.


Really feel it.


That kind of music doesn’t hit you all at once. It grows with you. It wraps around you like mist. It lingers. And then one day, you hear it—not with your ears, but with your whole body. Your whole being.


And that’s what it’s like now.

When I hear Dream Weaver, I don’t feel embarrassed anymore.

I feel grateful.

I feel… woven.


There’s a certain kind of softness in that realization. A reverence.

I think that’s what hits me most now—how rare and special it is to know the exact song playing when your life first sparked into motion. How rare it is to want to hold onto it.


My dad really liked Gary Wright’s The Dream Weaver album. I didn’t know that until later, but it feels right. It makes sense in a way I can’t fully explain. Maybe it was part of the soundtrack to who he was. Maybe it helped shape his quiet, poetic side. Maybe, in some strange way, it helped call me in.


There’s something cosmic about that.

Like my very first lullaby came wrapped in synth and stardust.


Now, when I hear Dream Weaver, I don’t roll my eyes.

I close them.

And I say thank you.


Because I’m here.

Because they loved each other.

Because they laughed and danced and made mistakes and made me.

Because somehow, that song is tied to my first flicker of existence.

And that’s not really gross, it’s kinda sacred.


And maybe that’s the real thread tying this all together—

this project, this song, this story, this life.


Because in so many ways, Searching for Stars is my version of Dream Weaver.

It’s my way of honoring the light that brought me here.

It’s the stories I’ve lived and the stories I carry.

It’s me weaving dreams of my own—thread by thread, star by star.


Maybe it started with that night at Camp Creek.

Maybe it started with that first synth chord floating through the cabin.

But it hasn’t stopped.

I’ve been dream-weaving ever since.


With my children.

With my memories.

With these words.

With love.


I used to flinch when that song came on.

Now, I let it play.

I let it wash over me like moonlight on water.


And when Gary Wright sings “Fly me high through the starry skies, maybe to an astral plane”

I think—

Yeah. That tracks.


Dream Weaver.



Apparently, that’s where I began.

Honestly? I get it now.

And I’m thankful. So, so thankful .

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