From the Workbook for The Interpretation of Dreams: Reflection on Symbology

Dear god, it’s another dream about houses. You have so many of them, usually back in in the first house you owned, the ranch-style you bought with a down payment from the tiny inheritance from your mother, the one that, after your divorce, you painted by yourself, every inch of the clapboard siding, dragging the extension ladder, forcing yourself up to lean against the eaves and scrape away the blistered, fading blue. At night you’d weep in the bathtub. In the morning, you’d climb the ladder and begin again, scraping, sanding, climbing down, climbing back up.
Sometimes you’re nowhere near home. Tornadoes are approaching while you’re trapped outdoors, racing to find some unlocked door, some cellar you seem to know about, three steps down and then everyone could slip in just before it’s too late; sometimes you’re shouting at strangers, telling them come, come this way but of course—of course!—they may not hear you over the roaring catastrophe. 
But now, you’re back in the tiny bathroom off the master bedroom. The drywall under the window is disintegrating, buckling, bubbling, all pustules and mud pots. You measure, prepare to rip the panel out but then you’re in the unfinished basement, under the mid-century wooden stairsteps, and—how did this ever pass inspection in the first place?—the wall’s a bulge of slathered Quickrete and papyrus. 
You loved that house, its southern exposure and the sliding door to the porch. Sometimes you dream you’ve sneaked back in, the new owners’ furniture arrayed around you. 
You breathe in, breathe out.  They will be home soon. Even now, you can hear the garage door opening, the combustion-purr of the engine as the car pulls in.