Rooms are read as parts of a life kept separate from each other, which is why finding one you did not know about is such a widely loved dream.
One version of this dream reappears constantly: you are in a home you know perfectly well, you open a door that has always been there, and behind it is a room you have never seen. People usually wake pleased rather than alarmed, and the traditional reading matches that mood. A room is taken to stand for a part of a life kept separate from the rest, so an unexpected one is read as capacity, an interest or a side of yourself that had been shut away rather than lost.
The reasoning is architectural. A dwelling divides its functions by wall: somewhere to sleep, somewhere to cook, somewhere to receive visitors, somewhere to put the things nobody looks at from one year to the next. Interpreters have used that division as a picture of how people keep the parts of their lives apart, and whichever room a dream begins in is generally treated as the part currently in use. Moving between rooms is read as moving between roles, which is why the image shows up so often during changes of job, household or country.
A childhood bedroom, a flat somebody moved out of years ago, a room belonging to a person no longer in touch: these arrive with a whole period attached and are read as that period rather than as furniture. A happy home and an unhappy one produce very different dreams from an identical floor plan, so what those particular walls meant to you comes before any general reading of rooms. Where a reference book and a memory disagree, the memory is the one doing the dreaming.


