This dream dates from the Vietnam War era, but I have decided to post it now:
I am walking on a dim, gray plain. At first, I am alone. Then, I begin to make out shapes in the misty distance to my left and right. Gradually, the shapes get a little closer, and I can make out human forms. Other men are walking on this plain! More dim figures appear beyond the first two, and it slowly becomes apparent that we are converging from every direction towards a central point. We are all very fearful and suspicious of each other. Who are these strange figures, and what do they want? With each step, in spite of our fear and distrust, we are moving closer to one another, and eventually it is evident that we form an enormous and widely spaced circle, the opposite side of which is almost lost in the mist. We are converging on an ancient temple at the center of the circle. The temple is small and simple in form: a ring of simple stone columns sits upon a raised, circular stone floor, encircled by two or three concentric stone steps. The columns support a simple, somewhat flattened dome of stone. Worn and weathered, it looks like it has stood there since time began. Still quite suspicious of one another, but attracted to the temple, we cannot help but get closer to each other as we approach our goal. Eventually, we are a solid ring of humans, shoulder to shoulder around the ancient structure. We stay like this for a long time, and then the temple is gone, replaced by the circle of humans. The circle of humans has become the temple. The scene switches to a formal reception at the U.N. We are well-dressed representatives of every nation on earth, gathered to celebrate an historic accomplishment. World Peace has been achieved, and the mood is excellent.
dream departure
I am walking with Betty in a primitive village with dirt lanes, and thatched houses of unpeeled poles and rough boards. We are talking in a small, shady, quiet earthen square in the center of the village. As we approach some old stone steps in the square, I am overcome with deep sorrow. I begin to tell her that my loneliness and lifetime of longing for my mate have reached the point of being unbearable, but the feeling is so intense I can’t put the words together. I know I can’t live this way any more, and slump, exhausted on the stone steps, crushed by a sense of hopelessness.
Betty has wandered some distance away, and returns with a pretty, younger Native American woman from the village who has something to show me. Smiling, the woman extends her hands to me. Her right hand grasps my left wrist, drawing me closer, as her left hand places something repulsive in my right. It is a squirming, flat, hairy triangular creature with little ciliated feet on each end of the triangle’s short side. It is wiggling and looks like it is built to suck blood, like some kind of land leech. I don’t want to hold it, but take it anyway, not wanting to appear cowardly in the sight of the village woman who is brightly, enthusiastically proffering the disgusting creature.
She asks what it is, and I say it is clearly some kind of horse parasite, since I have seen horses nearby. I am looking for a way to kill it when I feel a sharp sting in my right heel. Looking down, I see 2 little metal darts, like pins, each with a small feather attached. The thought flickers across my awareness that the heel is a curious place to be attacked. I know they are blow darts, and wonder if some drug or poison is already in my bloodstream. Then, I see a dark, coarse-robed figure aiming the blow gun at me again, from under the dirt street somehow, as if the street has become a web of tree branches underfoot, and my attacker is below the ground. Before the strangeness of this setup can even register, I feel the sharp stings of several more darts, and feel intense fear.
It is then that I see the Shaman, a dark, smallish figure, perhaps the same one who attacked me, standing next to a repulsive, viscous, breathing, talking pit in the earth which looks as if it is filled with organs, membranes and guts. It is a disgusting and terrifying sight. Before I have even a moment to take it in, a voice from the heaving pit asks me, “Do I have your permission to kill you?” I know it is actually the Shaman talking. I counter with my own question, “Is this a way to know who I am?” He says simply, “Yes.” I say, “Yes, then, although I know it will be rough, and I am afraid, Yes!”
I know I am going to have to enter that suffocating, disgusting pit, the entrails of the earth as it were, and endure a terrifying ordeal which my personality will not survive. I also know this is exactly what I have been searching for. I am awakened by the fear of personal annihilation.
I am house-sitting with M, a wealthy, cynical friend. We are looking at a wall-sized screen filled with a map. There is a problem with the computer. The cursor does not travel freely, but gets stuck in a confined area and degrades the pixels with every attempt to move, turning them brown. It is frustrating, because I am trying to show him something, and cannot.
Parked across the street is a large flatbed truck with a load of tanbark. The bed has no sides, and I wonder how the loose material survived the trip. The pile isn’t very deep, and in the middle, sitting on top, there is a large, weathered round of wood, like a slice of a tree trunk. It looks very heavy, but when I grab it and lift it, it’s not too bad. I take the round back across the street, and drop it by the trash area, which is underground, figuring I’ll find a place for it later. I notice the hinges on the trash pit lid are badly designed, and think it’s going to be hard to keep it covered neatly. M is very impatient & cuts his fingers on glass two different times in two different ways.
We walk over to the house across the street. As we pass the carport, I say, “This house sitting could become a way of life!” M doesn’t answer. People are arriving, looking bright and colorful, and it’s clear a party is beginning. I am thinking I’d rather go back & fix the computer. As I enter the place, I notice it’s already filling up. Everybody looks younger, and I worry I won’t fit in or enjoy myself. I put on a grimy old silver down coat & wonder why I would pick such an item to wear walking into a party.
I walk down a hall & into a dimly lit room where several women are lounging. The atmosphere is very relaxed and a quiet conversation is going on. Not wanting to bother anyone, I am just about to walk on through to the next room when I hear my name used in a sentence, something like, “It looks like Gary doesn’t want to talk to us.” It sounds like a gentle, teasing accusation, and I stop to see what’s going on. Who is talking about me?
A zoftig blonde in flowing clothing of subdued colors is reclining on the bed. She motions me to lie down with her. Her looks remind me of Lucia, but her energy is sacred; more than human. She draws me in very close to her, more by personal magnetism than physical touch. She invites me right into her embrace. She begins talking to me, her lips brushing mine as she speaks, we are so close. I say, “Wait a second, I am getting a direct transmission from deep inside of you.” What I mean is that the way I feel just being with her is telling me more than any combination of words she could possibly speak. This feeling is Divine Love. I feel so safe and fulfilled. This sacred version of Lucia is telling me I can have all I have dreamed of, meaning Sanctuary, and a clear vision, not to mention love.
Overwhelmed with gratitude, tears spring into my eyes. I tell her I don’t think M could handle this, but I can. By this, I mean you can’t receive Divine Love unmoved, without showing how you feel. I am very capable of showing my feelings. Lucia says warmly, “Well, you don’t want to work (as in kill yourself for money), do you?” Synchronizing my fluttering heart and ragged breathing to her calm, cool being, I think, “No, I only want to live, love, create and meditate in Sanctuary.” Everything about her is telling me this will come to pass. What I manage to say is, “I never get to see you!”.
She says, “I know. Let me slip my hand under your mind & see if I got what I came here for.” There is something erotic about this spiritual connection. I briefly imagine other possibilities for the situation, but it is not so much sexual as simply peaceful. The masculine & feminine are resting deeply together, and it is good. After waking up, I decide to call her Santa Lucia, since her human counterpart was born in Big Sur, and reflect that Lucia means Light.
In a drab little office suite, two guys who run a college art program are complaining to me. They say their department has been pretty uninspired for quite some time now, and they’re wondering how to reinvigorate their program. I find the question exciting, and say, “Here’s what you do: Get a grant to travel and study other art programs. Pick the top ten departments that interest you, and go get paid to find out what they are doing!
They seem to like the idea, and one guy says he really ought to revive his own personal practice, and do at least a drawing a day, so as to appear credible when meeting the pros. I agree, and suddenly have an idea which feels even more exciting. I say, “And while you’re at it, why not examine the originality vacuum in student art?” They don’t see my point right away, and ask me to explain my meaning. I say I’ve always observed that most student work is derivative or trendy, as if they are copying something they saw which they think is cool. Why don’t we find out why students aren’t doing their own work, and what can be done to encourage originality? My idea is that if they could do this, their department would be hot.
I am walking on a country road, with my father a short distance behind me and my brother a little ahead. On the right, I see a tree which quickly becomes an overwhelming vision. Its leaves are large and thick; a glossy dark green, and its sinuous white trunk and branches gleam with an almost supernatural light against a sky of profound blue. I note that I haven’t seen the sky so blue, the light so compelling, or breathed air so fresh, sweet and crystal clear in what feels like ages. In the center of the tree, a number of slim branches shoot straight up, and their leaves are a bright golden yellow, as if presaging autumn. They resemble a bright beam pointing straight up against the solid blue. I am struck through with the transcendent beauty of the scene, and call out, first to my father and then to my brother, needing them to notice, needing to share this moment with them, but they do not seem to hear me. They do not answer, appearing lost in their own perspectives. I am alone with this vision. A short distance ahead, I see another such tree.
I am visiting a beautiful and unusual family home, having a great time with several very intelligent pre-teen kids, when I get a telepathic “phone call” from their parents, whose house this is. The parents have some very helpful information for me regarding my search for a true home. The Dad mentions some far-flung locations, among them Greece, and I realize I would go to the ends of the earth for the right situation. Apparently, there are people who are looking for the right kind of person to take care of some pretty wonderful spots, naturally sacred and powerful places like canyons, waterfalls, springs, vales, arroyos, and the like. There is the sudden insight that this could happen easily, and sooner than I imagined. I reply that I am looking for that one-in-a-million place, and he says, “Good.”
The children and I are standing in front of a long dark glass wall during this conversation. Romantic music is emanating from behind the wall, and dim, colored forms shift vaguely in its reflective surface. I exclaim, “What wonderful music!” One of the little boys (there are 2 boys and a girl, I think) says it’s too fuddy-duddy. I say he’ll understand when he’s older. He doesn’t think so, and I say, “Just remember I said that!”
Then Mom and Dad come home. They are a handsome, well-dressed couple in the prime of life. I know them; we have met before in this dimension. I feel that they are guides of mine. I am sitting in a big, deep easy chair, and they bring in an armful of folded maps, handing them to me. I skip the first two as they don’t seem immediately relevant, then notice the third one is marked “Loma Prieta,” in big hand-printing.
The kids are playing with me. A boy’s voice is coming from a high tech chair facing me, but I can’t see him. He is actually around the corner out of sight, projected by technology. A lot of information is coming, and I am getting flustered and overwhelmed by my great good fortune. I have never before been so open to wonderful possibilities, and it isn’t easy to keep my balance. The other brother says, “Oh, Gary, just let go!”
I am hanging out quite comfortably with my father, enjoying some friendly moments, when I recall that he is dead, and therefore I am dreaming. I find it fascinating that his presence is so undeniably real. This is my Daddy, for sure. Affectionately, I reach out and put my arm around his back. I then turn to face him saying, “Daddy, we are here together, and I am looking right into your eyes. Do you know that you are dead?”
I had thought to learn something of the Spirit World. By his reaction, I can see my question has reached him somewhat abstractly, as if it’s a little unsettling or distracting, but doesn’t mean to him what it means to me. It is as if he hadn’t quite thought of it in that way. He says nothing, but as if in answer, he leads me down a small dingy hallway into a cluttered storage room, and rummages among a jumble of dusty objects on a table, extracting a tray which he hands to me.
On the tray lie the breathtakingly fragile remains of his parents; two tiny skeletons reduced to miniature size by the intense heat of the crematory kiln. They are so fragile that I fear they could crumble to dust or blow away if I breathe on them, yet he hands me the tray with a brusque, almost careless gesture which only underscores the terrible delicacy of its contents.
I recall that his mother died when he was barely a man, while his father died much later, when he was middle-aged, so the sight of them lying together here underscores that we are in another dimension where time and space behave differently. I have a wide-ranging reaction to his offering, including strong fear, yet somehow fear is not the main thing here. I hold the tray for some moments, saying, “Pretty scary, huh?” He doesn’t offer to take it back, so I carefully replace it on the table as he walks off into the shadows.
Preface: I haven’t posted many dreams in the second half of 2006 so far, for these reasons:
1. I have been undergoing a most thorough process of personal transformation, and have had all I can handle just making it through my demanding work week. The good news is this particular job will end soon, and new, greener horizons are calling. I am beginning to see the results of a lot of hard work.
2. My dreams have been changing. It’s not that I don’t remember them, but I am getting adjusted to dealing with the new material, a substantial percentage of which has been pretty alarming, and the remainder of which is pretty slippery and elusive. But don’t worry, dear readers, I am in better shape than ever before.
But, no more excuses. Dream Departure is back:
I am visiting a farm which feels like a garden. It is huge and immaculately tended. No livestock here, only plants, an amazing variety of beautiful, vigorous plants. The energy of health and harmony vibrates through the surroundings. I can feel this energy in my cells, as my physical and psychic systems respond to this wonderful environment. It seems natural and unsurprising that I float upward, as if the redolent atmosphere has become my bed and transport. I am awash in heavenly music.
Then, I am getting ready to attend a big party. Usually, I am a stay-at-home kind of guy, but I am really looking forward to this event. I pass a large mirror in the hall on the way out, and get a glimpse of my costume: My outfit is solid gold. I look like a Sun King.
Normally, I don’t like to call attention to myself, but I am really looking forward to appearing in this eye-grabbing getup. On the way in to the party, everyone is passing an espresso stand and ordering coffee. Soon, it is my turn, and I reflect that I don’t need the buzz: I am already plenty awake and feeling fine. I decide to order, anyway, as everyone else is doing it. This becomes a problem, as the method of ordering is to speak into a screen, in answer to a little voice. I can’t understand the instructions, and ask for them to be repeated. Now, I don’t feel so perfect, but I am not going to let this stop me.
Then, I am standing before a large picture window, which looks rather like an aquarium, even though there is air, not water, on the other side. A most peculiar and funny little man swims up and sings a very entertaining song about a whale. His voice is deep for one so small. I marvel at his humor, inventiveness and spontaneity. Eventually, I feel compelled to ask him how he does it. Almost immediately, I feel embarrassed, and apologize for asking. Enjoying creativity is more important than explaining it.
Then, I am in a field and a lion appears. The lion is rampant, standing on his hind legs like a human. He faces me and gazes into my eyes, as his long, improbably soft and wavy mane floats on the slight breeze in the brilliant sunlight. I am struck to the core with the majesty of this vision, also aware of the danger of being so near to a lion. It occurs to me to thank the lion for his recognition, and I do so, but the lion keeps on coming closer. I am afraid, and wake up.
I am in an unknown city and need to get home, so I rent a car and start driving at twilight, feeling somewhat urgent and pressured. I miss a turn, but am still sure of the general direction, so I set out across a rural area trying to reconnect with the highway. The road is just a narrow dirt lane, and darkness is falling as I approach some country houses. There is a lapse of time & consciousness, and I awaken in the car at dawn, with first light spreading across the sky. It seems that the road came to a dead end between a house & barn, and I have slept in the car, which is now pointed back the way I came. I start driving again. All sense of urgency is gone, and I don’t care if I have to pay for more time on the car. I am going to take my time and be where I am.
I am spending some time with a spiritually awakened family at their home in the mountains, aware that I am dreaming. After a lengthy visit, with several scenes, I “wake up” in the dream to find I am still at their house! It is high in the mountains, and there is still a little snow at this time of year. The air is wonderful; cool, crisp and full of oxygen. I think I could come to love this climate.
I can’t get over my amazement about waking up and still being in the place of the dream. I say to the man of the house, “Last night, I dreamed I was here with you, and this morning, I woke up here!” My attempt to engage him in conversation fails. I try again and he ignores me. I persist, and he says, “Forget about it.” I insist on the question, and he finally says something which indicates that I ought to be less focused on my amazement and more focused on being here. He seems a little impatient with me. I immediately break off my questioning, embarrassed that I forgot again, saying something like, “Of course!” As if to counterbalance his abruptness, the woman gives me a sweet smile and says, “This is a very high place.” I know she has used “High” in the metaphysical sense, like exalted.
I look out at the view, and it is indeed high in the physical sense as well, right up in some mountain peaks. I am startled to see blue and red rocks dotting the white snow, then see they are part of an american flag design that encompasses the nearby cirque. I find myself wishing the landscape could have been left alone, as I am not proud of my country’s behavior these days, and I marvel that this house of spirit exists so near to the patriotic imagery.
Then, feeling ready to go home, I am attempting to round up my stuff when I discover another amazement: In a VW bus outside, there are things of mine from another time. I have been here before! I am thinking I am very far from home, and wondering how I will get back. (I am completely sure that I am awake somewhere in the Rocky Mountains.) It occurs to me that, if I ask, maybe God will help me, and at that instant, I wake up in my bed at home: The simple act of awakening now feels miraculous.