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At 3 A.M., I awoke to this surprising dream:
It is night. Ellen Sheire, my former Jungian analyst, invited me to join a conference in a foreign city, attended by the most evolved individuals in the world. Dialogue, not discussion, would be the manner of discourse to address seemingly insoluble problems.
In the dream, the night suggests the waning of time and opportunity for change, an apt stricture that surrounds me as I move through each twenty-four hours, homebound. Yet, fresh learning continues seeping through my dreams, my prayer and meditation, and dialogue with my CPA sponsor.
I do not see Ellen Sheire, my former Jungian analyst, in reality, a Zurich-trained practitioner in Vienna, Austria, and in St. Louis, Missouri, now retired, but her invitation in the dream intrigues me. During my work with her in the 1990s, she had urged me to join Jungian tours to prehistoric Sacred places in Europe and to delve onto their mythologies. In this morning’s dream, there’s another such invitation and I’m eager to participate.
The foreign city suggests a place of unfamiliarity with the history and terrain, strangeness of customs, confusion of languages; its advanced technology replete with untried paradigms.
I am alone as I listen to the expertise of the conferees surrounding me. From within fruitful silence emerges fresh ways of considering what it means to be a person in relationship.
Despite the novelty of expression, the primacy of love remains critical.
I still have much to learn, and my inner teachers are enthusiastic for my new willingness. It is still night—No signs of dawn and cessation.
At 4:30 A.M., I awoke with this dream:
I’ve been invited to the University of Dublin to lecture on my favorite poet. Many students crowd the conference room. I’m surprised by their interest as my grasp of the subject matter is thin. I don’t even mention the name of the poet. Some take notes.
This curious dream is the first after weeks of waking with pieces of them, resembling Campbell’s Alphabet Soup: none made sense. A new medication seems to be messing with my REM or fifth sleep cycle from which dream stories emerge. This one has a bit of story.
My psyche places me on the campus of the University of Dublin, keen on academic research and innovation since its 1592 foundation by Queen Elizabeth I. Such a venue places me at the cusp of new learning, the challenge of each twenty-four hours allotted me before my transition. Never have I been so enthusiastic about learning. The setting also recalls my Irish roots, steeped in hardship.
For some reason, my favorite poet suggests my inner poet, undeveloped and left alone, a task perceived as too daunting whenever I did review journals of poetry. Classes did not light my fire. Yet, she is there, despite not knowing her true name, and I’ve an appreciative audience.
That my presentation feels thin suggests my rush to assimilate fresh materials rather than to relish them, to allow them root-room to grow and become something else, then, to share with others.
All the more important to trust this process, already well underway. My Teacher knows what I really need. It’s about surrendering.
At 7 A.M., noise from a workman’s truck near my home roused me to this dream:
I’ve been hired to manage a large estate in the United Kingdom. I am well, my present age. Two white-haired bachelor brothers live there. I’m attracted to one of them. Later, I’m driving on the wrong side of the road and someone corrects me. I make the change.
My inner world appears busy, charged with managing a large estate that reeks of entitlement, privilege. Such were the imprints from my beginnings that sheltered me from the life’s hardships, and because of which, I did not develop in many areas. Relationships limped, at best.
In the dream, I am well, my present age—Perhaps a glimpse of what is to come: energetic, willingness to help others, compassionate, at least I hope so, since lifelong breathing issues have compromised such involvement. It heartens me to know that my present body, afflicted with chronic illness and pain, will have its last breath, “in the twinkling of an eye…” (I Cor 15: 52) and will change.
My attraction to one of the white-haired bachelor brothers speaks of my instinctive need for an intimate companion, still active in my psyche. Perhaps in the life to come, this need will be fulfilled in the vision of the Holy, already glimpsed in prayer—Such bliss serves as windows opening onto the Eternal.
In the meantime, I’m glad to know that someone is around the corner to correct my driving on the wrong side of the road, monstrous psychic snags I still create, especially when noting further diminishment of my body. This is working out …
Heart Whisperings 