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At 4:30 A. M., I awoke with these depth-dreams:

There are no radios anymore. Instead, on everyone’s wrist is a digital device with a screen, programmed by those in power. No one needs to know anything else. However, the material is frequently modified resulting in generalized confusion.

I’m horrified, exhausted as I watch armed camps fighting each other: one is good; the other, evil. No one knows the outcome but the destruction is cataclysmic.

Both dreams come from the collective unconscious of the psyche, a discovery made by the Swiss psychiatrist, Carl G. Jung in the early twentieth century. Content from this depth has universal implications, differing from those found in the personal unconscious in which recognizable aspects drawn from daily living are pieced together in dreams.

The first dream has an Orwellian ambiance around it and suggests the ultimate of mind control, already foisted upon the global population for decades. Even now, it’s hard to get a clear sense of the news, shredded and Scotch-taped to larger stories, later reported by tieless newsreaders and those wearing shrink-wrapped dresses. It’s all about titillation, distraction, while sucking spirit dry.

The second dream about the war suggests the continuing deadly conflict, here on earth, between the Archangel Michael and the damned Lucifer as found in the compilations of the prophet Enoch, an ancient Hebrew apocalyptic text, Book One dating to 4 BCE.  In my lifetime, World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Bosnia, Rwanda, and Afghanistan reveal the flip side of this angelic deadly conflict; it continues with al-Qaeda and the war of Terrorism. In the dream, the outcome is uncertain.

Only the mystical dimensions of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam offer a response to such evil: compassion, per the research of Karen Armstrong, scholar.

At 7:25 A.M., I awoke with this disturbing dream:

I drive my car to the Visiting Nurses Association, a complex of many buildings, for my day of orientation. I discover Valet Parking at the main entrance, and an employee hands me a claim ticket in exchange for my keys. The day passes with new learning of my responsibilities. Then, I find my way to what I thought was the main entrance to pick up my car and return home. However, I am lost and no one is around to ask for help. I’ll have to walk. I’m angry as I finger my claim ticket.

In the dream I’m still healthy, still driving, still working, but that’s not what’s going on. It’s about my car, a symbol that used to carry my body from place to place. Having worked with the Visiting Nurses Association in the past, I deem it appropriate to return there to learn new interventions for my ailing lungs. I’m in control or so I think I am.

The employee with Valet Parking, perhaps God in disguise, welcomes me, and hands me a claim ticket in exchange for my keys. Still thinking I’m in control, I go about my business, to my satisfaction. Later, I look forward to an evening of relaxation as I seek the main entrance and the retrieval of my car. I’m lost, alone, with no one to help me, a condition that engulfs me when not in conscious contact with God. My anger mounts. All I have is the claim ticket for a new body/car to be received after my transition.

Reduced to walking for the present, I clutch the claim ticket. Anger burns in my psyche.  I grieve.

At 1:15 A.M., I awoke with this lovely dream:

Sunshine swelled four yellow rosebuds atop a barren hill, still captive to freezing rains. Sandaled toddlers crouched around the plants, tentatively touched the petals, and giggled.

As I recorded the dream by my nightstand, deep smiles warmed my psyche—evidence, within, that all is well, despite increasing symptoms of my terminal illness, despite deepening global confusion over vaccines, masking, spread of disease.

Sunshine, always an empowerment of Truth, makes clear the imprecise, reveals hidden shit-abysses, and warms chilled fingers and toes. Under its influence, every cell flushes with total well-being; flagging energies perk up like blustery winds snapping sails of frigates.

The yellow color of the rosebuds suggests joy, illumination, dissemination, intuition, intellect, and magnanimity and further weights the image of the rosebuds with Sacred significance.

The four rosebuds also speak of quaternity or ultimate wholeness: it establishes an indelible presence to counter our politically divided world, the barren hill in the dream, tangled within social media—as does Dante’s White Rose symbolize the concentric spheres of The Paradiso (1320), among the fractious Guelph and Ghibelline parties in Italy.

And of course, toddlers, the lowly of heart of any age, are drawn to such play. They know how to pause and wonder, having found comparable images within.

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