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During meditation, fragrant balm from this text soothed my psyche and enlarged the sense of my destiny:

And I saw a new heaven and a new earth…the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. 

And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God. 

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

From the book of Revelation 21: 1 –5.

Only willingness is necessary to participate in this vision.

At 4:10 A. M., I awoke with this peaceful dream:

Deep peace permeates the entire universe, a living peace activated by decisions made by groups of women. No wars exist. No conflict of any dimension is tolerated. Beauty abounds, evidence of the Sacred Feminine. 

In Jungian psychology, this dream, a big one, originates from the collective unconscious. For some time after awakening, I savored its peace: It felt like crystalline gossamer webs, like the sheerest of patterned silks from the Orient, like winter’s peach-blues-white-skies at sunset.

Then, the peace disintegrated, and I felt the usual limits of my old body. Before I returned to sleep, I recorded the dream.

Lest anyone think that I have arrived, several hours later I awoke with another dream story in which I had slipped into my lethargy, indecisiveness, and lack of focus: the many faces of grief that roll around in my psyche like a bag of marbles inside a string bag.

Do know that the Dreamer can use anyone to transmit a big dream. It’s all for our learning.

August’s riot is underway: black-eyed susans with clusters of golden-blackness erupting from formal gardens, country roadsides, and cracks in pavements. Hearty, boisterous, the wildflowers appear like gossips, their petelled heads leaning toward one another, with occasional breezes disturbing the configurations. At intervals, snappish rainstorms pelt the flowers, affixed to thick hairy stems. With the sun’s reappearance, the resulting mishmash slowly diminishes, and the gossips resume their chatter, with even more verve.

With the advent of autumn, black-eyed susans lose their petals, their cone centers hardening with seeds, with promise of spring’s proliferation. Even their colors lend their gold to maples, aspens, and tulip trees; to waning sunlight outlining blackened limbs.

And another year passes. This has been a good one.

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