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The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the handiwork of his hands.
Psalm 19: 1
At 6:40 A.M., I awoke with this hilarious dream:
I’m visiting a new friend in Rome, Italy, the October morning shadowing our steps toward the square thronged with shoppers. We buy food, then climb aboard her double-seated Vesta and set off for the day—a new experience for me.
In no time, we’re roaring down country roads, my friend’s thick blond hair snaking around her red helmet, the same color as her Vesta. Her heavyset body sways with the turns of the dirt roads, and I with her, holding her girth between my arms. Merriment exudes from her spirit like splashing spring waters. My mouth aches from laughter.
Beneath ancient water chestnut trees near an abandoned farm, we stop. The hilarity continues as she tears apart baguettes, then offers me Brie cheese, with red grapes and wine. Even the ravens, strut in tall grasses nearby.
The dream’s setting, Rome, Italy, suggested the center of Christianity into which I was initially enculturated until directed to search deeper for the Cosmic Christ in all of creation. Dire compliance of the rules and regulations no longer drew fire.
October morning spoke of bright aging filled with even deeper opportunities for learning prior to my transition.
The new friend revealed Precious God, disguised as a swarthy French laborer, intent upon opening me to the laughter of living: She smelled of earth. She swept the floors of my closed mind and threw open its grimy windows to another world, the one that awaits me. No longer was it appropriate to grieve my diminishment—just watch it happen and let it go. To strengthen my resolve, she also offered me communion. And she’s still in the driver’s seat.
Composing this blog still evokes laughter …
At 6 A.M., I was gentled awake with two inspiring dreams:
A wintry afternoon, its chill tempered by the sun’s warmth, I happen to meet my friend Pat Coughlin. Others joined us for and hugs and stimulating conversation.
A sumptuous banquet honored the Superior General of the Society of the Heart in a large dining room that opened out onto the deck. Hundreds enjoyed gourmet entrees and choice wines, seated around tables with white-starched linens and centerpieces of white roses and trailing ivy. Lively music supported the camaraderie, despite the Superior General’s inability to speak English. I was responsible for all the arrangements.
Deep joy suffused recall of these dreams, again revealing wholeness in my psyche. In both, I was fully present to the experience—No hiding out in defense mechanisms. I was alive and well.
The second dream places me in a servant ‘s role as I tended the needs of the Superior General and her community of which I had been a member for seventeen years. Gone are all my resentments toward them, after decades of seeking their removal—evidence of Higher Power doing for me what I cannot do for myself.
The fruit of dream work continues lightening my experience of old age with its limits. I’m grateful …
Heart Whisperings 