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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.
“Hi, Liz, I’m here! Got a surprise for you!” the voice called from the front door. It was Alice, my hospice nurse. “Stay where you are. I just couldn’t resist!” she added, her speech lilting like a Scotch folk singer at a fair. My curiosity mounted as I heard a second pair of footsteps following hers moving through my bungalow. I finished my nebulizer treatment, then remained seated upon the kitchen stool, my eyes toward the window.
“Thought you’d enjoy these—Just clipped them this morning—From my Rose of Sharon tree, by the garage.” I smiled and turned around as she placed a plastic cup with four creamy pink blossoms and a cluster of splitting buds on the dining room table, the setting for my weekly check-ups. “And Sam’s with me, another student nurse who’ll graduate soon. You’re so good about letting our students evaluate you, especially with Covid. This batch hasn’t had much experience with patients—only with the Life/Form manikins.”
Both Alice and Sam, the student nurse, in masks and uniform blues, received my thanks as I studied the arrangement and prepared for the usual questions on my overall functioning. Again, not much new to report—Still plateaued upon my present weakness, shortness of breath, and exhaustion, until the next drop of my symptoms whenever that occurs; such has been my experience since the November 2019 hospice sign-up.
Besides Alice’s occasional gifts of flowers and colored leaves, I’ve also received her lightness of manner, sometimes verging upon hilarity that colors my trust in her expertise. When my time comes, I know I’ll be in skillful hands, related to her warm heart that knows deep things.
In the wake of spring rains irresistible puddles swell holes along woodland paths.
Eighteen-month-old Lily happened upon one, her rubbery legs encircling it with glee. Excitement mounted as the circles narrowed. Then, she paused at the puddle’s edge and jumped, water drenching her boots, her arms flailing at her sides. More circles followed with intervals of pausing and jumping. Instead of retreating to dry ground, she stooped over and rippled the water with a stick, stood up, then did it again. Her mother noted all of this beneath an oatmeal sky, and when Lily tired, gathered her in her arms and headed for home.
A simple story repeated around the world—it spoke of reckless abandon. Fearless, in full motion, focused, her senses totally engaged, Lily yipped with gusto—Certainly a desirable approach to new learning, when starting over.
And do we not start over with the gift of each day?
This prayer from The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous fires my attitude: We ask his protection and care with complete abandon.
Heart Whisperings 