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At 6 A. M., I awoke with this uplifting dream:
It is evening. I stop by the recovery center and discover it vacated, in disorder: ashtrays filled with cigarette and cigar butts, food remnants spoiling on plates and bowls, magazines and silverware strewn on the floor, armchairs pulled from tables stained with water and carved initials, rain splatting window sills, damp carpet beginning to smell. On my own, I decide to clean up the place and locate a bucket, mops, rags, and cleaning agents near the kitchen. Not sure where everything goes, I’ll have to guess. Later, everything is in order. I’m proud of my work and return home.
Again, in the dream, energetic and strong, I find myself in the foyer of the recovery center; its depths prod me to the disorder therein, shadow material, of which I’m unaware: pride, anger, greed, and envy, in all its expressions; shadow material triggered by others. On my own, I remain largely content. Since no one is around to help with this Herculean task, it’s up to me to remedy this deplorable situation.
But my discovery of tools: a bucket, mops, rags, and cleaning agents, near the kitchen, evidence an invisible helper—Perhaps the kitchen’s fire that animates my labor. Strange that I seem to know what to tackle next and do so.
The resulting shine within the recovery center, a sacred place of healing,will greet its guests in the morrow. I’m proud of my work.
This blog’s contrast with “The Unsettling Dream” of a few days ago suggests my fickleness in fully embracing the gentle discipline of the arduous path opening before of me—More correction for which I’m grateful.
From a recent response to a blog emerged this metaphor from my psyche:
Death is its own signature.
Its strangeness, almost a non-fit, perplexes me. Death’s pervading presence in all of life, whether the decay of a summer bouquet of daisies or the fading of that favorite sweater, precipitates uneasiness. Yet, death plays into the removal of undesirable character defects and the growth of self-restraint and discernment.
Another kind of death, though, has its own finality, the ultimate one we all have to face: the wrenching loss of ourselves, a significant other, or pet. Such rips apart illusions and plunges us into unwanted experiences of grief and rebuilding. Without spiritual help, warped perspectives confound the jettisoned pieces of what remain and worsen the psychic pain.
So how does the word signature play into all of this as my psyche wishes me to look into this. Contracts of all stripes, artistic works, and inventions bear binding signatures. Of critical importance are the signatures of the medical examiner or primary physician on death certificates. As yet, mine has not been filled out, only stipulated in my end-of-life care.
I, too, have signed many contracts with my signature and honored all but two: those that kept me in the convent and later, in the marriage; from both, I received a dispensation, again executed by my signature.
Still another contract looms ahead—that with Death from which there will be no reprieve—his signature will cast me into the unknown. The closer my last day approaches, the more I love my life, just as it is. Writing this blog weights my heart as another day passes. But then again, to be relieved of my symptoms and experience wholeness of a different kind—That also appeals…
At 7:30 A. M., it was difficult waking from this celebratory dream:
I was initially alone, walking the country roads. Sunshine emboldened the trees, shrubs, meadows, even the dusty road curving ahead of me. After I turned the next bend, faint strains of guitars, rhythmic instruments, songs in all languages met me; the closer I got, the more distinct the strains. Then, a tall colorful character, dressed in scarlets and feathers blew a reed pipe, the breezes swirling the decorative ribbons attached to his wrists. Behind him, laughing children skipped and hopped making merry. As he approached other children sitting in the middle of the road, he handed them an instrument from his sack and invited them to join their celebration—a tambourine fell into mine and I began dancing with the others.
At length the celebratory dance concluded, with promises to return next year. My heart felt heavy.
It was a gift to remember this dream, given the racing effects of my nightly “Cocktail”: small amounts of liquid morphine to help with breathing and lorazepam, with sleep. For months, mornings have been a tumble of splintered dreams that quickly fade, only leaving a brief residue of feelings.
In this dream, I am ecstatic. The appearance of a tall colorful character, likely Creator God in disguise, seemed intent upon actualizing everyone’s birthright before making their transition. Conceivably, the laughing children have already attained theirs.
But sadness concludes the dream
Still another year must pass before I’m permitted to celebrate another celebration with the tall colorful character, dressed in scarlets and feathers—Perhaps, referencing my own demise, burdened by more practice of my tambourine.
But this glance into my psyche gives me hope. I’ll know where to find Him.
Heart Whisperings 