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The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the handiwork of his hands.
Psalm 19: 1
I jolted awake around 3:30 A.M. with this dream:
Word had gotten around that I was actually dying. My doorbell rang. My phone rang. Others knocked on the opened front door and came in and made their way to my bedroom, already filled with others paying their last respects. I’m sitting up in my full bed, unsupported, wearing a T-shirt, my forearms resting on the covers. Shortness of breath prevents me from speaking clearly. My words are muddled.
This startling dream gave me considerable pause: the ravages of death in my body, witnessed by others. Other dreams have suggested end-of-life issues, each with its own lesson, but none this specific.
My first response to this morning’s dream was repulsion toward the crowds filling my bungalow and their raucous noise. Seated atop my full bed, however, you would never have known: I was all smiles and gratitude toward my well-wishers, despite shortness of breath and muddled words.
I’ve always envisioned my serene passing like a beam of sunlight slowly opening onto vistas of Quiet Beauty.
Yet, no indications of physical death appear imminent today. In view of my recent shift—letting death have its will in my body, when and how it will—this morning’s dream seems more of a call for a deeper stillness in my psyche, for a more mindful maintenance of my boundaries in the daylight world, and for communion with each remaining life breath in the time allotted me.
My gratitude for the opportunity to prepare for the greatest experience of this life knows no bounds—to enflower it with full-blown white roses that never fade.
My watching and waiting and praying continue, not without yearning for stillness, often elusive as butterflies nipping on October’s goldenrod by rocky coastlines at Gloucester. I know in my depths when gifted by this surcease: it feels like ribboned streams ballooning vibrancy within every pore, such that colors glint, textures intrigue, harmonies thrill, sweetness grins, and aromas titillate.
Indeed, something like the wordless swirl of Creator-Love enlivens my core, primes my attention, and inundates me within silence’s song.
But within my psyche also lies discordant voices that seduce, insinuate, cajole, that clamor¾activated by subtle or monstrous fears that rip asunder my islands of stillness. In their wake floods the illusion of being trapped in sticky shades, sort of stuck upon myself like flypaper, helpless. But it is only an illusion, and just that. It does pass.
Another Power, when humbly accessed, releases such madness and restores the longed-for intimacy, heaven’s foretaste, even now that inspires my arduous path toward the next life.
Heart Whisperings 