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At 4:30 A.M., I awoke with this dream:
I’ve been invited to the University of Dublin to lecture on my favorite poet. Many students crowd the conference room. I’m surprised by their interest as my grasp of the subject matter is thin. I don’t even mention the name of the poet. Some take notes.
This curious dream is the first after weeks of waking with pieces of them, resembling Campbell’s Alphabet Soup: none made sense. A new medication seems to be messing with my REM or fifth sleep cycle from which dream stories emerge. This one has a bit of story.
My psyche places me on the campus of the University of Dublin, keen on academic research and innovation since its 1592 foundation by Queen Elizabeth I. Such a venue places me at the cusp of new learning, the challenge of each twenty-four hours allotted me before my transition. Never have I been so enthusiastic about learning. The setting also recalls my Irish roots, steeped in hardship.
For some reason, my favorite poet suggests my inner poet, undeveloped and left alone, a task perceived as too daunting whenever I did review journals of poetry. Classes did not light my fire. Yet, she is there, despite not knowing her true name, and I’ve an appreciative audience.
That my presentation feels thin suggests my rush to assimilate fresh materials rather than to relish them, to allow them root-room to grow and become something else, then, to share with others.
All the more important to trust this process, already well underway. My Teacher knows what I really need. It’s about surrendering.
At 1:15 A.M., I awoke with this spirited dream:
Alone and in full health, I’m traveling through the Middle East. As I approach the outskirts of a dusty village, an old man with a serene countenance approaches me. On his forearm he carries something colorful. He tells me of tonight’s festival in the square with the fountain; then, invites me to come—Even has a long dress for me to wear so I’ll fit in with everyone.
Later as I stand before the mirror in my hotel room, I discover that the long dress with scoop neck and short sleeves fits perfectly; its hem stitched with tiny brass bells jingle with my movements. I smooth my hand over the coarse fabric, then trace my finger around swirls of vibrant reds, whites, blacks, and turquoises. My shell jewelry and sandals complement my new dress.
That evening, I walk to the square and join the dancing, already underway. Laughter tickles every cell in my body.
This dream speaks of wholeness, adventure, and relationship: wholeness in my robust health; adventure in the exploration of unknown worlds; and relationship in my socialization with others. Introducing me to such experiences is an old man who seems to have been watching for my arrival. He knows what I need for further spiritual maturation: dancing, in the sense of deeper communion with Higher Power, on my way through end time.
He also knows my need for proper apparel to fully benefit from the festivities planned for later and provides accordingly. My reflection in the mirror stuns me, perhaps like the guests attired for the wedding feast in one of Jesus’s parables.
Such dreams hearten me …
“Death is the biggest change we face, so we need to practice change”—so says Ram Dass, formerly Richard Alpert, atheist and Harvard clinical psychologist. These words carry the weight of his 1967 conversion, followed by his second and ongoing conversion: the 1997 massive stroke with its expressive aphasia and paralysis of his right limbs. Its shock, he likened to Fierce Grace, a DVD that he published in 2001.
In this documentary, Ram Dass shows his disillusionment with psychedelic drugs that led to his conversion through Neem Kraoli Baba who renamed him Ram Dass, Sanskrit for Servant of God, and gave him the mandate: “Love my people. Feed them.” And for thirty years he taught, published, and counseled, attracting a worldwide following. All proceeds went to his foundations, Seva and Hunuman that still serve the blind in poor communities and publish spiritual materials around the globe.
Then came the stroke, followed by lengthy hospitalizations and rehabilitations, together with a brush with death. When Ram Dass was able to resume a limited schedule, he sounded different. Indeed, he had been “stroked” rendering him a consummate teacher of aging and death. His teaching and practice continue.
Ram Dass’s experience of “fierce grace” gives me pause. It suggests a tearing apart, a dragging down, a reversal of my way of living—such as happens with conscious aging, with its diminishments. Such wisdom is far beyond my grasp, yet ever fashioning my psyche in His likeness. I have only to participate in the daily dying.
“Death is like taking off a tight pair of shoes,” Ram Dass once quipped. It sounds so simple.
Heart Whisperings 