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This midnight dream astounded me, left me wondering:

It is night, the waning moon filling the cloudless sky. Throngs of men, women, and children fill an amphitheater built within a hillside teeming with tall grasses, trembled by ocean breezes. Laughter, excitement, and expectation mount with passing moments. I feel vibrantly alive among them.

Once awake, I sat up, then, returned to sleep, only to have the dream reoccur.

Earlier in the evening, I’d been horrified by Yahoo’s narration of Portland’s Wall of Moms, walking arm in arm between protesters and federal agents—And the follow-up story of the Fathers Against Fascism with their leaf blowers. Whatever or however these stories occurred remains to be seen, but something horrific did happened that incited fears of the continuing violence in our country.

To return to the compensatory dream—The night speaks to the lateness of the hour, to time running out, given my advanced years. I am alone, unnerved by the crowds, agog with enthusiasm; they were privy to something I’ve yet to learn—something about story. My Dreamer wished me to join them. I do.

Under their tutelage I’ve already stumbled upon parts of my story, but more will be revealed, now that I’m safely ensconced in old age. I feel as though I’ve just pulled apart most of the wrappings of my birthright, foibles and all—it is wondrous.

So rather that leech stories from Yahoo, better to explore the recesses of my birthright, see what’s there, and continue coming alive, from the inside out. The quest deepens…



This morning’s meditation on Step Eleven enlivened my spirit.

Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with the God of our understanding, praying only for knowledge of God’s will for us and the power to carry that out.

 Seated in my prayer chair, my eyes closed, my legs elevated upon a hassock, I gave thanks for last night’s encouraging dream of quaternity/balance, its silence enveloping my spirit with tranquility. Slowly, I mulled over each word of Step Eleven, then listened for new insights—They always came.

Like fire galling dry branches, the verb Sought set me ablaze for this exercise. With the eye of my spirit entrained upon the next moment, I sat up straight and began deep breathing. All the more critical was my desire to improve my conscious contact with the God of my understanding, given my spend-saver sands cresting at the base of the hourglass. That I will come to know Creator God, rather believe in Him, that I will spend eternity in with Him can lead to soiling my pants.

praying only for knowledge of God’s will jettisoned my myopic sense of self and opened me to the mystery of on-going creation in multiple universes. As co-creator, I’m mandated to produce something unique for the inspiration of others; and closer to home, to accept the daily diminishments occurring in my old body—a new experience, not without its moments.

That’s where the power to carry that out came into awareness. The rough spells of breathing, the eruption of knife-pains that eventually pass, the need to take more breaks from meaningful activities, the rigors of deep breathing and stretching exercises—all find succor in this power. And another day spoons into another, with more spiritual growth that graces my immortal spirit.

At 2:30 A.M. I awoke with this dream:

It is Saturday afternoon, a regional swim meet underway in the natatorium at Brandeis University. Tension mounts among hundreds of spectators as six male swimmers climb atop starting blocks, take their positions, and await the gun. A loud crack slices the humidity dripping from overhead skylights. The swimmers plunge into the water, their toned bodies aching for the lead in this final event, the 400-meter free style. Immediately the swimmer from Brandeis takes the lead among roars of support; he keeps it until he touches the end of the pool and sets a new record.

Yesterday’s message of “I’m going home!” seems to fly in the face of this morning’s corrective dream, evidently from a deeper stratum of my unconscious. I’ve more work to do.

It is Saturday afternoon, in the midst of life, not its end. The dream is set on the campus at Brandeis University, the private research facility in Waltham, Massachusetts, known for its Nobel Prize Laureates. Its rigorous academics suggest the critical milieu in which to deepen conscious participation in my end time—No matter that I’m slipping, ever so slowly.

The natatorium holds deep waters, suggestive of the unconscious realm from whence dreams come. And like the Brandeis swimmer—an image of my positive animus—knifing his arms through tumultuous waters, I’m to continue catching dreams, one night at a time, and blogging them. And just as spectators offer roars of support for the swimmer’s new record, others will benefit from my continuing work.

I feel like I’m in training for the swim meet of my life.


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