Only a Dream Away

Russia, India: tenderness when things are not quite right

Last night:

I am a man, and I understand that I am in Russia and I am a prisoner of war. I am being led out of a dark room into another room where people are assembled -- men and women, but they are relaxed. I'm scared, and I'm standing in a doorway. I know I'm going to some kind of judgment.

Before I can cross the room to the waiting people, I have to go by several tables on which are arranged baskets of herbs, baskets of bottles, beakers, burners and other lab/medicine-making supplies. I walk forward from the people who are holding me and run my fingers over the herbs, look at the assortment of amber bottles and jars, and other instruments I do not understand. What are they doing here? I feel a tenderness for these plants, and I am drawn to the table almost desperately, like remembering something long forgotten but suddenly and profoundly remembered.

My captors, who had let me walk freely in my sadness toward the tables, take hold of me again and lead me to the group of people who are seated in chairs by some windows. They don't look like a judgment committee at all. Many of them are corpulent women, who look like grade school teachers, just chatting. I am confused. The unseen people who are handling me push me down and make me sit on the floor. 

I feel something small and wet on my partially bare lower leg (I'm wearing tatters). I turn and see what looks like a paintbrush just leaving a bluish viscous daub of something there. I suddenly notice that I am not alone -- there are many other prisoners also on the floor, and they have all been touched with the swab. I ask what is going on and they tell me: "This solution is poison. Slowly, your heart and breathing will stop and you will be dead."

It flickers through my mind that that is probably what they have been preparing with the plants. This seems perverse and grotesque, because my memory of plants is that they are used to heal, not to kill.

I begin to launch toward panic for a few seconds but I know there is nothing I can do. I calm down and consider trying something -- anything -- magic, meditation -- to stop the absorption of the deadly poison into my system, but I give up even on that. 

I don't know what to do with my last few moments. I get up and walk into another room. They do not stop me. It is a small apothecary. I look at the bottles and jars and begin to feel a tremendous sadness over the doom I am helpless to prevent.

I begin to walk out of the apothecary when a small, thin woman with short dark hair and sharp features appears in the doorway. I don't know if she seems short because I am a tall man or of she is really short. Somehow I know this is my real-life teacher Althea. We look at each other for a moment and I begin to cry. We embrace tightly and both of us are wracked with sobs.

----------

Here is my dream from June 18, the night of some uncommonly strong storms in my area. It is about a man whom I have never met in person:

There is no vision, no kinetic sense or physicality to the first section of this dream. It is just a 'knowing.'

I know that am with my friend M, and we are listening to ragas, reading and writing Sanskrit. This part of the dream seems to go on not for just hours, but for years; probably lifetimes. There is a cyclic sense to it. Just unending learning and activity, very safe, sheltered even. I can hear the music, I have a sense of the mystery and the meditation of it, there is a strange sense of very relaxed yet focused and continuous study. There is also a youthful sense to it, many childhoods and young adulthoods, and a feeling of "this is just what you do," no desire for anything else or any other experience. Like we didn't know there was anything else to life.

There is a color: It is a light gold/pink. There is a sense of sunlight. There is a sense of deeply dyed Gujarati mirrored fabrics. But no forms whatsoever.

Most pronounced is an aroma: Sandalwood and saffron incense. Very heady and very strong throughout the whole dream.

Just the sound, the 'knowing,' the color and the scent, and the years rolling by -- that's all there was to this section, and it is the first time I've ever had a dream like that.

But then all of a sudden, I feel that I have a form -- I am curled in a fetal position, sleeping. I awaken and when I open my eyes, there is M, in the same position, next to me, facing me. His eyes are closed. We seemed to be in some kind of womb-like enclosure. The gold/pink light was still there but had shifted to a pinker hue, darker.

And when I awoke in the dream, I had a sense that something had gone 'wrong' -- that our interpretation of the scripture and music had bifurcated. To my mind, M had begun interpreting our time and our texts as something personally romantic (I'm not sure how else to put it here), and it seemed to detract from the Work I thought we were doing. I told him this was not right, that this was not what I wanted. His eyes stayed closed, though he responded that he understood and that he could hear me.

I wondered why he did not open his eyes.

Then the aroma of the sandalwood and saffron changed -- it became sickly sweet, almost overwhelmingly so. And I looked at M and somehow knew he was sick, or getting sick, and I immediately felt horrible for admonishing him. I was thinking how bad I felt, and what to say next, when --

A peal of thunder and flash of lightning woke me up for real. I jumped out of bed and ran around closing all the windows in the house as the rain blew in, all the while feeling quite distressed about the dream.

The Troublesome Imbolc Ritual(s) plus a cameo by Michael

ACT I

I am in the main classroom at school and my Mystery School friends have gathered for our Imbolc ritual. The altar is set, and the room is wavering somewhere between its mundane self and some other place, sometimes smaller, sometimes larger, sometimes with other furniture (and, curiously, a big stereo system), and sometimes without.

Althea is not there and I am to lead the ritual. We gather around the altar, the room candlelit. Facing South, I look at the altar. Directly before me is a special Imbolc candle -- like one I remember my mother had from childhood, decorated with an ornate Celtic design. It is already about halfway used and is sitting in a holder. To the left of it, lying on the altar, is an identical candle, except brand new, with a long wick. I light the halfway-used candle. Elsewhere all over the altar are several other candles, all of different shapes, sizes, degrees of use and colors, and I know these are all the candles of my fellow Mystery Schoolers which we will light later in the ritual. There is also a jack-o-lantern on the altar. "Who put this here?" I ask. One of my fellow Mystery Schoolers, Chris, says that she put it there. "But why?" I ask. No answer. My friend HT goes to light the new Imbolc candle. "Hang on a second," I say, producing a pair of scissors from out of nowhere. I trim the wick down to a manageable size and hand the candle back to him.

The altar is set back too close to the bookshelves on the North end. "Hey guys, let's move this forward a little so we can stand around the altar and give the quarter officers room to walk around." We pull the whole production South a few feet. "Quarter officers?" I ask, and volunteers speak up.

I ask everyone to ground out and do the Kabbalistic cross. Some people seem distracted. In particular, someone who I know is interested in joining us in real life but is not yet part of our group, a very nice woman named Rebecca, is talking in the background, giggling, lots of movement. I try to let the core group lead by example, and begin.

"Before we call in the elements, I'd like to tell the story of Water," I say. (Which is an odd deviation from standard procedure -- this is the sort of thing we'd usually save until AFTER the room has been blessed.)

"In the beginning, all was darkness, and the breath of God moved across the Water," I intone, referring of course to Genesis, chapter one, verse one.

Rebecca is still chattering away in the back. "I'd like to tell the story of Water," I say to her. She looks up. I continue again. "In the beginning...."

And she gets up and walks to the door.

"Where are you going? We're in the middle of ritual, could you show a little respect?"

"I'm just going to get something to bring to the back room for the pot luck," she says.

I'm really getting steamed now. She closes the door behind her. All is quiet again, so I start once more:

"In the beginning, all was darkness and the breath of God moved across the Water. And then God separated Water from Water and created the Firmament."

At this point Rebecca comes walking back through the room with her treats in hand, singing in a mocking tone: "Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb..." (which is bizarrely appropriate actually, considering that Imbolc celebrates ewes going into milk for imminent lambing).

That's it. I'm out of patience. I catch up to her before she can reach the North door and grab her by her wrists.

"What's wrong with you? Can't you see we're conducting ritual here? This is important, you have to show some respect or else remove yourself from the rite." She's looking at me with a sneering smile. My hands go up to hold her face. "Maybe you don't respect me leading this but you have to respect the rite and what we're celebrating. Maybe you think Althea should be here or maybe you think you should have a greater role. Or is it because you think you deserve more recognition? Well guess what, I think you do. You're beautiful and talented and deserve the best, but you have to show respect first and do the work."

At this point she's crying and can't hold onto her mocking mask any longer. We hug a long hug while our classmates look on in a hush.

ACT II

Once again I am just about to start the same ritual. There is a big stereo by the side of the altar and it's playing music -- pleasant but not appropriate nor conducive for sacred space.

I walk to the stereo and turn it down.

I return to my spot and begin as described in Act 1.

By itself, the knob on the stereo turns clockwise, bringing up the volume. (This actually happened to me in real life in an apartment -- likely haunted -- that I had just after college. I actually had to fight with the thing to stop it from becoming deafening.)

I go over and turn it down. My group look bewildered -- how is that doing that by itself?!

The process repeats at least two more times.

There is no clear resolution to this except that in the next scene I am in the car with my husband and it is daytime, and we are on a 'break,' just out for a bit and then returning to finish the ritual. In the car we are driving past the downtown skyscrapers and I am going over what I want to say when we get back to school.

ACT III

Back at school in the same room as before, but it doesn't seem like it has anything to do with Imbolc. Actually it seems like the tail-end of some herb class-related event. Socializing, lots of people, lots of action.

Again I am standing by the north door, talking to one or two people. Behind me I hear my teacher Michael's voice, which is a surprise (partly because in real life I haven't talked to him in a long time, partly because he lives across the country). I hear him greeting someone, probably Althea. Out of my peripheral vision -- in this dream I never look directly at him -- I can see his black hair, his glasses, I can see him taking off his jacket and hanging it on a chair. I continue on with my conversation but am aware of his voice which is now to my right.

The people in the room shuffle around and finally he and I are standing side by side but facing opposite directions. His right arm grazes my right arm. We are both wearing short-sleeved shirts. I never look at him, nor he at me, we just continue having separate conversations, arms touching. Then our right arms become somewhat snakelike (this is a poor description I think) and twist around each other until we are holding hands. It is the only acknowledgement we give each other, never missing a beat in our separate conversations.

Back in high school, not seeing my teacher's face, fire, a baby

I am putting on a high-school uniform in my home (one I do not recognize). It's getting late, I have to leave, and it's cold out; I wish for tights and magically they appear on my legs.

In the next instant, I am walking into my high school cafeteria (not any place I've seen before, but it resembles the student center at my university). Friends of mine, including my girlfriend Christina (whom I met at herb school just two years ago), are at a table, eating something before class begins. The energy is easy, we're all girls, laughing, gossiping.

The bell rings for class. I hang around until the last minute. I begin to run for homeroom/class. I have to cross the gymnasium to get to the main school building. As I jog through, I spy my present-day herb teacher, Michael, off to the side, with his back to me. He is walking slowly in the same direction but is beginning to turn to the left, behind some kind of temporary curtained structure, like one where you might hide the sound equipment for a show. I do not call out to him but pick up speed and run through the exit.

In the next scene, I am not in any kind of class -- or at least, it doesn't seem like a 'class,' but it is still in high school. Some kind of student gathering? We are in a small, crowded room -- maybe 15 of us or so. It has elements of ritual. We are seated on the floor, singing. Cushions under some of us. Muted light, candles maybe. Reclining, propped on my elbows, I crane my neck and discover that  behind my head is some kind of vase that holds many feathers and incense sticks. All the incense sticks are lit. The feathers are large, brown-and-white-striped. Some of them poke out through holes in the bottom of the vase and their quills are lit, giving off incense as well.

I have the feeling I am supposed to be minding this strange vase with its smoking contents. One of the incense sticks set some object nearby aflame already, and I had to put it out (I do not remember what the object was, only that it was draped with fabric or ribbon -- and I think I just used my hands to extinguish the flames).

I face forward and see Michael again -- he has just come into the room, into the center. He is wearing his mustard-colored shirt. Again, his back is to me -- he is turned at the waist while seated on a chair, reaching behind him for something -- I sense that it is a musical instrument. Others are playing musical instruments in the room now.

I turn back to my incense/feathers and prevent another small fire from breaking out. All of a sudden this time there is a baby sitting next to the vase, dressed in a pale green onesie. He is surrounded by a circle of tealights. I'm mildly surprised that he's there, but I am not alarmed, in fact to see him there is pleasant. He's chubby, less than a year old, giggling, and adorable. I stand up and pick him up to cuddle him. I don't know whose he is.

Rilke and Buckley

OK, here's one of the more bizarre ones I've had in awhile, and my recollection is sketchy. This is from last night:

I am in Rainer Maria Rilke's body. It is the early 20th century; teens, maybe '20s. I am wearing a dark brown suit, which I observe on my legs and forearms. I am walking around a small room. To my left, an old woman comes and sits on a (green velvet?) sofa across from my desk. The sofa has an arched back and the velvet is set in a polished dark wood frame. She looks very prim. I feel she might be related to me, but she reaches over and grabs her boxy little purse from a nearby spot in the room where she was standing before, and clutches it to her body. I wonder if she thought it wasn't safe, if she thought I might steal something from her.

This thought bothers me. It bothers me also that she is here. Why is she here? I have to work! I have to find a way to ignore her.

To this end, I walk to a credenza on which there rests a record player and a record. The record is by Tim Buckley. I remove the disk from its sleeve and, without putting it on, I can hear the music. On the paper-covered center, where the song listing usually is on records, there is a picture of Buckley and it is moving as a movie, and he is singing along with the music I hear.

(My lucid self jumps in at this point and says, "What the hell is a 70s folk-rock artist doing in an early 20th-century poet's office?" Also, it is not an album I recognize.)

I put aside the vinyl and look at the album cover. It is a photograph of Buckley but in the lower-left-to-middle area is the floor in front of him, essentially a blank, tan-colored space. I take a pen and begin to draw a shape in that space, and the shape resembles a jigsaw puzzle-piece. I think, either as Rilke or lucidly as myself (they are starting to blur now), "This is where Jeff goes."

Magick and the reluctant squirrel

I am in a strange room -- almost a tree-house, really, or some kind of living area in the trees, with trees growing through it. I am with my Mystery School group, and we are being led in some ritual (not sure what it is) by Althea.

I am watching her and she begins to sing a song slowly while walking around and embracing everyone. Most of us are wearing cowled robes in a dark brown or dirty purple color. She makes eye contact with me and gestures to me to stand up and assist her. I do, but I begin to sing "Everybody knows your face, everybody knows your face" to the hypnotic tune of "Everybody Knows" from the James album "Laid." (In the real song, the lyric is "Everybody knows your fate.")

So I go around hugging everyone but it is not somber, the way Althea is doing it. A mutual acquaintance, Hazel, is there, with her young daughter, Violet. Violet does something funny -- I can't remember what, but it has to do with her shoes -- and I stop my rounds and laugh with her, feeling only slightly out of place in the otherwise serious mood. Hazel begins to sing with us but says the last note should be held longer. I let her hold the note and continue to sing it as I have been singing it.

Trees come up through the floor and grow through the ceiling of our ritual room. A squirrel comes up one of the trees (like the messenger squirrel of Yggdrasil!) and Althea spots him running up through the ceiling to the branches above.

"What is that squirrel doing here?" she demands, clearly irritated.

"He lives in that tree," I explain.

"Well, he is going to have to find some other tree to live in. He can't live in that one," she says.

I wonder why... what is the difference between him living in that tree or any of the other trees that come up through our ritual space? But she seems in such a state that I do not ask.

On one of the squirrel's next trips through, Althea stops him as if by a spell and tries to command him to take up residence in another tree.

He looks at her as though completely comprehending, shocked, and somewhat fearful but skitters away, running around the tree and down through the floor (somehow with an air of defiance, for a mute little creature!). Frustrated, she commands me to "take care of it" and stalks off.

I go to where the tree comes up through the floor. From out of nowhere, I have a handful of shelled walnuts, and more in my pocket. I make clicking noises with my hand extended, and sure enough, the squirrel appears. With his nimble little hands we takes the nutmeats from me and we share a friendly moment. He seems the picture of innocence -- my lucid self seems to notice this in the dream, that he is the representation of innocence. I speak to him in squirrel-speak (more clicking) and tell him he must find another place to live. I realize that I have no idea why he can't live in that tree, and I can't give him a good reason. He looks at me like I've betrayed him, sad, surprised. His cheeks still full of nuts, he casts a hurt and disapproving look backwards at me and runs off once again.

-----

Just for reference, here are the lyrics to the original song:

Everybody Knows

When you took me in your arms
I knew I'd revive
You breathe me in so deeply
You took my hand as the music began
I knew I could dance if you led me
Everybody knows your fate honey
Everybody knows your fate
Everybody knows your fate honey
Everybody knows your fate
The snake is poised and is held by your noise
You charm the life out of demons
You kept me up there with a web of your hair
You spun my life into meaning
Everybody knows your fate honey
Everybody knows your fate
Everybody knows your fate honey
Everybody knows your fate
I've seen your stars so many lives
You seem to shine forever
Do you remember the time
Do you remember the time
Our memories held us together
Everybody knows your fate honey
Everybody knows your fate
Everybody knows your fate honey
Everybody knows your fate
Everybody hopes for so much healing
See your face in windows
Everybody knows your fate honey
Everybody knows your fate
Everybody knows your fate honey
Everybody knows your fate

Autumn Equinox Dream Recap, plus the vagabond magician

Toward the end of last week and over the weekend I dreamed several times of my friend Ben -- these concerned cooking, train stations, and lots of laughing. And making fun of TV shows with his friend Nick. I was delighted to find out that Ben's beautiful son was born Friday afternoon.

Saturday night I slept in the forest and dreamed that a woman was singing in my ear -- no words, just a melody. In the dream she was outside my tent, so I do not know what she looked like, or if she had a body at all.

That night I also dreamed that I woke up several times to open up my tent to find that it was raining outside; and that I was not in the forest but in Glastonbury or at least somewhere in the English countryside, as if the whole campground had been transported there. There were fewer trees, however, which strikes me as strange -- we seemed to be on some kind of slate or limestone plain with trees in the distance -- and the people with whom I was camping were different from the people around me in real life. That is, the same tents were there, but different people emerged from them. In the dream it was early morning, the sky was grey and the rain misty and soft. The ground ran with a fine ashy white silt.

The clearest memory of last night's dream is of a vagabond, dressed in tatters, a little crazy, roaming a picturesque little neighborhood square at night, enthusiastically thrusting a tarot card at random people he met, saying, "This is my card! This is your card!" They looked at him like he was crazy and pulled in tight to their loved ones and hurried away. I don't have a clear impression that he came up to me and offered me the card, but that he would, eventually, and I was ready, anxious to see the card. The card, obscured, had the sign of the planet Mercury at the top. (The Magician, Key 1, is ruled by Mercury.) I remember looking at this strange man and thinking, "The Magician is you?"