A Story in 3 Parts
I am a dreamer.
Every night I dream.
I dream in different languages that I don’t know how to speak when I’m
not sleeping, but that sounds fluent and cogent when I’m dreaming. I
dream music. I dream masters and healers. I am told important things. I
dream celebrities.
I dream events and then awaken to the events coming true.
I had a dream.
In it, I was a daughter of a father who had immense political and social
power, in another time; another place.
Our home was a castle, and I had several older siblings, both brothers
and sisters.
In the dream, I was in our home, in a room where dining took place and
there was a long, rectangular table, made of richly, dark wood and
stately. My father was preparing for a ceremony that would precede the
meal my siblings and I were to assemble for with him, and he asked me
to facilitate a portion of the observance.
As the youngest sibling, I was surprised because this rite was always
reserved for an older family member. I felt elated, and anticipated this
privilege bestowed upon me.
My father motioned me to sit at the end of the long, ornate table. It was a
regal position directly across from where he sat. I’d never been assigned
such rank among my siblings. This seat came with some significance. I
took my place opposite my father, who was the head of our family and
in charge.
My brothers and sisters all assembled, with familiar attitudes, and
collected themselves along the longest edges of the table. Our father
commenced dedication and began speaking.
Within seconds, a dream flash, that portion of our observance was over,
short and disconnected, and I had not presented anything I was asked to.
What my father had facilitated, was not even all the measure of sacred
I’d expected.
My older siblings got up from the table, casually, as the assemblage of
us all was disbanding. I watched it all taking place through my dream
eye and from where I sat in the dream, feeling confused and
disappointed.
I was the youngest, and a daughter, and it was a rare request for my
participation that seemed to surpass the moment, and even surpass our
fulfillment as a family.
My mood meandered toward insecurity. I became doubtful of any
significance I might have acquired, in the request of the formality,
among my family members, and within our family constellation.
I got up from my chair, walked through a very wide doorway and found
myself standing outside on a stone balcony, overlooking hundreds of
acres belonging to my father.
The lands were full of life and bursting with green, teeming with
pastures and lush clusters of trees. Around the pastures, it was forested.
The air was animated with a palpable and sensuous, organic energy. It
was all so real.
I took it all in, in a convincing dream moment, and then I turned around.
I was surprised to see my father had joined me on the balcony. This was
not usual. We did not often inhabit moments together.
Because the palace was dark inside, this was the first time in the dream
that I got a clear look at his face.
My father’s face was luminous and handsome. His eyes were the
deepest, darkest blue I’d ever seen. They were truly almost black, except
for a mystical blue shimmer. His skin was healthy and glowing, light-
filled, yet darkened in olive tones. He had black, thick hair at a medium
length that was relaxed and contrasted the coloring of his eyes and skin
beautifully.
It was a welcome surprise that he had joined me on the veranda and that
he continued his presence there.
We occupied our orb of silence.
He gestured to the fields, past the trees, far beyond the line of sight from
where we stood at the look-out. He mentioned the troops gathered there
to fight. I didn’t see any, but we both knew they were there.
Motioning his hands toward the fields beyond, my father said
sorrowfully, “I will never be able to conquer that.”
I looked in the direction he was gesturing to, over the fields. Then, I
looked to him.
Through my father’s blue, black eyes, I stared deeply, into his resonant
soul. There was something exceptional, even rare, about him.
There was a war taking place within my father and a sadness in him,
igniting his resolve at something. Something stirring in him compelled
him to be on that balcony with me.
A voice filled my whole body. Music too filled me, a mystic cantor’s
song.
Divining something.
As words arose in me, everything in me lifted, everything in me gained
spirit.
I heard the words from my soul say to my dream father,
“Yes you will.
You will conquer this.
You and God will”.
Celestial at-one-ment. An imbibing of divine commencement.
I felt miraculously aligned as Greater Intelligence offered words of
encouragement through me toward my dream father.
I knew what potential there was. I knew it in my own being. And, I
knew what potential was in him, my dream father.
I knew what it was to meet one’s promise and become it.
My dream father opened his arms and enveloped me in them. I was
filled to be near him. He held me in warmth and security, rid of all
armor. The love there amidst us, grew our hearts to overflowing.
I couldn’t have scripted what came next, and yet I dreamt it.
I was being dreamt.
He whispered in my ear and all my worlds changed.
“I know I’ve never told you this”, he said,
“but you have always been my favorite.”
Warm fire.
My spine.
The magnitude there.
Drop the anchor.
Remain.
Eternal quiet,
Grew to infinity.
I changed.
In a measure of everlasting.
It didn’t matter why I sought the love and bonding of father. What
mattered was I had arrived in fulfillment of it. Of a love, that was now
assigned the never-ending of my soul.
I knew he loved me, and so I knew a love I had never known. My whole
body, my whole being now assumed a welcome weight of eternal
bedazzlement.
All of life breathed in rhyme. All worlds turned a harmonic, lyrical orbit,
and I woke up.
I woke up.
I lay in bed next to Manou and was renewed in the love of father. I had
never known. I was pulsing with karmic relief. I could taste, more than
taste the dream. I was embodied in all ages of myself with the love of
father.
In my awake state, it was living out loud in my body, my lungs and
heart, my bones and brain. My hands. Cosmic countenance. Everything
in me changed.
I turned to Manou and said, “I know what it feels like to be loved by a
father. I had a dream of my father of somewhere. He was really here. My
father loves me. My father of somewhere loves me.”
It was a miraculous change in state. I’d gone to bed the night before,
and was the version of myself who experienced continual anxiety, and a
hindering self-consciousness that grew in some large part from an
experience of rage and violence that lived through my father of origin,
my father here on earth.
I’d been working through rage my whole life.
The notion that I could go to sleep, have a dream and wake up
completely changed, was not anything I’d ever imagined possible.
That night I’d gone to sleep and in a dream been visited by the most
inexplicable love of a father, whom I’d never seen before and yet, who
was entirely familiar and present.
I didn’t reject his love.
That dream actuated some mythical gateway to tenderness. To
empowerment. It continued its extraordinary course, in the days that
followed.
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