It started under hypnosis. I was guided into a deep meditation so I could meet the woman buried under roses who had appeared in my morning stories, presumably my ancestor. Looking for her in my subconscious, I found a woman whose spirit was deep and still, resting in peace, embodied as a dark-haired beauty. Reluctantly, she woke to look at me in silence, gathering the slow vast awareness of her own afterlife, knowing without asking who I was, where we were, and any thought that passed on the telepathic waves.
Unlike most of the selves who star in my dreams, she had lived a life on earth. It was over long ago. The silence she kept in the grave was the angry silence she had kept for much of her life. When I asked her to share her story with me, she penetrated my question with her silence. After a long stare, as she became aware that I was living more than a century after her time, she recognized that I was her future relative. In a stern dismissive way, she took it in knowingly, but lovelessly, assuming she could trust no one, not even a curious spirit from another time.
Unwilling to volunteer what she knew, as if her pact to remain silent extended past the grave, she told me in the end that I could speak with people alive who knew what I wanted to know. I should ask them. Then my timeless time with her came to an end as my hypnotist called me back from the depths. Now I was the spirit unwilling to wake. Even so, the interview was over.
Sometimes our deeply sleeping selves receive dreams remembered from other lives. Those dreams have a texture that is unconfused, and the characters are very familiar. Dreamers are guided to these dim memories by a hidden society of secret angels who know our immortal souls, and who weave the inter webs of consciousness through all times and all people. They show us what we ask to know, and what we are ready to understand. The language of this dream world is merely an echo of our dense daily existence. Dreams cannot cling to the ego because the scene is part of another axion of memory, from another universe of connections. Yet, the patterns remain, and sometimes, something leaks from these hidden realms to actively transform otherwise rigid thoughts and beliefs.
Such a dream I had this morning. I inhabited the spirit of a man or woman who was a bit sneaky, and not afraid of the consequences. Smarter than others, it was just a way of doing business that might be frowned on by cops or tax collectors, but among the real people, it was just cleverness necessary to provide access to drugs or other things that people wanted. The mind of a smuggler is very attuned to WHO is watching and WHAT they know and don’t know. So in this dream, I had a perfect scheme to sell things in packages not what they appeared. Learned from southern Italian genes, the habit of selling things that are secrets was a way of life, and it could make you rich, if you didn’t get caught.
The first part of the dream, sadly now forgotten, was a brilliant way to package some intoxicant for sale in the guise of other things. The last part of the dream pushed out the brilliant plan details, because the last scene of the dream was an interrogation from an Irish cop, a lady cop who was nice instead of tough. Still, she knew something was fishy and she was asking questions to see what I knew. I knew it all, but still thought we could pretend and I was expecting to play dumb. But my liar mind was racing. An innocent kid was in the room and had likely spilled the beans already, at least enough to alert the cop that things were not so innocent as they at first appeared.
As I took it in, first I tried to play it straight, like there was nothing wrong. Then, the secret plan I knew was all I could think of, and my habit was to share all the details clearly. I had to choose whether to lie or tell all. First I tripped up a bit, saying too much and also not enough, just squirming slightly but noticeably to the cop. In a quick surrender to the pope and jesus and my own honest nature, instead of incriminating the other guys, I took the fall and told it all. Trouble is, now I can’t remember the scam. So, I guess I woke up just in time.
TimeIsArt 