Note: My thoughts and feelings have evolved, in some cases quite dramatically, since I began lucid dreaming nearly five years ago. For example, in the Dream Notes that follow many of my earlier lucid dreams, you will find me considering possible past lives as an explanation for some of my experiences. I no longer believe in reincarnation, and this change came about as a result of some of my most powerful dreams. I am now waiting a year, or longer, before I post my lucid dreams, one at time, in chronological order. This means I now have a backlog of approximately sixty lucid dreams.
August 16, 2014
WILD: Lay awake for a long time, immersed in hypnagogic imagery, then suddenly I find myself sitting up in the dark Den, right next to the Bay Windows, holding a sheet of paper I’m editing… I’m out of body! I manage to stand up, and float swiftly outside into the night. Soaring exultantly, I begin singing a song I spontaneously sang in another lucid dream recently, “And when he danced with me… I could have danced danced danced all night…!” At first, it’s only my voice carrying through the overcast darkness, but soon I’m joined by a heavenly sounding choir, in which the soprano of the women especially rings with a high, beautiful clarity! (See Lucid Dreams and the Holy Spirit.)
I experience a false awakening, in which I’m lying in a well lit bedroom, ostensibly my own, but my sister is there, busy chatting and doing something. I take a moment to talk with my husband on the phone, telling him about the man I met yesterday on our mountain, a retired Navy Captain who is a traditional Christian (he attends services as they existed before the two Vatican reforms) and who invited me into his home, where his beautiful living room library is filled with Catholic themed books, including one about Padre Pio. When my sister leaves, I follow her. From my position in the Den, I see her standing in the gray darkness outside the glass doors. She left them open and Arthur (my dog) has gone outside with her. I quickly join them, and immediately realize I’m dreaming. I feel grateful to my sister for making me lucid, and I thank her before taking a moment to make sure Arthur goes back into the house with her.
It’s very realistic standing out in the dark courtyard; I can feel the bricks beneath me, and the chair I gently bump against. I look up at the partly cloudy sky, in which the visible stars are bright and alluring. My mind is perfectly focused on my intent—to visit my brother in his Arlington apartment. I consider flying, but that method of dream travel rarely results in arriving at my desired destination. Then I remember intending to open a door that will take me directly to the central hall of his apartment. Since the door to my husband’s workshop is the closest one, I approach it, thinking—This might just work.
I open the shop door, which is somewhat broader than in actuality. I suppress a slight uneasiness, because even in waking reality the unlit shop is a little scary. The dark interior, crowded with even blacker shapes, looks just as it should. I flip up the light switch on the left wall, but nothing happens, of course; rarely do light switches work in dreams. But as I pause on the threshold, waiting for something, I become aware of a light slowly blooming in the back of the shop, a soft orange-gold glow concentrating near the antique Metal Lathe. Then I hear Stinger’s quiet voice speaking to someone, and I feel he’s not alone… I feel his late father is with him, in this secular yet sacred space where so many of the tools he used and loved in his long life now reside. Smiling to myself, I quietly close the door behind me, seeing no reason to intrude.
No sooner am I standing out in the courtyard again than I’m pulled up, like a rocket taking off from its launch pad, into the starry universe. I am not propelling myself up, I am being pulled upward, a wonderful, liberating sensation. I have somewhere to go, so I deliberately turn to face in the direction of Boston, and my brother’s apartment. I lose sight of the stars as I fly through the night, and very soon I’m surrounded by a mysterious lovely architecture reminiscent of a Cathedral’s flying buttresses, but broader and infinitely more vast in scope. Everywhere I look, the identical decorative edges of these supernaturally large “buttresses” are sculpted from white-gold “stone”. I make a point to focus on this pattern, desiring to be able to describe it when I wake up. The motif resembles individual castle towers drooping like thirsty flowers, and these countless rows of curved white towers comprise the borders of the massive spiraling architecture. It’s as though I’m flying alongside a structure as large as a vast city. I don’t know how it happens, but I suddenly find myself walking quickly in my bare feet on the very edge of a balcony made of a white spotted marble, or so it looks and feels to me in the dream. Using it to “touch down” from my flight, I hurry lightly along the balcony’s edge as I approach a dark window, through which I sense I can enter this mysterious location.
Once inside, I almost immediately come to a reception area. An attractive young woman wearing a form-fitting dress the bright and yet also deep-blue color of a summer sky, her black hair elegantly pulled back in a ponytail, is standing at the desk, which is not really a desk at all—it looks more like the slightly elevated dais where someone who is reading a passage from Scripture stands in a church. This reception area appears made of a polished dark wood, and I sense a stairway curving upward just behind the woman to the left, while another flight of steps visibly ascends straight up on her right. Perceiving all this in an instant, I immediately ask her, “Why am I here?”
Not smiling, but speaking pleasantly and efficiently, she replies, “Because you’re making progress…” Then she adds something to the effect of, “You’re concentrating more on (figures? symbols?) than people.”
I’m not quite sure what she means by that, but I’m already walking around her, and climbing the short and narrow curving stairway behind her to the floor above. I find myself in a well lit corridor. To my right, through a glass wall, I clearly see a man wearing a white lab coat seated at a desk. Instantly absorbing the nature of this place, I open the door, stride into the room, and ask, “Do you have a patient here by the name of Mario Pita?”
The man glances up at me, his face and expression cool and somewhat hard, before he flips through some files on his desk, and replies, “Yes.”
When he doesn’t offer me anymore information, I demand politely but firmly, “What’s his room number?”
He leafs through my brother’s file. “Room 6.”
Not inspired to thank him, I hurry back out into the corridor. Walking purposefully, I glance at the black room numbers, quickly turning my head from right to left. There’s Room 9 and… there’s Room 6! I promptly open the door, and step inside.
I’m astonished, yet somehow not at all surprised, to see my late father (who I always called Papi) facing the door from where he is half sitting and half reclining to the right of a bed in the brightly lit room. I will never forget the look he gave me when I strode into the room, an expression I now remember he often wore when I was young and being… well, being me, full of energy and creativity, always idealistic and quietly determined. He isn’t surprised to see me, of course; he knows I’m constantly wandering the dream space. Smiling, I say, “I know what you’re thinking, Papi! You’re thinking, ‘here she is, showing up again, just popping into a lucid dream again!’”
He doesn’t look all that pleased to see me, but I feel this is due to the situation. I get the sense he doesn’t think my presence will accomplish much, that it won’t really help. But I have found my brother! He is kneeling at the foot of the bed, engrossed in studying something in his hands, and looking more like a little boy than the grown man he actually is. Across from him, and facing the wall leading out into the corridor (away from Papi, who is directly behind her) Mami is sitting comfortably on cushions on the floor. I notice then that Papi has stood up, and is crouched in the back of the room next to a hot water heater, the kind often seen in old buildings in Boston. While holding, and moving, something in his hands, he says quietly to me, “It’s dangerous” referring, I imagine, to my lucid dreaming. Or to my brother’s condition?
I reply, “Papi, surely you know there’s no such thing as travel through time and space, not when out of body.” I think he’s worrying too much about my safety; he always worried too much. I glance at Mami, who looks as she did approximately forty years ago. She’s wearing a reddish floral sundress, and is gazing contentedly but vaguely straight ahead of her. Papi is the only one aware of me, the only one truly present, and I tell him, “Mami is asleep, but she’s not lucid.”
One thing is obvious to me—Papi and Mami are both watching over my brother. This feels like a vigil, one that has been going on for some time. When I first opened the door and saw Papi, he was so clearly, absolutely present, and I sense now that has “come” to this “room” night after night, as has Mami, to be with my little brother, who I look down at, wondering how to get his attention… I lose the dream.
After writing my dreams notes, I go back to sleep, hoping to become lucid again:
I don’t remember how I got here, but I am suddenly once again talking to the “receptionist” in the blue dress, who is telling me that she is “learning to rely more on (some special attribute) rather than on her looks” to which I reply, hurrying toward the staircase behind her, “Tell me about it! I’ve relied on my looks most of my life, and see where that got me!”
I run up the steps, delighted I managed to return to the location of my earlier lucid dream, one of the few times (the only time?) I’ve managed to do that. I take particular note of the color of the plush, deep bluish-green carpet covering the steps. I reach the upper corridor, and walking quickly along it notice a beautiful deep-blue color inside two of rooms, the doors to which are open. Two women in some type of dark uniform, as though they work here, smile at me, and I get the feeling they are accustomed to seeing me around here.
I enter my brother’s room, and there he is, alone now, sitting up, and looking just as he does in waking reality. I go and stand before him, and am thrilled when he looks up at me. His left eye is somewhat bloodshot, and a little askew, but he’s smiling slightly as he asks me a question I can’t remember now. He may have said, “Do you remember…?” I tell him, “This is a dream” but I have no idea how long we were there, what we said to each other, or how we eventually left the room.
The next thing I know, I’m sitting in the backseat of a car moving as if on its own through the night. Mami is in front of me, but no seat separates us, for I can feel the soft warmth of her body. She’s wearing a sundress again, a lighter one, and a very fine gold chain around around her neck, once again looking as she did a few decades ago. I cuddle up against her, murmuring, “Mami, you’re so pretty…” Then I become aware of my brother sitting on my left, and of the fact that I’m still dreaming. He looks at me with a little smile on his lips as I tell him, “This is a dream, Mario. We’re dreaming.”
He replies, “Really?” in that way he has of letting me know he’s considering the possibility that what I’m saying is true, but he isn’t really convinced.
“Oh come on,” I exclaim, “you know I’m not in Boston visiting at the moment, so how can we be driving somewhere in a car together? This is a dream!”
He is listening to me, still considering it, but still not seeing it, and when the car stops, he gets out for a moment. Following him, I notice a dark-skinned little boy. “Ask this little boy where you are!” I suggest, reasoning that this dream character will tell my brother he’s dreaming. Instead, the little boy, looking at my brother, remarks quietly, “The poet crossed the street.”
Back in the car—which is moving again through the well lit streets of a vibrant city at night—I declare triumphantly, “See? If this wasn’t a dream, how would he have known you’re a poet? Look outside. Does this look like Boston to you? No, it’s somewhere else entirely.” All around us are bright white curving buildings, their open sides revealing smiling people sitting at round tables, smiling, talking, drinking and eating above clean white sidewalks illuminated by golden lights. It is a beautiful, warm looking city.
We exit the car again, and in the far distance, between two tall buildings, I see what I consider to be my smoking gun. “Look at that!” I cry. “That’s obviously not real!” I’m pointing at two expertly cut, and exquisitely illustrated, paper sailing ships perched on a paper ocean. “Come on!” I cry, and my brother follows me as I hurry toward the sight. Beyond the two buildings that frame this ocean view, there is a large open space dominated by a great pool of water filled with dancing, energetic, and very happy people. I myself am spontaneously chanting-singing, “Nothing is real. Nothing is real. Nothing is real…” for my brother’s edification,even as I think—Well, actually, everything is real, it’s just not limiting or confining. Everything is real, but also created.
As my brother follows along beside me, I comment, “I’ll bet you’re going to say the people in the water are moving the strings, and that the ships on the ocean are their puppets. And it’s true—it’s all a performance! Come on! We’re going out there!” I know we’ve been here before together as I climb onto a black marble “stage” speckled with white in a way that evokes the star-filled sky turned to stone. Standing on this broad ledge, clear water running across it making the black stone shine, I turn to look behind me. My brother, who is wearing nice suit pants, is climbing up more gingerly, apparently concerned about ruining his clothes because he sits down on a white towel as though to dry them off. Again I tell him, feeling exasperated, amused, and eager to reach the ocean with him, “Mar, this is a dream! You don’t have to worry about getting your clothes wet!” I wonder if I was ever that finicky when I first began lucid dreaming.
False awakening: My sister is busy doing something in a small living space. I tell her, “You have to feel what you really want in your heart, not your mind” and moved by the beauty of her tear-streaked face, I feel I should make more of an effort to appreciate and help her as I wake for real.