Note: I am now 6 months behind in posting my lucid dreams. This means I am approximately 30 lucid dreams behind.
January 21, 2014
Waning Gibbous, Void Moon
Lunar Healing Night 2
In my lucid dreaming bed, drifting in and out of sleep, and watching the moon moving across the sky parallel to my bed, at around 2:20 I finally wake up completely from the discomfort of bloating and gas, something I rarely suffer from. I begin breathing deeply, from my stomach up into my chest, and on the exhale, I visualize Chi healing energy flowing down into my belly as a curtain of soothing, milky mist. I keep at it, relaxing into it, and it has the same effect, but much faster, than taking an antacid would have, bringing obvious relief. However, if I turn into any other position, the symptoms return, and I won’t be able to fall asleep if I have to keep performing Reike. I’ve been awake for more than an hour, but I still reject the idea of taking any medication. I would much rather become lucid, and heal myself in a dream. To that end, I close my eyes and concentrate my vision as I continue breathing steadily. Very soon, I begin riding hypnagogic imagery.
I’m part of a scene, one of three people urgently lining up to be beamed up to our star ship. I’m standing on the far right, and I jerk my left hand away from the person on my left, because we can’t touch as we beam up, if we do, our molecules will merge. We materialize on the bridge, and I quickly follow my two companions down the white, slightly curving stairway leading to the elevator, but the steps are too high and the ceiling partially blocks the entrance… I move on, fully conscious now of riding hypnagogic imagery as I perceive what looks like a black-and-white version of a section of my kitchen counter top. Then suddenly, clear as day, I’m awake in a dream, and apparently inside my physical body! I clearly see the deep rosy color of what, at first, I think might be a massive red blood cell, but which I then seem to recognize as my esophagus! I’m somewhere near the base of my neck looking down at it’s narrow passage. I gaze at the inside of my body in fascination for a little while before waking.
My heartburn is getting worse as I drift off on hypnagogic imagery again… I’m outside at night standing in the snow with Stinger and our small dog, Arthur. The house is a few yards away, but the scene does not parallel waking reality. Where the entrance to the basement is evokes the layout of my childhood home, and yet the whole scene is different. We’re working on something located in a mound of snow that is about chest high. When Stinger turns away and heads back inside, calling Arthur in after him, I follow them to the door, but only to inform him that I intend to stay outside. I love the snowy night so much that, as I walk past whatever we were working on, I begin singing, “Doe, a deer, a female deer, ray, a drop of golden sun! Me, a name, I call myself, Fa a long long way to run!…” (Not the first time I’ve sung a tune from The Sound of Music in a lucid dream even though I’m not a big fan of the film.) I then become aware that I have managed to imbed myself in a hypnagogic scene, and intend to walk fully into the dream along the dark, snowy path rising between two white residential buildings about three stories high. The land slopes slightly upward into darkness, and I have no desire to resist the mystery and adventure of following it. When I see a sharp black shadow cast by a lamp in an upstairs window of the building just ahead of me on my left, I focus on it, and the more I focus on it, the sharper it gets, until I suddenly experience what feels like a cone-shaped energy rising from the top of my head. Up and up I go into the night sky and a lucid dream!
I look at my hands, faint but perfectly shaped, distinct silhouettes in the deeper darkness, which is not uniform—flowing here and there through the blackness is a rich, deep royal blue color. I intend to heal myself, but instead of thinking about how to go about it, I keep my hands raised before me. I think, referring to the healing energy I’m completely immersed in—It’s all mine! All mine! For a moment, I wonder if I’m being arrogant, but then I know it’s simply true—this energy, the dark sky, me, we are all connected. Then I see the moon, which feels very close, and yet it looks as it actually would from where I live on earth, waning but still clearly visible. Fine shafts of golden light radiate from the moon’s dark side that reach out and touch the fingertips of my left hand. (The fine shafts of light resemble the effect produced when I squint my eyes while looking directly at a bright light.) It is a brief but powerful contact, I know this, and my dream hands actually feel hot, so full of energy they almost hurt…
I seem to descend as I transition to an indoor scene. I’m floating, in a spiraling clockwise direction, about a foot or two above the floor, traversing a dimly lit space, where I see a dark figure seated at a white table. I say politely but loudly, “Hello!” as I float past the silent silhouette, hoping to engage it in conversation. It doesn’t respond, and I ask, “Are you a DC? Are you a Dream Character?” I glide above a young woman sitting alone with a desultory look on her face, and a bored, almost resigned air about her. The nature of the place is hard to identify, public yet also residential, and maybe educational and/or a waiting room of sorts. Everything is white. I don’t have control of my dream body, and drift into waking. This dream lasted only about 10-15 minutes clock time. When I woke, there was no sign of my gas. My stomach felt fine, no more bloating, discomfort, nothing. It did not return.
A Memory of Ancient Egypt
I’m outside X’s house. We are happily talking. I enter his home, in search of something. I experience an awkward shock when his wife enters the airy, spacious room holding a glass of water, or some other liquid. She is wearing an ankle length tunic dress of a single color, perhaps a light-green, with some subtle pattern sewn into the fabric. I know she is aware that X and I had illicit feelings for each other once. At first I think her smile is sardonic, in a pained, somewhat angry way, but we end up walking rather companionably toward the front door, remarking on the heat of the day, and how being near water makes it so much more bearable, but never uncomfortably humid. We pass a breathtaking sight—a large, and not very deep pool of sparkling blue water. A single long white step leads down from the living area almost directly into the pool. This side of the living area is completely open to a view of sunlit water, with the feel of a garden extending beyond it on both sides. The woman and I end up sitting facing each other in a shady alcove adjoining the front entrance, conversing, and pleasantly relaxed. She is still X’s wife, but she seems a slightly different woman now. She confesses to me that every night she watches the distant figures of my husband and I, whenever we pass in front one of our large white home’s various windows. She compliments the robe I wear on some occasions, but what really entrances her, what she praises with deep emotion, is my grace. She says, “All your movements are filled with such a beautiful, natural grace.” She is being very flattering, and I think I should also compliment her, but I somehow know it isn’t necessary for me to do so, that it actually wouldn’t be correct to put her on my level. Instead, I say earnestly, “You and your husband must come and have dinner with us one night” and though she seems more than agreeable to this, she is not sure when that could be, because her husband is away for weeks at a time, and this has something to do with his work and his art. I get the impression he works at night, or in the dark. So I suggest brunch one afternoon instead. “I’m sure we will find the right opportunity,” I conclude…
I go and find X again. He is seated with a small group of his co-workers. They are all wearing white uniforms that look dusty. They are on break, perhaps eating and drinking while they consult small tablets, or other items related to their work. I tell him I saw his wife, but I am really there to inspect the progress of the work. As I descend a steep wooden plank, notched as though with shallow steps, I hear his voice following me down the shaft telling me what his wife told him—that the gods gave them their son to be their great comfort in life. He also complains that she is too traditional, too sedate, or something to that effect. I listen sympathetically, but then become distracted by the debris littering the descending plank—art supplies, construction tools, pieces of paper, so much stuff, I can barely prevent myself from slipping. I call up to them in a commanding voice, “Clean up these steps! They are a hazard!” and phase out of the dream in the way I do after a “true” dream.
This dream is a mysterious gem, with countless parallels to ancient Egypt—the tunic dress; the dry heat relieved by the proximity of water, which still doesn’t make the air humid; the spacious airy home opening out onto a pool and garden; the large white house with white walls, also a reference to the ancient name for Memphis/Cairo “White Wall”; the lavish, almost ritual praise of a lower-ranking woman addressing a noble woman or a queen, referencing her ritual robe or cloak; the Windows of Appearance where, beginning in the 18th Dynasty, pharaoh and his queen showed themselves to the public; reference to working for weeks at a time in the dark, exactly what the artists who painted tombs did for days at a time before returning home for a prolonged rest, their white clothing dirty with rock dust; the tablets they sketched their designs and notes on; reference to “the gods”; the wooden plank leading across, or down, into the tomb’s different chambers; a noble woman or queen inspecting the progress of her tomb. X must have been the artist in charge, ranking above the others, and living in more luxury. X is a real life friend of mine who also loves ancient Egypt.