June 13, 2013
Just before Wake Back to Bed, between 2:10 and 2:45, I had one of those rare exceptionally real-feeling, semi-lucid dreams. It’s the middle of the night but I’m up and in the rec room with Arthur. It feels very real; I’m sure I’m awake. I say to Arthur—You want to go for a quick pee before we go back to bed? He looks delighted, this is a new treat, as he always sleeps straight through the night. So we run happily together into the sun room, where I stop abruptly, and pick him up, crouching as I look out the windows in surprise. A small military plane has just landed in our driveway, and unloaded young troops I clearly see crossing the yard just outside. They appear to be practicing night maneuvers; they convey no sense of danger or urgency, only a perfectly disciplined purpose. My eye is drawn to the face of a young woman in the line. Her expression sober, she’s holding a rifle and staring straight ahead of her into the darkness, obviously not afraid of it. I admire how she’s up in the dead of the night—a time I associate with feeling weak and vulnerable, when life’s fears gang up on our mortal selves—at the same time identifying with her calm, focused, wide awake control as qualities I have begun to embrace through my lucid dreaming practice and Wake Back to Bed ritual. Arthur is squirming in my arms, really wanting to go out as I promised him he could, but I can’t let him outside because larger dogs have accompanied the squadron, canine soldiers, and a few feet beyond the door, in the middle of the courtyard-driveway, a large black dog is standing next to the tall, broad-shouldered silhouette of a troop commander. Somehow it makes sense that a piece of the army has chosen our property for a training mission, I am actually pleased, even honored to be able to assist our troops in this way. I’m crouching in the room as I look out the windows, keeping respectfully out of sight, and Stinger is there now with me as I become aware of crouching in shallow, reedy water observing the troops.
The next thing I know, Stinger and I are standing in the sun room before a female commander who is seated at a small table addressing us. There is a feminine quality to her, and yet she looks more like a man with a pointed red-orange beard. She is the troop commander and absolutely sure of herself. She came to investigate a “relic” we found on our property, which has proved to be exactly what Stinger estimated it was in his report, a fact which has seriously impressed her. I feel proud of my husband but not at all surprised that his assessment was spot-on.
The androgynous commander is holding a book bound in fine red leather that is central to what she is telling us about, speaking in a controlled, serious yet animated way. As she and Stinger continue talking, I sit down with the book and begin looking through it, semi-lucid now as I wonder at how real this all feels, which means a part of me (which doesn’t quite break through the surface) understands it’s a dream. Yet a better way to describe it is that I was aware of being in Mind Space vs. Waking Reality. The book feels perfectly real, absolutely solid, as I run my fingertips along the smooth red leather cover, and then, opening it, over the slightly raised engraved sketches on different pages, sketched in black with some red highlights. I’m conscious of the invisible troops surrounding the sun room watching me, and wonder if they think I’m feigning my rapt interest in the book, but I’m not. Though in Waking Reality I would feel self conscious, in Mind Space I am quite relaxed and genuinely engrossed in the book. The commander tells Stinger he-she is leaving the book with us so we can make an exact replica, not merely a copy, and I’m surprised; I understand this is an honor, an expression of complete trust in our stewardship of this highly important object.
I know without being told that what I’m holding in my hands, with such visual and tactile presence, is the metaphysical tale of a soul—represented by a woman who is every single me that ever was and will be—and its relationship with God, which entails confronting the devil, but the only figure illustrated is hers-mine. God is invisibly present before and beside her on the white pages, while the devil takes form only in small details, which manifest on her form, as mouse-like ears or horns on her head, for example. She is drawn in a flowing yet precise cartoon-like fashion, her face and profile masterfully animated and rendered. About half-way, or a little more, into the book, I believe it ends, and in a sense it does, for the moment, because there are only white pages beyond that point. And yet as I flip through them, I realize they are all illustrated, or will be. The final page of the tale shows her standing and smiling into the book, the look on her face absolutely joyful.
After Wake Back to Bed a lucid dream buried in other dreams. I’m in a dark interstellar spaceship that has landed. My brain likens it to the U.S.S. Enterprise even as I know it’s not because it’s real. I’m standing near the front, essentially the bridge or cockpit, and can see through the open door on my right. It’s night outside on this world. I spend a few “minutes” talking to someone on the dark ship about our “mission”—mysteriously equivalent to the plot of a film that is also actually happening. I tell my invisible companion on the ship that I’m finally beginning to understand what’s going on and step out onto the “gangplank” leading down. The ship has landed at the edge of a colossal “compound”, a one-story structure with three sides bordering a large open space. Attached to the interior right end of this sprawling dark structure, very close to where the ship has landed, is a small building from which a woman I recognize, because she came on the ship with us, emerges and stands at the top of the steps waiting for me. This is her world, to which she brought us as its ambassador. It comes to me in a perfectly lucid flash of comprehension that on every inhabited world in the known universe there is an embassy attached to exactly the same kind of complex. As I walk up the steps and enter the building—a curious blend of manor house meets small church—I wonder at this seeming lack of imagination, as though the production company got lazy, or didn’t have enough funds, to finance different sets for each planet. But just as quickly I comprehend there is a reason for this uniformity. My companion reinforces my “reasoning” by telling me that the compound to which the embassies are connected are made of the same red-and-white diamond tiles everywhere for a reason, the exact word she uses to describe it escaping me now, perhaps “energetic.” The alien embassy’s entrance foyer is a cross between an atmospherically lit hotel lobby and a dark pub, very pleasant. I slip into full lucidity as I look around me appreciatively. I’m distinctly conscious of starting up a broad wooden staircase with my female guide/companion/crew member/passenger. I remark on the interesting phenomena of the embassy appearing to be a rather small building from the outside when on the inside, as I begin to sense, it is really much taller and larger, potentially vast. She replies—Oh, I don’t know, I think it’s cozy. I agree, but to me it still feels bigger inside than it looks from the outside. The staircase makes a sharp left-hand, pyramid-like turn as I very consciously look around me, taking in the details and feel of the place, with its high, Cathedral ceiling and smooth dark wooden construction. I say—Yes, it’s very quaint, like a Swiss chalet.
I don’t remember what happened once I reached the second floor of this interstellar embassy. The next thing I recall is a false awakening, getting out of bed and crawling on my hands and knees through a scene that feels like a pavilion-garden, inside yet outside, to Stinger, who is clad in flowing white, eager to tell him about my dream. But he sends me back to bed, and I understand there is still enough time in the night to keep dreaming, a little upset at myself for being so oddly out of it.
I enter a bedroom I know is mine. The door is large and dense, a dark silver, maybe carved, a foreign look and feel to it. I want to close it all the way to block out the sound of people out in the courtyard talking, and yet I also need to leave it slightly ajar so as not to lock something or someone out: Mami, who enters and seats herself. She watches as I quickly begin writing my lucid dream down on a dark green-brown cloth with a pen-pencil-stick that is nearly the same color. I begin very near the top edge of the cloth spread out on a table and it begins fraying, the pressure of my penmanship loosening the threads, revealing their varied colors as they curl up, rising like plant seedlings, which gives the cloth an even more earthy appearance. Concerned about losing my dream notes, I carefully rip the layer of cloth off the more solid wood-colored parchment beneath, and keep writing. I become aware of a handsome blonde man in the room to my right who, smiling, proceeds to turn on the television on the wall just beginning to air the show he and Mami were both waiting to watch. I perceive what the broadcast is about as a vision—my new dress, made specifically for me, exhibited on the edge of a bright white stage. It is the most beautiful garment I have ever seen. It is supple as cloth but made up of small, shining, geometrically cut precious stones of every color, although gold and blue and red predominate. It begins high at the neck and falls, gently formfitting, all the way to the floor. It gleams and clings as though alive but is the exact opposite of a cold reptilian skin. I can scarcely believe this dress is meant for me. My sister is going to model it before I take possession of it.
Before waking, a Hypnagogic Image of the wooded gravel country road I walk on every morning, and an ageless woman dressed in flowing white standing on the right side, clearly visible against the dark-green trees, looking directly at me.
Carl Jung, who the figure in the dream did indeed resemble, is, of course, the author of the famous Red Book, his life’s work, which my husband Stinger gave me as a gift shortly after we moved to our dream home. “In Jungian analysis… marriage symbolizes the potential for union between God and the individual.” When I was flipping through all the white pages yet to come, I did not pause on the next one, I did not feel the need to exert any control or impose myself on the book at all, I just knew it would keep going, effortlessly, magically, with no end, really, since on the last page I was looking back into the book.
The spectacular jeweled dress could represent my Divine form-self, the substance and colors of creation flowing from God-Consciousness-Being, invisible in itself (the white “mannequin” was headless) yet the source, the eternal “fabric” of all manifest experience. “The cutting and shaping of precious stones signifies the soul shaped from the rough, irregular, dark stone into the gem, regular in shape and reflecting divine light… Jewels symbolize hidden treasures of knowledge and truth, but also earthly love and riches” the marriage of heaven and earth, spirituality with sensuality, the Creator with creation.
This is the first time I have been lucidly conscious of apparently traveling to another world. The homogeneous appearance of the energy complexes to which the millions of potential interstellar embassies are attached is interesting because M-theory suggests that all sub-atomic matter in the Universe is connected by, and consists of, a giant membrane of energy. Inside, the embassies themselves, I somehow knew, were unique, reflecting the laws, “architecture”, of their worlds, but they were all attached to the same three-sided structure-source-energy.
Our schooling in waking reality is marked by graduations, moving from one grade, one level of learning, to the next, and I feel last night marked an important milestone in my spiritual development. Instead of a diploma, I was handed a Red Book—the unending chronicle of my soul. And just as I traveled across the world to Egypt the day of my high school graduation, I seemed to have journeyed to another world last night, lucidly for the first time. Pretty cool!
UPDATE – August 16, 2015:
My interpretation of this night of dreaming, especially with the Book, developed over time. The following excerpt is taken from my new book Lucid Dreams and the Holy Spirit, in which I speak about these dreams:
I will admit that I felt encouraged, and rather proud of myself after this dream, singled out by “higher powers” for some sort of spiritual promotion. This dream seemed to indicate that, at long last, I was making some real progress in my life-long battle with the demons of doubts and fears, and all the character weaknesses they breed, which can become our soul’s worst enemies. I don’t think I was wrong about that, but I do see now that the Book I was given to keep, and make my own, is the Book, the Holy Bible, the Word of God. In my dream, I felt God’s Presence on every pure white page, but perhaps one reason so many pages were blank is because I had not yet begun reading it for myself.
“The reason Christ comes to meet us in Scripture is not merely to inform us, but to transform us. Therefore, the spiritual understanding of Scripture, or the allegorical meaning, is never just something detached, historical or catechetical. God speaks to us through Scripture and awaits personal response. Spiritual understanding of Scripture and the process of conversion are one and the same… We don’t reach out to take the meaning of the text and try to apply it to our lives. Rather, when we put ourselves before God in the Bible, the Spirit that dwells in the words reaches out and assimilates us to Himself. God’s word is alive and efficacious… This power… is a testimony of their divine origin.”i
I can now sum up my dream in a few words: Read the Word of God, and feel it come alive in your heart as it speaks directly and personally to your soul.
In my dream, the Book was also meant for my husband, and by extension for everyone, but I proudly claimed it all for myself. The Holy Spirit has been extremely patient with me, for the truth is that, in certain respects, I have always been vain, and considered myself extra special, God only knows why. Each of us has a personal relationship with God and his Word, so what I held in my hands in the dream was, indeed, the journey of my soul. But I conveniently made light of the several illustrations where the devil’s continued influence on me was expressed by little red horns on my head, and other telling details. Nevertheless, the end result was positive—I stood looking back into the Book smiling beatifically.
It took much longer than it should have, but I am at last properly educating myself with God’s own Words. When I read the Gospels, I feel the Lord speaking directly to my soul, and it often makes me cry for joy, mingled with shame and regret, at how long I denied myself His intimate Presence and support.
“Like many, I thought I could bootstrap my way to an understanding of spiritual truths through my reasoning powers alone, largely unaware of the actual content of God’s special revelation in the Bible… I was constantly seeking the truth, but usually through my own feeble efforts and presumptuous ponderings, and without studying the Bible itself or examining Christian doctrine more carefully… When it finally dawned on me that I was holding in my hands a written communication from the God of the universe, my life changed.”ii
I see the spectacular jeweled dress as representing my Spirit, which is one with God, the source, the eternal “fabric” of all manifest experience. For me, the dress expresses the marriage of heaven and earth, spirituality with sensuality, the Creator with His creation.
“The cutting and shaping of precious stones signifies the soul shaped from the rough, irregular, dark stone into the gem, regular in shape and reflecting divine light… Jewels symbolize hidden treasures of knowledge and truth, but also earthly love and riches”iii
When I was writing down my dream about the Book during my false awakening, my pencil cut into the fabric like a seamstress working on a living dress. Almost exactly one year after this dream, I came upon the following passage in the autobiography of Saint Therese of Lisieux:
“O my God! I don’t ask you to make Profession. I will wait as long as you desire, but what I don’t want is to be the cause of my separation from You through my fault. I will take great care, therefore, to make a beautiful dress enriched with priceless stones, and when You find it sufficiently adorned, I am certain all the creatures in the world will not prevent You from coming down to me to unite me to Yourself forever, O my Beloved!”iv
iMarcellino D’Ambrosio, When the Church Was Young:Voices of the Early Fathers, Kindle Edition, Locations 1756-1766
iiDavid Limbaugh, Jesus on Trial: A Lawyer Affirms the Truth of the Gospel, Locations 146-147, 190-191, 350-351
iiiJ.C. Cooper, An Illustrated Encyclopedia of Traditional Symbols, Thames & Hudson, Ltd., London
ivSt. Therese of Lisieux, Story of a Soul, Third Edition, Translated from the Original Manuscripts by John Clarke, O.C.D. , ICS Publications, page 158