"in a dream..."

"o dreamer, 

leave thy dreams 

for joyful waking..." 

I am a lucid dreamer.  There, I have said it. I always have been.  I don't know of a time when I have not had very beautiful, promising, inspiring dreams.  The above lines, from one of my favorite hymns, "o dreamer", has always made me question the validity of those dreams.  

I do not have lucid nightmares.  I do not have nightmares.  At least not since I started paying attention to my sleeping moments and thoughts, as vigilantly as I am to my waking thoughts.  

But still, I have always wondered about the place of dreaming in the life of a spiritual thinker. Do we just dismiss anything that happens when we are sleeping -- good or bad -- as if it is simply an illusion?  Do we accept that whatever happens in our "waking" moments as more real, more worthy of our active conscious acceptance or dismissal. 

These are questions that have poked at me for most of my life.  

Just the other day, I glimpsed a bit more of the truth (for me) about these questions.  It came in the form of a Bible story -- from I Kings 3 -- that is probably very familiar to anyone who might have stumbled upon this blog.  

It is the story of Solomon's encounter with God in a dream -- yes, in a dream.  God asks him what He can do for him.  And Solomon first thanks God for his care of his father, David the King, and then he asks for "an understanding heart..." which God gives him -- in a dream. 

This was such a beautiful gift for me.  And an admonition.  How many times have I encountered good, the promise of divine purpose, a loved one, an expansive sense of community, spiritual gifts -- in a dream -- and have woken in the morning to dismiss them, as "just a dream," -- beautiful, but not real.

How many times have I glimpsed the promise and turned aside in morning to return to my "real life," -- in which that same beautiful promise seems untenable and beyond reach or comprehension?  How many healings have I had in a dream that I did not accept or acknowledge in the morning in the light of a new day?  How much good have I dismissed as just a dream? 

I am vigilant about preparing my heart for the silencing of my head -- the human mind -- before going to sleep, so that I can experience the restfulness of an active conscious sense of God's presence in my life.  I redeem the "day" I have just completed with attentiveness and gratitude.  I nourish my heart with passages of Scripture and the writings of Mary Baker Eddy, I claim my right to consciously rest in the presence of Mind. 

But time after time, upon awaking, I shake myself from the dream and often sigh with sadness that it was just a dream.  I might wonder about the message, or consider the symbolism, but I have never given myself permission to be blessed, bestowed, healed, transformed -- for good -- through a dream. 

No more.  The Bible gives us precedence for the acceptance of divine good.  If Solomon could have that encounter with God in a dream and accept God's bestowal of a wise and understanding heart - so can we.  So can I.   So can you.  

Scripture encourages us to "try the spirits whether they are of God."  This is required of us whether awake or asleep.  Is it good?  Will it bless?  Is it self-absorbed or humanity-enriching? 

Mary Baker Eddy gives some sense of this new view when she asks: 

"Is there any more reality in the waking dream of mortal existence than in the sleeping dream?"

I would ask is there anymore reality in the waking dream of spiritual existence than in the sleeping dream?  

Not long ago I had a beautiful sleeping dream in which I was doing something that I could not do in my waking life because of a physical challenge.  In that dream I had been healed through Christian Science treatment and prayer.  When I woke, in the morning, I was able to move very freely -- for about fifteen minutes -- before I "remembered" that it was "just a  dream."  And suddenly all the symptoms surfaced.  I had dismissed the healing as being "just a dream," and got back to work in addressing the claim as if that healing experience had not happened. 

The healing came along.  But, what if I had been more aware of the uninterrupted presence of spiritual good operating in consciousness -- whether waking of sleeping -- and had defended that healing with the same clarity about God's love, that I defend every Christian Science treatment, its healing effect on human experience.

Solomon didn't wake up from the dream and say, "wow, that was cool, but it was just a dream.  Maybe some day God will bless me that way in my waking moments."  He accepted the spiritual good -- and acted out from that new view of himself. 

Whether in our waking or sleeping moments -- we can accept all good and dismiss what does not align with God's love. We can reject the nightmare -- waking or sleeping -- with the same confidence and relief that we feel when we wake in the morning and realize that the monster was not really chasing us up the stairs.

And we can accept the good we experience in a dream with the same joy that we feel rising from the bed of pain, having realized God's healing presence in our lives.

"O dreamer, leave thy dream for joyful waking..." now means something very different to me.  I now know that I can leave a dream-sense of the good I have experienced in a dream for a realization that God's presence knows no bounds of sleeping or waking.  If I have experienced a sense of God's love -- it is real, it is never to be dismissed or discarded as just a dream.

Thank you Solomon.  I have read your story countless time and not seen the gift in it.  How many more of these Scriptural promises are waiting in the stories of other spiritual pioneers and teachers?  The classroom is vast - the lessons are endless.  

offered with Love, 

Cate

"in restless dreams…."

"in restless dreams
I walk alone,
narrow streets
of cobblestone…"

Emiliana Torrini's hauntingly beautiful recording Simon and Garfunkel's "Sound of Silence," was waiting for me when I woke this morning. This may not be an obvious "spiritual" post. And I am not really even sure I will be able to make the written connection that I feel in my heart. But this blog is all about speaking from experience -- honest experience -- and this is mine. So here goes.

I am a prolific dreamer. This is not something I am alarmed by -- at least, not any longer. As a child I was what is referred to as a lucid dreamer. I only had to close my eyes and I would dream. Often two or more dreams at once. I was aware I was dreaming. I could turn my head and change from one dream to another -- depending on the level of terror, or joy, a particular dream was evoking at that moment. When I'd return to the dream, whatever had disturbed my peace would have passed, and I could re-engage with what brought me respite from reality.

No, I am not kidding. My childhood was pretty scary. These dreams were my escape from the "real" terror of being me, in the world I was living in.

I became very adept at initiating these dream-retreats from reality. I believed that they saved me from madness. I still do. As I grew up, and discovered prayer, I was less inclined to disappear and more willing to stay in the moment, where I would pray for clarity, courage, and a calm trust in the power of good to overthrow evil.

But there was one dream scenario that I hoped would never fully disappear from my life. In it, I walked the narrow stone streets of an ancient village. The pages I held were not in book form, but in scrolls. I read hungrily, as the sun warmed my shoulders, and the scent of lavender swarmed like honey bees around my head. 

I was often alone, but occasionally I sensed someone by my side. If I turned to look at my companion, the dream would end, and I would be back in my bunk bed, alone in the dark -- facing the terror of a long night, just waiting for dawn. If I continued -- without turning, I stayed in the warm sunshine, reading from fragile pages, until morning. At some point, I just stopped turning to see who was with me.

As childhood turned into young womanhood, the presence of this "other," was something I actively sought out when darkness threatened. If I thought that I would even catch a glimpse of "him," I would close my eyes to avoid waking. I wanted nothing to interrupt those hours of peace where I was wise, innocent, and free.

Then in 1971, I was hiding away -- tucked into the crooked arm of a tree, my little aqua transistor radio playing as I read -- when Simon and Garfunkel's 1965 hit, Sound of Silence, came on. I can't explain why I'd never caught the lyrics before -- perhaps because I'd really only heard it on the car radio with 5 other siblings talking and screaming in the backseat with me -- but for the first time they spoke directly to me. I'd been there too -- on those narrow streets, during restless dreams. I felt known.  And I felt not so alone in the universe.

I can't tell you what all this means. I only know that, suddenly,  I wasn't so lonely and afraid of my life anymore. You see, no matter how many times I'd been told that God loved me, I didn't believe the person saying it really knew what they were talking about. They were referring to a God that I could accept was loving and good. But they didn't know me, and all the darkness I had faced.  

They didn't know all the terrible things that had changed me from a little girl, to a creature who escaped her nightly terror by retreating into dreams of ancient villages and make believe stories.  I could believe all they said about God, but not that He could possibly love me.  But the "other" that I walked with in my dreams was warm, kind, quietly present.

It would be another 30 years before I would have the courage to open my eyes in a dream, and look into the face of the person who'd shadowed me during those long walks down the narrow streets of a warm village. I was not disappointed.

I guess what I am trying to say is, don't be afraid. You are not alone. In Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy makes this remarkable -- and deeply compassionate -- statement of encouragement:

"Whatever inspires
with wisdom, Truth, or Love 
— be it song, sermon, or Science — 
blesses the human family
with crumbs of comfort
from Christ’s table,
feeding the hungry
and giving living waters
to the thirsty." 

Those dreams, and later the song that made me feel "understood," were crumbs of comfort from Christ's table for me. Now, when these dreams come in the night -- they are sweet reminders of God's love for the little girl I was, and the woman she was allowed to become.

You see, you just never know where someone is, what they are facing in the darkness, how they are navigating the narrow streets, or who they are being chased by in the night.  And you never know whether it is the "waking dream or the sleeping dream," that seems more terrifying to them.  But if you can just "be there." Silently when needed, and sometimes without a face -- but always with a prayer, there will come a time when they will find their way into the light. And they will remember -- and give thanks. I promise.

offered with Love,

Kate