A Dream: Much Blood and Tears


Oct. 19, 2010

I assume our dreams these days are instructive. I awoke from a dream feeling dazed and sad.  I was grieving and gripped by these thoughts.

Like Aeneas or Odysseus, (1) we are all wanderers, journeying from lifetime to lifetime in search of home, in search of ourselves. We’ve been set upon this path by the Creator Himself, (2) to awaken to Him.

Never at risk, only apparently in peril, we wandered from situation to situation, honing our wisdom and capabilities.

As SaLuSa said, it’s a game, though played with deadly seriousness. (3)

In this lifetime, we’re assured that the veil will be parted and we’ll come home to ourselves – not fully, for that could never be except at the end of all journeys, but to a higher-dimensional existence.

All we need do is let go of childish things and raise our vibrations as a bird spreads its wings to catch the wind.

We leave behind a world of stark separation and suppression, a world of divergent interest and competition, where we survived by  careworn labor, through the shedding of much blood and tears.

Until now we’ve been told as men that our cleverness and strength, as women that our beauty and persuasion, are what would save us. We’ve been convinced that consumption and pleasure are the signs of a life well lived.

We’ve been encouraged to consume ostentatiously, to smack our lips and grin as the highest signs of approval. We’ve been taught to elbow our way to the top and then use all the resources of society – banks, laws, courts, and police – to remain there. We’ve lived in gated communities of the mind and taken the lion’s share of wealth to ourselves.

And now that way of life is ending, unable to fulfill us, rejected and spent.

Before it ended, it nearly brought the world to the brink of destruction, only to turn a few into slavedrivers, in a world plundered,


polluted, even radioactive.

It required the intervention of our elder brothers and sisters from other times, places, planes, and dimensions to keep us from killing each other off.

Fairly soon, we’ll get the report back on just how bad it was and, if it doesn’t sober us, we haven’t awoken yet.

We’re told that it’s safe for us to wake up, to let go of the dream, to stop an endless carnival of carnage. I for my part am rocking back and forth like a woman in Darfur, surveying the damage, happy that it’s over but wondering what’s left.

We’re destined to leave it all behind, everything we fought and killed, sweat and scrabbled for, taking nothing with us.

I am dazed when I think back on the thrust of my existence, not so much in this lifetime, but historically. How could I have been so blind not to see where all was headed? How could I get behind such a way of life? Why did I agree to remain asleep for so long?

Like the man hanging from a cliff, facing certain death, who spots a strawberry, I settled for life’s momentary pleasures.

That’s what it was all about. The view from a balcony. The taste of strange food. The sun on the beach, clouds below me – “magic moments” for which I slaved a lifetime.

I am not sad to be rescued from this round of life. I am sad that I gave into it.

For now, I sit here weeping and rocking back and forth, dazed and sorrowful. It’s enough that I’ve awakened. Let me put distance between myself and the dream.


(1) Aeneas was the hero of Virgil’s Aeneid and Odysseus of Homer’s Odyssey. Both were wanderers.

(2) Him, Her It. The Creator has no gender, but ancients referred to It as “Him” and “Her,” to distinguish between silence and sound, stillness and movement, transcendent potential and manifest energy.

(3) “You are all acting out your roles for the benefit of the whole, and a game it may be, but one that is deadly serious. The emphasis is on getting you to awaken to your true selves, and taking responsibility for all you do.” (SaLuSa, Aug. 14, 2009.)

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