Yesterday was a singular day, one for the history books. I wrote The Trinity early in the morning, couldn’t do anything but let it flow. Then, I moved on to other things, got busy, but I was distracted. Something was coming, and I knew it. I hung with it. And then I wrote Home.
I had a weird experience once I had all the “send” buttons required to get the word out, and I want to tell you about it.
Months ago I had a very vivid dream. I feel gypped because I do not carry dreams from the sleep state much anymore. I have massive awakenings, and my body always flushes excruciatingly upon waking, but pictures, sounds, feelings, plans, no, they evaporate before my eyelids tremble open.
So, when I do wake up with a full-on dream, I savor it, remain still, relive it over and over until it fades, and this one in the spring, was it?, it knocked my socks off. I knew it to be prophesy for me, but I had no idea what it meant until yesterday afternoon.
When I pushed “send,” the weirdest stillness came over me.
I knew my work was complete. I knew I had just finished building a masterpiece. I knew that what I had written was, thus far, the only representation of my existence which truly mattered. Son, loved ones, nursing work, all of it took to the shadows as I sat in the stillness of a thousand lifetimes realized, re-reading an essay over and over.
And then I heard it. I heard the sound that had been in my dream.
It’s only today I have been given the connectors, bridging dream to present moment, present moment to destiny.
In the dream, I was in a basement with my son Sam. Incidentally, I have never dreamed about my son before. I urged Sam up the staircase, to the outside world. Outside all was concrete, vast and flat and vaguely sterile. Greyish white.
I told him we must find a bench. I knew “It is about to happen.” With the authority of an elder, we then took to an empty bench. I understood that to sit on a bench for what was to come was an honor given to few, and it was then I looked at myself and found I was in a flowing garment. I had a turban on, of all things, with a jewel inlaid in the folds of the satin.
We sat. Sam fidgeted. Nothing happened. Sam wanted to get up and run around. I told him no, he must remain seated. It was about to happen.
And then, up in the sky above us, appeared a very large metal vent, with sides that sort of splayed out to look like a horn. This thing was massive, shiny, intimidating. It took up most of the sky.
Then there came a sound at once so terrible and so familiar, that I could feel it ringing in my bones, my teeth, my blood. I took Sam’s hand. It was a wailing sound, a deep and pure fog-horn type song. It was not triumphant, not anything but itself. Then flames shot out of it, as it blasted its call, its clarion call. I knew Sam wasn’t afraid, and I knew that he had received an invaluable gift for having obeyed my admonitions.
Next, the sky turned a pearly white, gun metal grey, beautifully weird, so white. And then, all at once, the sky was absolutely littered with UFO’s. All different shapes and sizes. It was amazing to me that they weren’t bumping into each other, because there were so many of them. The sky was impossibly inhabited by thousands upon thousands of these things.
Next, the scenes got chaotic. All I really remember is what Monty Python called “knees bent, running around behavior.” There were chases and there were catastrophes and much gnashing of teeth. Everything that had once been up was down, and everything that had been hidden was in plain view. People all around were going mad, acting in crazy and unpredictable ways.
The truth is, during the dream, I had absolutely no idea what the outcome of any of it would be. It seemed each triumph in the dream was then met with profundly hopeless scenarios, with despair. This then alternated with obvious, palpable miracles. It was quite a ride. And I saw none of these happenings in relation to our simple life.
I was seeing the world’s response to the new reality. It was scary, the dream, at certain points, because everything seemed up for grabs, I was convinced, utterly convinced, that I was going to be extinguished somehow, and then I was alive, the last threat rebuffed. In the dream, it had been impossible to know if the good guys were going to win, or if the whole earth would be swallowed in confusion and destruction.
And then the end of the dream. Perfect conclusion, perfect symmetry, perfect grace, perfect peace. We had lived through unlivable times, and we were intact. And there was much laughter and then a deep, resonant joy and humor, because everything had always going to been fine. All had always been well.
The conclusion had always been assured. I was struck by that. Everything had always been known, and the outcome was more magnificent than the players had known, could have known.
I remember someone rehashing the dream with me before it ended, and they just told me to not take anything I see too seriously in my life, as infected and perverse as it may seem, because the outcome is assured.
“The outcome is assured” were the words, the understanding, that deep understanding that only comes from experience, when I awakened. I followed that bread crumb to the visuals, and relived the dream. Felt the ups and downs, the fear and the elation.
My friend Diane told me that the dream signifies that I am Sam’s teacher, and one of the most important things I am teaching him this lifetime is to stay grounded before looking into the face of God. Be seated. Be obedient, wait, know that all is in hand.
I think that’s true. I love Diane so much.
So, imagine my surprise when, while getting used to the stillness I felt after sending my love out into the world yesterday, I heard that horn.
Deep and clear and pure and terrible, it sounded in, around and through me. During that event and in the hours proceeding, I have been told two words over and over: “clarion call.” As is often the case with these implanted words, I had to look it up. That is how I have grown my vocabulary. I am given words, and then have to go look them up.
Sure enough, the meaning of clarion call fits what is being experienced. There never really is any doubt, when I plug a word into my online dictionary, that I am being given a gift, and the gift is unwrapped with the simple act of doing as I am told. Always. This remains the essence of my dance with my reality.
So much has happened in 24 hours. I think this is why I feel it is impossible for me to write a novel. I can go off on a 10,000 word discourse if you just offer me a random word. How could I possibly tell a cohesive story?!
I see the macrocosm in the microcosm, always have, and that is why this sort of writing, this voice, suits me well. Although I am now so very weary of the word “I”, so sick to death am I of having to say it, write it, think through it. It is boring to dwell in the micro.
The clarion call that I experienced in the dream was just a way to let me know that strange and crazy days approach. The call I experienced in my rocker yesterday, well, does that mean that the weirdness is about to begin? Will I be seeing ships and experiencing political mayhem now? No. What I understood when I heard that horn yesterday is that I have completed an initiation. I am done with one level of work. That’s all.
It has always been my dearest hope to find a readership. This was frustrating during all those years when I was not writing. Imagine, a painter angry that the world does not appreciate the painting he has not yet produced, a nurse angry that she cannot give healing to the guy sitting next to her on the plane. Crazy.
And now that I look back on this fevered output it has been my privilege to craft, I see that I have been writing a book.
The money thing comes up, and the mechanistic approach to finances is harder and harder for me to grasp. I am living on spirit now, eating and drinking it, thinking on it and breathing it now. I am altered in a fundamental way that has been creeping up on me for all my days.
The “how” of being financially supported escapes me, but the “yes” is whispered through each of the financial problems I work at solving. So, I guess what I am saying is, I do not know if someone will want to work with me on getting published and implanting my consciousness in like-minded readers, but I have an ingrown way of knowing how to move in this field.
I came into my awakening financially crippled. I have been in a scarcity mode, a scary reality, since my awakening in January. It has been necessary for so many reasons, and it is now no longer necessary.
But it is immoral, very deeply misinterpreting the data, to hoard this love.
Having been so poor, and so hungry for homecoming, I have grown highly sensitive to those among us who hoard their knowledge for something as coarse as cash. You know who I am talking about… someone you think you resonate with, you want to learn more from on the web, and you get to their homepage and find that unless you have cash on a card, you are barred from the data, or even the full site.
Holding God ransom. How gauche.
I can post my stuff for free on the web because I know that this voice cannot be replicated. I do not fear anyone hijacking or stealing this knowledge. How silly. I know full well the only ones who will read it need it.
And I refuse to believe that your being given this gift, being offered to me on my recliner in my jammies, should be sold. It must be offered in humility and deep reverence to the giants who might delight in my scribbling. It is just scribbling.
But the air was so sweet and full today, so lush with love and forgiveness and humor, and I have been moved to tears so readily by a song, the knowledge my cat Rosie gently gave me, the wind, that I feel somehow innervated by light instead of by sensation. I feel like my soul is on fire, and that I am made whole only through this mighty conflagration.
I will not hold my words ransom, and I will not extort my fellow travelers. I know my good is flowing to me like a mighty tsunami, and unexpectedly all that no longer serves is washed clean. After the delude even the most sticky detritus cannot be found. There is only new earth, new hope, and new, dry clothing.
After the essay Home was written yesterday, and after that call, that horn I felt, and through all the hours of resultant stillness and completion, I came to understand that what happens next is more than I could have imagined. I am breaking through dimensions here.
I am moving forward. And I am no better than anyone else, no more clever, no more loving, no more amazing. Yes, seeing those UFO’s in my dream, writing these words on my off time, raising my son to be honest and true, these are important. But they are details. Details. There is so much more waiting for me now.
I leave you with a question, a conundrum which is now attaching itself to my brain for study. I understood from the Teachers that on the 5th, we cannot have physical bodies. It is just too dense a construct.
Our light bodies are being constructed throughout the DNA process we are all experiencing, and when there is enough light, it is inevitable that we must move to the next harmonic. That makes perfect sense.
What I want to know is, The Teachers were from a much higher dimension, and yet they interacted with us in the physical. Seth hung out with Jane Roberts, and became a member of our secret society, published worldwide, studied by many. Jesus obviously gained his strength from a much higher dimension.
So, is it true that I can only go to the upper 4th while still in the physical? Am I doomed to always be so slow-witted and encumbered, or is it possible to somehow channel and live from a much higher dimension?
These are mechanical questions which will bug me until I get them solved. That’s just works with me.
The next time you see a boring or non-descript person, maybe even someone who appears overwhelmed at something you take for granted, please think of me, think of this essay.
Realize that there are many of us who are working on deep and ancient mysteries, even while we are standing in line to buy groceries, or are having to once again set a limit with someone who is mean. Remember that this 51 year old, simple looking person is conducting a symphony of meaning and depth while attending to the bullshit routines we all must.
Each of us are set on cracking the biggest koans of existence. Not of our existence. Existence.
Show compassion toward yourself for not yet knowing the answer to the question. I say that as much for my own benefit as yours. My goodness, I have put myself through the wringer again and again for not having understood something, once I finally and firmly grasp it. Oh how I have beaten myself up for not having understood something.
What comes next may or may not resemble what littlemind has told me is good and right to have. Littlemind has led me down some really shady back alleys and into some extreme and dangerous situations No more. I am at peace with however this shakes out.
I do know that since yesterday, I am feeling great joy toward my few remaining puzzles. I am not in despair for not having everything figured out. I am ok with this level.
And then the koans come, the puzzling starts, the pregnancy of another of these little star babies you now read begins to require moving more slowly, focusing on my needs, then attending to that deep and ancient instruction which comes not from body but from baby, saying, now sit. Now push. Now rest. Now breathe. Now push again. Now care for me and swaddle me and provide me a home worthy of my innocence and love.
I thought I would have nothing more to say. And the urgency with which I have been producing these works has abated, the edge is off, but the need remains. I am coming to understand I am midwife, mother and child. I will see to it that I manage the home, indulge the expectant mother, and nurture the baby. I am open to whatever comes next.