This is normally when I’d write a poem. The vast expansiveness of whoa-ness lends itself best to poetry. But, I don’t have one handy and I usually do so… we’ll go another route.
I’ll try to speak in all the languages so no one feels left out. But those who like all things spelled out will feel left out because that is just not the way of the Great Mystery. The Great Mystery speaks only when no one is listening, appears only when no one is looking, moves only when everyone is sleeping. But some of us know anyways, we know, we feel, we tune in, we remember.
We remember ten thousand oracles and twenty thousand nights and four hundred hopeful ones and bride’s who give away their rights. And words that do not make sense to any but those who’ve sat in the lap and the labyrinth and the sarchophogi and bliss of He who isn’t and never was so He is…eternally, uncaptured, unchained, unnamed, unknown yet as a whisper and a knowing and a thing moving ever so slowly.
I woke up this morning to such a cool dream. Patanjali they whispered, my wakers, my whisperers, Pantanjali, don’t forget…. Well, which is it, I said, how do you spell it, what’s this all about? Too late, too many questions, the vision fades, except for the stars, the last images, the home skillets present that remind me.
Where was I? Where was you? I was walking in another land. The stars! I said, the stars! There before a sky like no other. 10 times that of the sky we look at. Twenty, maybe even a hundred times bigger. There were shrines to angels of all things. Angels. The shrines set a back drop, arched and winged collonades so that the beauty of the wingspan, the colors in the sky, the night sky, could be seen… just….so. No ceramic, ivory, glass or marble carved into the shape of, just a frame through which the sky itself, the ilk was able to reveal its/them/self.
I took a picture in my dream. With a camera I’ve seen before in other dreams. A young man, a home skillet, photo-bombed himself into the frame. I wanted to take a picture of the moving stars, the stars that were moving and telling me where and how… what was actually next, primordial connections, actually coming because it was in the stars being birthed, lines drawn, movement moving, and his curly black hair, curls bopping on into the frame. I was here! He said without saying. I escorted She! I was in the dream while dreaming of a dreamer dreaming the dream. And we danced! And I did not break her heart! We looked at shrines of Angels. And skies that actually guided. A sky so alive with the Power of the Creator, life was lived quite fully, without fear.
That’s the way of dreams and visions, visualizations of the meanderings of our imaginations. They are poetry, symbolism, obscure and without meaning except for those who’ve been there, who’ve sat on the banks of a world whose sky is quite unlike this one. Who may have perceived an ancient shrine that no longer exists in our world or perhaps never did, but yet, is recognized as a place once visited.
Perhaps in a dream…