The concept of an immortal spirit battling to transcend our mortal flesh has murdered the Goddess, who in ancient Egypt and other enlightened cultures was revered as God’s Hand. Hence the worldwide subjugation of women and the violence perpetrated against them as on the body of our planet. When sensuality and spirituality are unnaturally divorced from each other, death becomes something to be feared instead of merely one side of a Divine currency.

All current global issues, mass extinction of species, the “war on women”, unrest in the Middle East, etc., revolve around the centuries-old abuse of the feminine principle—the Goddess, the Mother of God, God’s Hand, the Body of God—suppressed and suffering in service to the idea espoused by most organized religions of “pure” spirit, which in social and economic terms translates into profits achieved primarily by heartlessly controlling and destroying sensual, corporeal, manifested life by viewing it as ultimately inferior to the divine (masculine) will.

The hatred of women—the gateway into sensual life—is rooted in a visceral terror of death. Idealization of the pure masculine principle justifies abuse of the feminine in all its forms as the vehicle for this (totally abstract) fall from grace. But since pleasure as well as pain is an indelible part of physical incarnation, this extreme patriarchal attitude disguises what is, in fact, a spiritual impotence distorting healthy joys into abusive lusts rooted in the terrible fear that this life, this imperfect world, is all that actually exists.

The world is increasingly suffering from a crisis of faith exacerbated by materialistic pseudo-science stoking this destructive attitude by implying, if not outright stating, we are all serving a meaningless life sentence because there is (supposedly) no evidence of spiritual dimensions beyond our physical cells.

The fear of death, of cancer, of our body betraying us is exacerbated by the lack of connection generally believed to exist between our thoughts and feelings (our soul) and our physical health and circumstances, which conventional “wisdom” tells us is merely the result of either genetic “fate” and/or mindless (Godless) chance. If God only cares about our immortal soul, the body is left to the devil and becomes an enemy constantly threatening to betray us no matter how religiously we exercise and diet. The loving union of spirit and flesh, God and Goddess, thought and reality (now termed matter and energy) has been disastrously severed.

The Catholic Church accepts the principle of “incarnating the divine” but condemns sexuality except as a procreative act, and hides women and their bodies away in convents while only men perform the sacraments. What happened to the priestess?

Patriarchal civilization has crippled the Goddess—the creative forces of nature, unquantifiable intuitive realities, the mystery of the so-called subconscious and the power of dreams—with its linear conquering rationalism, which is not sustainable because the human soul will always fight back. Humanity is now in the desperate, critical throes of a battle in defense of life’s true eternal-sensual nature.

Everyday Magic #2 from Maria Isabel Pita on Vimeo.

Filmed at Home in the Blueridge Mountains of Virginia

Music by Ian Hubball “Dizzy Heights” & “Black Forest”

I was nine-years-old and visiting my dad for the summer. In school, history was my favorite subject so, naturally, his palatial one-story home—with its terracotta floors and painted columns—was transformed into a Mayan temple. One evening before dinner, I was pretending to be an archaeologist wandering through a tropical rain forest in search of ancient treasures. Parting the large glossy leaves of a potted plant, I spotted an archway leading into a large cave from which soft, mysterious whispers emerged. I edged closer and took a cautious look inside.

I recognized the maid’s black hair and green uniform, all I could see of her because a tall strong man in a brown uniform was pressing her against him. I realized they were kissing and was thrilled. I had found the temple’s secret heart! I had come upon a Mayan priestess in love with an adventurer from another world! I knew terrible things would happen to them if they were discovered and, sure enough, at that moment I heard my dad and stepmother approaching.

I ran up the corridor and blocked their progress. “Don’t go in there!” I whispered urgently.

“Why, exactly,” my dad asked patiently, “can’t I go into my own kitchen?”

“Um… because… um… Maria’s busy!”

“Busy cooking dinner, I hope.”

“Um… not exactly.”

My stepmother smiled, “Oh, Brian must be here. Maria mentioned he was coming to see her one last time before he left.”

I was relieved, and yet also disappointed. “You know about him?”

“Know about him?” My dad laughed. “If it wasn’t for us, they wouldn’t have been able to communicate with each other at all.”

“Um… they looked like they were communicating just fine,” I observed.

“Come here.” My dad draped an arm over my shoulders and we all walked back to the living room, where he told me their story:

“One afternoon when I got home from work, Maria ran up to me and waved a letter in my face. She told me it was from a young serviceman she had met at a Base dance, and that she couldn’t understand a word, so I translated it for her. Basically what it said was I’m coming back to marry you.

“On the morning of the day her suitor was supposed to arrive, the phone rang at two o’clock in the morning. Maria must have been waiting by the phone all night because by the time I answered it she had already picked up. I heard a man’s voice say I love you. Then I heard her say the only four words of English she knew, I love you too, at which point I hung up.

“In the morning, she looked distressed. Apparently, Brian had explained where to meet him, but she hadn’t understood a word he said! I asked her what Base they had met at, and drove her there. I knew he would have to be waiting for her at the entrance, because civilians aren’t allowed inside. As we pulled up she cried, There he is! and I dropped her off.

“The next day, Brian came to see me. He asked me to explain to Maria that she needed to produce her birth certificate so they could get married. Oh, no, I can’t! she told me in Spanish. If he sees it, he’ll realize I’m five years older than he is! I explained to her that if she failed to produce her birth certificate, she didn’t have any chance with him at all. They were married the next day. He’s leaving for the States tomorrow, and she’ll join him in two months.”

That was a very long time ago. The last time my father heard from Maria, she and her husband were living happily in Atlanta, Georgia with their two children. When an American serviceman stationed abroad falls for a native girl, the question always crops up, like a snake in paradise, is she mainly in love with the idea of living in the United States? This time it really was true love, and it’s a true story.

As to whether or not Maria and Brian lived “happily ever after”, I really can’t say, because even when there’s love (and all love is true love) life is complex, personalities, situations, etc. Life has taught me (the hard way) that sometimes love is not enough because as important as love is the soul’s need to grow and freely express itself. In my experience, the key to a positive, long-lasting marriage is whether or not the people involved grow together and keep up with, respect, and nurture each other’s deepest selves. A good marriage is, above all things, IMO, the most profound friendship possible on this earth.

I find myself hoping this story might go on… The only minor critcism I have is that there were too many “he said” and “she said” inserted in the dialogue where it really wasn’t necessary and which ruined the otherwise perfect, masterful flow of the conversations. But so what, who cares. If the author is this good already, I’m really looking forward to whatever he writes in the future. A great read.

When I was twenty-two-years-old, I dreamed I was walking through a parking lot. I stopped to buy ice cream from a vendor. I gave him some money and he handed me my change. “This is too much,” I protested but he replied firmly, “Keep it” so I slipped the $5 bill into the right pocket of my black jacket. Less than twenty minutes later, just after sunrise, I was leaning against the wall of some fast food restaurant waiting for a friend to pick me up. A kind-looking black man paused beside me. He asked me if I was hungry and offered to buy me breakfast. He handed me his card and I saw he was a social worker. I smiled and told him I was fine. “Well,” he said, “if you won’t join me for breakfast, buy yourself something to eat” and slipped a bill into the right pocket of my jacket, the same jacket I had been wearing in the dream. I’ll never forget how I felt when I pulled out a $5 bill. With a shock, I realized I’d just been given a clear message—your dreams are real, believe it. Unfortunately, though I cherished the memory in my heart, I continued to be afraid I was merely deluding myself. You see, science had apparently made it clear that even though life and the universe are fascinating they are also ultimately meaningless, a random explosion out of empty space which, by sheer coincidence, created us human beings and all our silly, i.e. powerless, dreams.

My soul knew better and kept dreaming away. Then, years later, I dreamed my husband and I were the only customers in a dimly lit shop. We entered a small, cave-like alcove in which were displayed exquisitely lovely and colorful pieces of expensive-looking jewelry. I selected a tiny butterfly pin and took it out to the cashier, a young woman. She rang it up, I paid with a credit card and she handed me a receipt for $0.00. Obviously a mistake had been made but she insisted we take the receipt. The next day, my husband and I were standing in a check-out line at Whole Foods when I noticed the register was subtracting prices instead of adding them up. I said to him, “This feels really familiar” as the cashier, a young woman, continued ringing up our items, unaware of the problem. I paid with our credit card and was handed a receipt for a negative amount -$220.00, at which time I was compelled to point out the error. A manager was sent for who, after nearly half-an-hour attempting to correct the problem, declared that in all her years working there she had never seen anything like this. For some inexplicable reason the computer, which was working just fine again, had decided to credit instead of debit us. The exasperated woman swiped our credit card and handed me a receipt for $0.00. We walked out of the store with the manager’s apologies and lots of free expensive food. Much more importantly, my dream had come true.

I got the message loud and clear: Pay attention to your dreams. Since then I strive to live as lucidly as possible, both awake and asleep. Most of us have heard of the Horse Whisperer, even the Dog Whisperer, and our ego—abused since childhood by materialistic pseudo-science—needs the same kind of firm, loving understanding only our soul, our Inner Self, can provide. The result is a healthier, much more enjoyable and mysteriously empowering life as the the artificial barrier erected between our waking and dreaming self is—like the Berlin wall—joyfully torn down.

Approximately three years ago, I dreamed I was asleep in bed when a woman woke me up in the middle of the night. I was still asleep but believed I was awake as she told me to get up and get dressed because she and my husband and I were going dancing in Washington D.C. I felt confused and yet also very happy as I slipped into a black dress glimmering with silver stars. A few days later, my husband returned from a totally unexpected job interview in Virginia (we were living in Louisiana at the time.) Remembering the woman from my dream, I thought to ask him if the woman he had spoken to had short light-brown hair with bangs, was slightly overweight, etc. He was astonished; I had described her exactly. A few days later, I dreamed I saw my husband walking through a building flanked on both sides by smiling people sitting at their desks who all now worked for him. Then I was standing outside the building, where I distinctly saw the initials of the agency he had just been appointed the head of. Waiting for him a few yards away, I watched him through the glass doors as he delivered a smiling, animated lecture to his new employees. I noticed there was a little more gray in his dark hair. Then my husband’s mother appeared. As we began walking together, I noticed she was limping. In waking reality, I wasn’t surprised when my husband was offered the position and we moved to Virginia, where I grew up and where I longed to return. One afternoon, approximately a year after the dreams, my husband called me one afternoon and declared, “You’re amazing!” He had just been appointed head of an agency with the initials I had clearly seen in my dream. He was also given an office in D.C. His parents, now only three hours away, came to visit us and, on their way home, his mother fell at a rest stop and broke her hip. She recovered well and is otherwise in good health.

There are so many elements in these two dreams which accurately foresaw future events it would be irrational to dismiss them as coincidence.

Recently, I had a dream involving my deceased father, my sister and the woman who, at the time, was her girl friend. My father and I were talking, seriously worried about my sister as we watched her and her lover drive off some place together which I somehow knew would take them from Route 81 to Carl Road. Later that night, I had another dream in which I followed a mysterious trail of water to my study, and realized it was how my sister had found her way in. Her furious ghost, white with shock, stood before me in the kitchen yelling, “I’m dead! I can’t believe I’m dead! She drowned me! She drowned me! I can’t believe it!” over and over again and letting me know it had happened off Route 81 in Tiverton. The next day I phoned my sister. Seriously concerned, I asked her if she ever made any sales calls off Route 81 in a place called Tiverton (she lives another State in an area I’m not at all familiar with.) She told me there’s a Route 81 twenty minutes from her office but that she’d never heard of Tiverton. I asked her to be careful should she ever have to go there, and to be especially wary of Carl Road. I didn’t tell her I had seen her ghost, only that I had had a bad dream with her involving this location. Two days later, I received a text message from my sister informing me that her partner had spent the first seven years of her life in a house off Route 81 in Tiverton, on Carl Road. Her early childhood had been harsh and was, it began to seem, the root of destructive behavior patterns in which my sister’s own personality and happiness were “drowning”. I’ll never forget receiving that text message—an address from a dream displayed right there on my cell phone as actual physical fact. I knew next to nothing about my sister’s new girl friend or the area where she grew up. The address was communicated to me in two dreams, all I did was choose to remember them and respect them. This, I believe, is the most important choice any of us can make when it comes to our dreams. The effect they had on my sister and her former partner cannot be measured, but a relationship that might have lingered unhealthily took a different direction and they managed to preserve their friendship.

Excerpt from my Dream Journal: Vivid dream last night, a long dramatic scene of S. trapped in a car running out of power fast; she barely had time to key in the code that would bring her help (my 4 bank pin numbers) as at first I observed her and then became her. When it was too late, when I knew the power was pretty much out, she frantically began pressing buttons as I heard someone on the other end urgently telling other “rescue” workers something had to be done to make it possible to help her.

S. was my best friend and approximately three weeks later she passed away. I had other dreams which subtly warned me she would soon be leaving this world. After she died, but before I found out, I dreamed I was putting my hair up and slipping a shower cap over it as I stepped into a shower. I realized I had forgotten to remove my house shoes when I saw dirt mingling copiously with the water and sullying the tub. I kicked off the shoes but now I was wearing slippers which, by the time I slipped them off, were already too wet to save. I had intended to wash my hair but changed my mind because it would be less work. I was wearing a thin, flesh-colored robe. It was all quite strange; I wasn’t sure why I was still dressed in the shower. Suddenly, I was lower down in the tub watching numerous and varied items flowing swiftly toward the drain. Unless I made an effort to stop them, they would all be sucked down by the force of the current and disappear forever. I let things go, one after the other, but then decided (as I focused on them) that I should probably try and save what looked to be a jump drive, a phone, a letter, and a box of cleansers or medicines; everything else was expendable. I wondered at my detached attitude, at the fact that I didn’t care everything I owned, everything that defined me, was flowing away. A young and robustly healthy looking young woman stepped into the bathroom just as I saw a luminous golden glow appear on the eastern shower wall. She said to me, “Good job.”

My friend’s body was found in the bath tub, where she had fallen when she apparently went into a diabetic coma. I truly feel as though I was with her when she “saw the light”, that I experienced what she did as her consciousness hovered over her body. She wasn’t frightened; she was letting go of this life and it was okay. I don’t know if she sent me the dream or if I somehow “saw” what happened but it doesn’t matter. When I think about her death now I don’t just see a body lying in a bathtub discovered by the police, I’m there with her and I feel at peace, even good. I’ve seen her several times in dreams since then, we’ve talked and been together, but that’s another story for another day.

It may not be required, but an emotional connection—the power of love—makes communicating beyond time and space possible.

One night I dreamed my husband, Stinger, and I were in his workshop threatened by a man with a gun. Stinger seemed oddly groggy and passive. The man shot him in the neck and then started walking toward me. I sank to my knees, pretending to submit to him so he would delay in killing me as, behind him, I saw Stinger get up and clumsily approach us. When he finally grabbed hold of him, I silently commanded my husband to slit the intruder’s throat. I saw it happen very clearly, and marveled at my lack of remorse, but it simply had to be done. Over dinner the following evening, I described the dream to Stinger and he looked at me strangely. He confessed that at some point during his colorful but formless dreams that same night, he had understood it was imperative he leave his dreams to perform an urgent task, which turned out to be slitting the throat of a man who was threatening me, after which he promptly returned to his own dreams. Something very strange and intriguing had happened—my husband felt compelled to enter my dream and obey my command to slit a threatening dream character’s throat. And we had both suffered the distinct impression it had to be done.

When an Air France plane exploded over the ocean just off the coast of Brazil, I was dreaming… I was falling through the sky helping a group of people descend calmly, without fear. I could see other small groups of people in the sky around me, other “guides” accompanying individuals who believed they were plummeting to their deaths and showing them there was nothing to be afraid of, that everything was all right and they could land as lightly as dancers. I was wearing a form-fitting uniform composed of three different colors. My duty done, in my mind I phoned my mother and told her I was somewhere off the coast of a country with lots of tall mountains whose name began with the letter “B”. I woke to the news of the crash and wasn’t surprised the colors of my dream uniform corresponded with those of Air France. I truly believe we all have the power to help each other in more ways than our current level of science recognizes, but that we catch tantalizing glimpses of in our dreams.

I’ll conclude my brief personal list of telepathic and precognitive dreams (because there are more) with one I had approximately two weeks ago. I dreamed of a woman who once lived in Virginia, a woman who wasn’t me and yet who, in the end, was me; I both observed her and became her as an old woman I “saw” pass away. Then the year of her birth appeared before me. I “squinted” my awareness, making an intent effort to focus, and clearly distinguished the date: 1880. I also saw/heard spoken the name of the place where she was buried: Buckeye Cemetery. In the morning, I Googled the name of the cemetery and, to my astonishment, it actually exists not far from here in West Virginia. And, remarkably, I was able to view all the tombstones because they had been photographed and put online. I scrolled through them. There was only one person, a woman, born in 1880: Susie S. Mayo 1880-1950, and carved on her memorial plaque were the words: LOVE LIGHT MY WAY TO GOD. I thought, Yep, that’s something I might have written on my grave. I was grateful to her/me for reminding us of what really matters.

As I was writing it, I emailed my friend Hugh O’Connor the first paragraph of this article and he replied: “One of the effects of this point of view is to make people more observant of whatever reality they find themselves in at any moment. If you expect interesting occurrences, you are more alert and on watch for them. And if you find them… life becomes so interesting that you start becoming perpetually appreciative of the marvelous everywhere around you. Dismissing synchronistic events as coincidence is another way of saying: There’s no point in deepening my moment-to-moment attention to the world and its possibilities, because there is nothing really interesting going on there. That conclusion leads to progressive inattention to the evidence of mystery, as people talk themselves out of seeing the magic that plays out persistently right before their eyes and of which they are always a part.”

Not to realize this is to sleep through life even when your eyes are supposedly open. It’s time to wake up to the knowledge we’re all dreaming, both awake and asleep, and that we each play a special, vital part in creating the worlds we inhabit.

A mirror that reflects the world and its events is not the same as a painting, for example, that renders reality in a way that reveals its soul and mysteriously deepens our experience of it. This novel is the literary equivalent of a photo album, lots of vivid snapshots but, in the end, that’s all it is; I didn’t feel any closer to the soul of the narrator, perhaps because she is sadly lacking in one and is primarily a rudderless collection of thoughts and feelings. What happens after the physical death of her father? Nothing, which is what this book left me feeling, along with sadness that people can be so tormented by what, in the end, boils down to an absolute lack of faith, a visceral terror of death, of annihilation of self, first as an exile and then as a corpse. Harrowing but in no way enlightening or uplifting. A really good novel can be realistic and sad as well as enjoyable and inspiring but Forgotten Country, while in many respects well written, is marred by a profound lack of vision.

“In State of Wonder, pharmaceutical researcher Dr. Marina Singh sets off into the Amazon jungle to find the remains and effects of a colleague who recently died under somewhat mysterious circumstances. But first she must locate Dr. Anneck Swenson, a renowned gynecologist who has spent years looking at the reproductive habits of a local tribe…” I can only wonder why on earth State of Wonder is the title of this terrible novel, and why I sat through Marina’s utterly annoying passivity; seen through her eyes, the world is a dim, sad place, and so too are most of the people in it (except perhaps upper middle class Minnesottans.) Seduced by some really nice metaphors at the beginning, I expected an intelligent book, something with real substance, but instead all that I felt after I finished reading it was resentment at how much melodramatic angst I was forced to endure before a rushed, completely trite and emotionally flat ending. Some quality writing throughout does not justify such a lackluster, uninspired, and factually marred story bristling with trite prejudices. This novel is an emotional drain, a pseudo-intellectual tease and a spiritual waste of time.

After driving for hours, we reached our destination, what there was of it. I got stiffly out of the jeep, and as I raised my arms exultantly over my head the tree branch above me moved politely out of the way. I blinked, but decided not to think about it.

We checked into our room, what there was of it. There was no key for the door, you had to reach in through the window to open it. Okay, whatever. Bare wooden floors and walls, two narrow, extremely uncomfortable looking cots, and an ancient metal fan that, when I switched it on, blew out the overhead light bulb.

The jungle all around the hotel was noisy, almost deafening with life.

“Those are Titi monkeys,’ my dad informed me.

“What type of vines are those hanging from the trees?” I asked.

“Hm… um… I don’t think… I don’t think those are vines, dear.”

“You mean those are…” I swallowed hard. ‘Those are snakes?”

“It’s okay. They won’t bother us if we don’t bother them.”

I thought I understood now why the monkeys were moving so fast.

Back in our room, I became acquainted with another species native to the area – a cockroach the size of my sneaker. After I stopped screaming, my dad suggested I wash up for dinner.

I tried not to worry about the snakes in the trees and thought instead of the Energizer Bunny as I shone my flashlight down a dirt path leading to the “restaurant”. When we entered, there were already a few other patrons, each one sitting by himself inside the one-room shack. They were all Caucasian and apparently none of them owned a razor. “What’s going on here, dad?” I whispered. “No one’s eating.”

“That’s because her husband,” he was referring to the woman who had seated us, “went fishing this morning and hasn’t gotten back yet.”

I sincerely hoped the fish were biting today. Fortunately, they were, and the undeniably fresh grilled snapper was the most delicious I have ever tasted.

In the morning (I lay awake half the night listening to the scurrying of insects left over from the dinosaur age) room service (a grinning little boy) delivered a basket of fruit and a pitcher of milk. I ate a banana. Without caffeine, I didn’t have the energy or mental powers necessary to tackle the basket’s other more exotic items. Then the sound of excited voices outside helped wake me up. I peered through the window. A jeep-load of tourists, Americans by the sound of them, had just arrived. The women were wearing shorts and high-heels and positively squealing with delight. “Oh, just look at this place! Have you ever seen anything so rustic in your life!? This is so exciting! It’s such an adventure!” That was eight o’clock in the morning.

Eight o’clock in the evening. “I told you we never should have come here!” shrieked one of these same women. “Let’s get out of here now! Oh my God, we’re all going to die!” I listened to the clatter of high-heels running down steps, followed by the sound of a jeep’s engine starting up. Then there was silence again, except for the pounding of the rain, the howling of the wind and the constant ominous rumble of thunder. “Dad?” I said in a small voice, “shouldn’t we leave too?”

“No, the bridges will be flooding”’ he replied calmly. “They won’t be able to see them in the dark. We’ll be safer here.”

“But dad, listen to that thunder! It sounds like the Apocalypse!”

“Don’t be silly, dear, that’s just the ocean.”

Come sunrise, the storm was still raging. We threw our bags into the jeep and ran over to the main building to settle the bill, but everyone had left during the night, including the proprietor.

The bridges were underwater, but it wasn’t too deep and there was enough light to see them by now. We made it across safely and once I was sure I would survive this vacation, I took a good long look at myself. I took certain basic amenities for granted and without them, it was a struggle to resurrect my hunger for adventure. Deprived of air conditioning, I was scarcely able to function; my unique, individual identity—always so busy with thoughts and emotions—felt crushed by an existential heal of heat and humidity. Jungles are not paradise, I don’t care what botanists or entomologists think. “Paradise on earth” is an oxymoron. Tropical forests are amazing, the unabashed wealth of detailed creativity lavished upon even the tiniest insect awe inspiring, they’re exquisitely beautiful and absolutely brutal. The soul appreciates jungles even though our physical vehicles have a hard time traveling in them. Barring naïve dreams of tropical paradises, if such places are allowed to become merely dreams of the past, then so too will life as we presently know and love it, with or without air conditioning.

The Rain Forest Alliance
Cool Earth
Kids Saving the Rain Forest

A version of this article was originally published by militarylifestyle.com

I did not immediately attempt to heal myself in a lucid dream because I felt I was suffering from a life-style injury that was teaching me important lessons about balancing both sides of my self, in every sense. I didn’t feel it was right to want to fix a non life-threatening condition which was helping me grow. On the other hand, the constant inconvenience of a brace—and the occasional excruciating pain when it failed to keep my wrist and/or thumb from moving in a certain direction—was really getting old. There was also the concern that my tendonitis (for so the chiropractor diagnosed it) if not dealt with in a timely fashion might become chronic. Therefore, before scheduling the dreaded cortisone shot, I consciously stepped past the mental and emotional assumptions causing me to treat the power behind the dream like a genie granting me only three big wishes I should be afraid of wasting. I decided to try to heal myself in a lucid dream.

September 2011

I find myself fully conscious of being awake in a dream where I’m lying on my back on my bed in our bedroom, which is dark. I raise my right hand toward the ceiling thinking make light and violet sparkles emanate from my fingertips which delight me, and also succeed in gently illuminating the ceiling, where a circular decorative carving has replaced our actual ceiling fan. I notice then that my right hand is wearing the cloth brace I’ve been subjected to for weeks now because of a strained tendon. (Yesterday it was worse than ever; I couldn’t move my thumb in any direction without pain shooting through me, so that I was obliged to skip yoga, which really upset me.) At once, I remember my intent. Raising both hands before me, I point the index finger of my left hand at the junction of my right wrist and thumb, willing a healing energy into it. I’m delighted to see a stream of lovely blue and violet sparkles (I can’t think of better word for them.) I then take the time to remove the cloth brace so it won’t be in the way, and direct the starry healing energy to just above the tender area. At one point I can’t see anything but I’m aware of lying in bed having this lucid dream, and of struggling to disconnect the desire to open my eyes in the dream with the urge to open my actual physical eyes, which will wake me up. I don’t know how I manage it, perhaps through sheer willpower, but I find myself once again gazing at the dream room and my hands. I turn my right hand so I can see the bottom of my wrist and trace my left index finger along it. I can see beneath the skin; a section of skin seems to be missing. I discern a black line or band of sorts which at first looks like an inverted syringe with something sharp and dark moving up my arm from my wrist. I’m quite fascinated to be seeing the inside of my body as I continue directing healing energy that consists of a shimmering violet light indistinguishable from my intent, which is the real mysterious source of the “corrective” power I’m focusing on my wrist and thumb. I become aware of a golden light slightly behind me to my left and give thanks for this dream as it slowly fades and I find myself awake in bed.

At once I told my husband about the dream, and removing the cloth brace said with complete faith, “Look!” as I moved my wrist and thumb around in different directions without any pain whatsoever. “It’s still not one-hundred percent, but it’s much better! And morning is when it hurts the most! I wish I’d had more time!”

I wrote in my Dream Journal: If I have to assign a percentage to the improvement in my condition, I would say seventy-five percent. My wrist also feels so much stronger, nowhere near as weak and vulnerable to being accidentally moved in the wrong direction. It’s very interesting how connected I feel to this part of my body after seeing it in the dream, and seeing into it. I look at it now and feel as though I can will it to get better, that my intent is still connected to it in an active way. I feel my physical body is akin to an animal, to a pet of my Inner Self which also serves as a mysterious tool of my Consciousness. I’ve become aware of all my hand motions these past few weeks, but this morning I feel reverently connected to my right hand and wrist in a way I never have before. As always happens with a lucid dream, I feel differently about something, not just think differently.

Two nights later, I became lucid in a dream again. I’ll skip to the moment I woke up in the dream:

…I decide I’ll fly and rise up into the sky. I’m soon well above the trees. I raise my hands before me and think, Well, I must be dreaming. The sky is a pale, somewhat murky watercolor blue. I look at my right hand thinking I might as well heal the whole tendon as I attempt to direct a healing energy up my arm, but I don’t see any sparkling lights emanating from my left fingertip. I keep at it, and give thanks to the power behind the dream, expressing how grateful I am for all I’ve been assisted in achieving, yet also admitting to being a little confused and in need of more guidance. There still isn’t any visible healing energy emanating from my hand. Abruptly spotting a building ahead of me, I think I perhaps I need to find a doctor in the dream (I had this thought earlier while I was awake, remembering how another person did that in a lucid dream). I fly up to a platform high off the ground on which a little building sits that is more like a big closet or armoire. On the left there’s a single dark-wooden door and on the right two wooden doors. I veer to the right, but then turn to the left because that was the door I originally intended to open. Inside the cramped space is a very attractive naked man with dark hair. He’s sitting up slightly, his right shoulder leaning against the wood, his well muscled body stretched out in a partially reclined position. I seem to wake him when I open the door. I tell him I’m looking for a doctor. When he doesn’t respond right away, I go and open the double doors. Finding nothing behind them, I return to the man, who indicates he can, in fact, help me. Floating in the air, I rest my elbows on the entrance to the room (like in a pool, only partially needing its support.) Facing away from me and going through some drawers, he looks back at me and tells me, “Your father’s dying.” I reply, “No, he’s dead.” He adds, “Well, he’s fine” and I say, “Yes, I know, I’ve seen him a few times” (meaning in dreams after he died.) He echoes, “Yes, I know. I talked to him just the other day.” “Really?” I ask. “Cool.” I’m rather enjoying talking to this dream character who is so forthcoming. Pulling a photograph out of a wallet, he shows it to me. I see a woman and an older man and state, “That’s not my dad.” I get the feeling he really can’t help me, but as I make to leave, he abruptly tells me he’ll give me a prescription for what I need. I’m happy about that but, as I begin gliding away, I realize he really hasn’t given me anything. Yet suddenly I do seem to have a prescription in my hand. Looking at it, I make out an image of a little girl crouching in front of a pile of colorful goggles and the “pharmacy” header reads Harbor Freight Tools. It seems a joke; it makes no sense. How can goggles help me heal my tendon?

I Wrote in my Dream Journal: Yet there is something to this dream, something about being able to see better in the flowing depths of my subconscious, of my dreams. I feel encouraged to think outside the box, creatively, as I did naturally when I was a little girl. This dream also seems to reflect my deepening faith and lack of doubts and fears (the part of me who was like my father in that respect) dying inside me once and for all. And the beautiful man strikes me as the vigorous good health of my Inner Self and gaining conscious access to it.

October 2011

In a dream, I’m looking at my right arm and seeing deep blue blood rushing along my veins quite vigorously pumped by my heart, which I distinctly feel beating swiftly. About where my wrist still hurts in waking life when I touch it, I see a circle rimmed in yellow, a pool of sorts with a dark orange-pink center around which my blood flows freely. My mother and I are studying my arm in fascination, and I personally experience an awe tinged with fear, because it’s very clear that should something happen and the river of blood cease to flow, or rise beyond the banks of my skin, I will die. Part of me experiences a frisson of fear but a very calm, centered part of me faces the inevitable and transcends it with the thought, the knowledge, that I will continue (my awareness, who I am) even outside the confines of my body. It is a highly lucid moment, after which I drift off into another dream.

I Wrote in my dream journal: It may not be related, but my wrist feels a heck of a lot better today than it did yesterday or even in the middle of the night before the dream. All I remember doing is looking at it, marveling, and then having that lucid moment where the twinge of fear was quickly overcome by the knowledge I would survive even if my heart stopped beating and my blood stopped flowing. I’m thinking now that a healing energy was flowing from my heart down into my arm because all day I have felt much better, not just in my wrist area, which is noticeably stronger, but in my right shoulder and my entire arm. Mind/Consciousness is the infinite ocean of creativity (the Dream) in which the shells of our skulls live, and information/energy rushes as blood through our veins, just as rivers flow between solid banks, carving the four dimensions and chambers of our heart, the “house” of our soul. Moving out of one, we can always build another. I learned from the chiropractor that the trauma feels concentrated in my wrist because where the tendon meets the bone there’s less circulation, less blood flow. My dream seemed to be increasing the blood flow to the affected area even though I wasn’t lucid.

October 2011

Walking back to the center of our living room, I raise my right hand before me and realize I’m dreaming! At once I remember my intent and, holding my wrist up before me, I instruct blood to begin flowing down into the affected joint. I can see blue veins beneath my rosy-beige skin in the location of the troubled area and am pleased. I open the door to the rec room and walk in. It’s dark in there but I head toward the bay windows as I plant my lips on my wrist. I push open the windows (which don’t open in reality) and there’s our yard. As I take off, I see Arthur (my puppy) shoot into the woods, a white streak beneath me. I’m here on our mountain property but the night is so alive, profoundly quiet on the surface and yet subliminally almost noisy. Coming from every direction, I hear a faint and lovely yet also eery music. I make out the faint drone of airplanes high above and see the tell-tale red and yellow lights of one going by. I just barely register a sound like voices, which I seem to know are other people having out of body experiences. I’m floating slowly and easily around my yard in a night subliminally lit by a silvery aura that isn’t actually light. I’m enthralled by the energy-music-voices humming all around me, and I know the moon is out tonight but I don’t see it or notice many stars. I turn toward my favorite tulip tree and greet it; I’m definitely really outside, this is not like a lucid dream. I try and remember to keep my lips on my wrist but the night is so oddly creepy and yet so real and the music fascinates me. I go peer through a window at the right side of the house and think Oh, that’s a room in my house! even though it isn’t really—I see an odd straight-backed narrow brown chair sitting before a bed. Floating over the yard again I say, “Arthur, did you go out?” but I realize it’s silly to worry because obviously he didn’t since I’m dreaming and he’s in his crate sleeping. I return to the rec room, moving my mouth over my wrist now, attempting to massage the tension out of the joint with my lips as I enter a room we don’t really own, and abruptly wake up.

I Wrote in my Dream Journal: My wrist feels the same as it did yesterday, but I think I know why—I was in a lower vibrational body. I have to be in a less dense, in a higher vibrational body, so to speak, to access healing energy that can flow down into my denser physical form. It seems to me the Other Side isn’t just one other level or world but multiple “realms”.

October 2011

I’m lying in a bed, not at home but in a room that seems related to a previous dream. I experience that wooshing sound with flashing lights and a loud noise I’ve read traditionally signals the beginning of an OBE. I remain calm; I scarcely need to tell myself not to be frightened; I know what’s going on. I imagine myself floating up out of my body, but nothing seems to happen. I know I should be out of body so I remember the technique of simply sitting up. I feel myself, and somehow also see myself, sit up out of my physical body. It works just fine and I think This is great, I’m going out to the ocean now. I walk to the door and open it. In the dim nocturnal atmosphere, I glimpse the dark figure of a young woman leaving the building ahead of me. I seem to startle her and I say something like “Don’t worry.” I go through a second door and the ocean seems to be getting farther away. Next I have to traverse something like a pub-restaurant and decide to fly over the tables toward a window. But I have to navigate through yet another space like a kitchen in the back. There’s a wall in my way and I’m getting impatient. I begin going through the wall, I can feel the texture of it and know I can make it through the barrier, but I don’t really feel like dealing with the slightly unpleasant sensation and decide to simply walk out the door.

I’m on a beach and there are lots of people, but I can’t seem to get to the water. Then all of a sudden it gets more confined feeling, as though the ocean is limited to an indoor space like a really nice resort built from dark wood with red carpets. But it’s no longer the open ocean, which is what I want. I command, “More blue! More water!” and am happy to see more blue, but I remain confined. I command, “More ocean!” and it seems to work but I’m still confined! I reach a point where I say, “I’m going to close my eyes and when I open them again I’m going to be at the ocean.” I envision a white beach and clear, bright blue water with no one around. I open my eyes. It didn’t work! All I see is a large pool in a room. I feel quite frustrated but decide to get on with my intent, which is to send healing energy into my wrist. As I look around at this open yet enclosed space divided into different areas I can see into (there are no people around) I think that perhaps I’m not supposed to change the environment in this dream. I begin walking down a corridor and, looking down at my wrist, I move it around and don’t feel any discomfort or tightness. I think that when I wake up my wrist will feel just like it does here in my dream body. I turn around and start walking back the way I came. Then, standing against a wall, I recite, “I’m radiant with health, I’m radiant with health” and begin walking again. I raise my hands slightly before me and visualize blue healing energy coming out of my left index finger toward the problem spot in my right wrist. I’m gratified to see it, and by how effortless it is. Then I decide to make the healing energy more direct and intense, like a laser, and it transforms into a violet shaft of solid light that darkens to a shimmering purple. I look for my tendon to make sure I’m directing the energy into the right place, and gradually begin waking up.

I Wrote in my Dream Journal: This morning I’ve been able to stretch and move my wrist and thumb even more freely than before just by remembering what my dream body felt like, and by visualizing the tendon as I saw it in the dream. The lucid dreams in which I direct healing energy into my arm seem akin to the electrical stimulation and ultrasound treatment I received at the chiropractor before doing physical therapy exercises. I’m concentrating on my thumb’s mobility now and on opening my hand fully, as I haven’t been able to do in weeks.

After each lucid healing dream, the flexibility and the strength of my injured tendon markedly improved. The area where my thumb meets my wrist is still a bit stiff and tender, my tendon isn’t one-hundred percent healed, but after only the first dream, I was able to remove the protective brace, and I haven’t needed to wear it since. I appear to have reduced the inflammation in a lucid dreaming equivalent of cortisone shots. Each time after I woke up, I moved and stretched my thumb and wrist in ways I couldn’t before, and I repeated these exercises several times during the day, feeling I was helping align my physical body with my dream body so that its healing energy could be more effectively absorbed. At first I was disappointed I couldn’t just wave a magic dream wand and completely heal myself overnight, but the process itself is so fascinating, my tendonitis now feels like a mysterious gift I’m still unwrapping. I’m discovering that if I strive to live as lucidly as possible, this spiritual practice carries over into sleep and enables me to become conscious in my dreams more often, especially if I’m passionate about accomplishing something. For me, the smallest events of every day life feel increasingly like choreography, and the more gracefully I dance—the more positive and lucid my thoughts and responses to everything are—the more life unfolds in a beautiful, magical way, not despite problems and pain but sometimes because of them.

I’m fifty-one. Thirty years ago, when I was technically younger, there were no personal computers, no World Wide Web, no iPhones, no eBooks, etc. I grew up watching the original Star Trek longing for Kirk’s “Computer.” Thank you, Google! Computer technology possesses—as the 3D film Tron Legacy powerfully expresses—profound, spiritual, implications. Storage Clouds, all the rage now, reflect the human soul’s desire to transcend a physical vessel, which inevitably crashes, without losing all the unique files of our individual thoughts and feelings, our imperishable heart-drive.

With just a brush of a fingertip, the little black electronic temple of my Xbox 360 awakens with a musical trill as a green light opens the way to another world… a world that exists simultaneously with my own and yet which I enter as a character, a creative projection of the real me… I’ve read about all the latest scientific theories concerning parallel universes and infinite probable selves and circumstances all existing simultaneously, but it wasn’t until I began gaming that these theories, intertwining with my belief in reincarnation, began having a visceral, liberating effect on me. And it just so happens that at the same time I began gaming I began re-reading Seth Speaks: The Eternal Validity of the Soul by Jane Roberts. By then I had created two separate characters in Skyrim, the first a male Mage, the second a female warrior. Skyrim felt like a totally different place when I was playing as her; I traveled routes, met people and had experiences my first character never even dreamed of. As she relished all the quests my other character avoided—they each had distinct personalities—I thought how strange and exciting it was to wander the same streets as a newborn, so to speak, while never running into my other, older character. I thought how cool it would be if they could meet up, for the real me was aware of both of them, engaged in their adventures and growth without being subject to any of the rules and constraints they were forced to live by. Even though the Mage felt older to me, my two characters exist simultaneously inside the game’s mathematical molecules, the magical building blocks of 0 and 1. Then I read what Seth had to say:

“Now these various plays, these creative period pieces represent what you would call reincarnational lives. They all exist basically at one time… these “plays” are highly spontaneous affairs in which the actors have full freedom within the play’s framework… Your own multi-dimensional personality is so endowed that it can have these experiences and still retain its identity. It is, of course, affected by the various plays in which it takes part… in them the multi-dimensional personality learns through its own actions… You are the multi-dimensional self who has these existences, who creates and takes part in these cosmic passion plays, so to speak. It is only because you focus on this particular role now that you identify your entire being with it… consciousness is in a state of becoming. It is learning the art of actualization… And all of this is done with great spontaneity and unbound joy.”

After only a few days of playing Skyrim, the world felt less solid, less real in the sense of confining. I would step outside and perceive the light, the inner glow of trees, leaves, clouds, sky, everything. I felt distinctly surrounded, embraced by a creative force shining in and defined by forms no more real, as in permanent, than the world in a video game. In those moments, it was easy for me to believe my current personality, my ego, is merely one character or expression of who I truly am. Creating and playing are indistinguishable from each other. I felt what I believe—the individual I presently am is a creation even though there’s no separating my limited, seemingly confined existence from the Creator anymore than you can separate video games and the characters inhabiting them from their creators.

Just as characters obey the rules of the game they’re a part of, rules which are irrelevant to the Gamer, so too do we obey the rules of our physical existence even though these laws are, in essence, creations of our Inner Self. The ego we’re currently playing through lives by certain rules but, like our virtual characters, we possess a mysterious mainline to the creative consciousness defining and manifesting these specific parameters. Games provide their characters with clues about how to proceed by way of messages that flash outside the action, for example “Your health is low, take a potion” or “You do not have the necessary skill to do that (yet.)” We’re never really alone. In our hearts, with our intuition, we feel and therefore know things the brain merely serves to put into words.

My characters make mistakes and learn from them, and so do I. The other day my husband told me he could see changes in me brought about by my virtual experiences, “as though you actually lived them.” Some may say games aren’t real, but by that very logic you would have to say life isn’t real either, because all experiences are real in the sense that the soul is stimulated and even transformed by them. I wholeheartedly believe we are all of us part of one infinite drive to create, to play, and that existence on the physical plain is specifically designed to drive that point home while helping to teach us how. Life as we experience it now might be akin to a first grade classroom, who knows. Imagine how boring, how crazy it would be to identify exclusively with one character in one game.

My Xbox 360 and Skyrim were the Christmas gifts I requested last year. Gaming has deepened my identification with my Inner Self, for which time is always an exciting, perpetually unfolding present, pun intended, a gift we’re unwrapping inside the tree of Life. The more I play Skyrim, the more my own home feels like a virtual house and my current persona like a character of the real me—the Divine Gamer, if you will. Gaming highlights the haunting, thrilling truth that neither home is more real than the other one to my Inner Self, who loves inhabiting potentially endless creations.

I thoroughly enjoy the adventures I have through game characters, each one akin to a life time as I become mentally and emotionally involved in their experiences, but at the end of the day, I am so much more than they are, and much more than myself.

I’m living in an apartment in some quiet city and I really want Mami to come over for dinner. I know she lives nearby and that it will be a simple matter to drive her home afterward. I really want to see her and have her over, so to this end I find myself out on the street in front of my building communicating with my brother, ostensibly by telephone. He seems to think it isn’t possible and I say, “Ah, but you see, I’m dreaming, and in this dream I know her address. It’s 118 Vial Street.” I begin walking as I speak, clarifying, “V-i-a-l as in a vial, not v-i-l-e.” At this point, I can’t see a thing, as though my eyes are closed, but I’m determined to imagine/visualize the streets and houses as I know they’re laid out. I come to a corner and have to decide if that’s zero or 1st street. I determine the next one down is 1st street and I keep following my visualization even though it’s difficult to construct an entire residential neighborhood with just my imagination. I make myself arrive at the appropriate address (these are older three-story residences as found in Arlington, MA) walk up the steps and tell my companion, a featureless silhouette, to try the key, and it works! “Good job,” I say, and enter the building with confidence, because now I know the door to the apartment can also be unlocked.

I start up the steps and when I come to the first landing, suddenly I can see it very distinctly. Yes, there’s the white paint and slight orange stains on it, all very familiar, I’m really here! I made it, I’m in a lucid dream. In that instant, someone grabs me from behind and propels me up the remaining steps to the door of the apartment. It feels good, part of the thrill of being conscious in a dream, but I don’t want to get too excited and wake up. We enter the apartment and I wonder to which one of my probable selves it belongs and what I’m meant to discover and do there. Such a sense of achievement already that I made it into the world of one of my Soul’s other selves. The person behind me is still propelling me forward and I see a man’s silhouette as we pass in front of a mirror hanging on the wall. A very small part of me is anxious but for the most part I’m more curious than concerned when I ask him, “Who are you?” and when he doesn’t respond, again, “Who are you?” I manage to turn around and am pleased to make out in the darkness a hard but handsome face and hair that’s at least shoulder-length even though he remains a silhouette. “Is there something I’m supposed to know?” I query, thinking he might have something to tell me. I think I repeat the question before he answers, “Just go for it” his voice firm yet encouraging. I say, “Okay!” I get that he wants me to just flow with the dream and see where it leads and I’m more than happy to do that.

Now it’s obvious that the occupants of the apartment are asleep because it’s night time and the place is dark and quiet. I get the sense of white walls and furnishings. It’s laid out essentially like my waking life house but it is not in the least familiar; it’s another home entirely. I head down the hallway and see a little boy standing just outside the bedrooms in the dark corridor. I approach him smiling. “Hello,” I say, “are you dreaming too?” He seems to nod but I sense he’s confused, he’s very young, and like many little kids he has a natural ability to see disembodied people. I speak reassuringly and brightly, “That’s great, we’re all dreaming. We’re awake in a dream.” What’s curious is that he has what appears to be a mask that covers his entire head quite tightly, as though made of thick plastic wrap that’s a rather sickly green in color.

The door to the master bedroom is open and I can see his parents sleeping in there. I know without thinking about it that they are not very pleasant or intelligent people, and I discern the big pot belly of the boy’s father and the not generous or caring thinness of the woman. Their personalities are clear to me even though I can barely see them. I follow the boy into his parents’ bedroom, into which he’s backing up as if pulled in that direction. Indeed, his mother sits up and impatiently tugs him up onto the bed with her, telling him to shush because he’s mumbling as though talking in his sleep. In a flash, I understand that he’ll grow up being told dreams aren’t real and receive no encouragement in developing any ability he possesses. I lean over him where he’s lying in bed with his mother and tell him, “Don’t believe what they tell you. Keep dreaming!” As I speak I understand that I’m a teacher and that the man with me has brought me to, and is supervising, my first lucid instruction, because I know that I’ve been helping, or teaching people in a similar fashion in non-lucid dreams for a very long time, but that I’m being promoted, in a sense, and this is my first time on this level. I understand all this in a flash but don’t allow the thought to distract me with pride; I’m simply content.

As I leave the bedroom, I wonder how the kid can breathe in that mask, which he has to wear around his parents, but I am hopeful, I seem to know for a fact, that for the rest of his life he’ll remember this dream; he’ll remember the man and woman he met in a dream who confirmed the fact that he was dreaming and that it was real, and that this memory will aid him in overcoming all the obstacles he will encounter in his upbringing. Back in the living room, I am drawn to the western wall, which has a window lining the bottom, where I crouch and gaze out at a beautiful bird sitting right outside the glass. “Oh, look at this bird!” I exclaim to my companion, clearly seeing it’s deep yet bright-blue feathers that are faceted like jewels with other rich colors. I force myself to look away from it because I don’t want to wake up as a result of focusing on one thing for too long.

I can feel the sun rising and it does indeed seem to be morning because the family is waking up, walking out into the living room. My companion (still a tall, dark presence I don’t really focus on) remarks on the attractive sight of the man’s hairy pot belly rising from the mattress, which amuses me. And what’s interesting is that the little boy can still see us. As his parents go about their groggy morning business, he stands against the wall staring at us. My companion then demonstrates to him that you can fly in dreams, that you can do anything, and I join in by rising off the ground and doing a slow backward flip, something I’ve never done before in dreams, and I’m not quite sure how to do it, but I seem to succeed and understand that I’m educating myself as well, learning not to be so linear in the sense of behaving in dreams as though I’m in waking reality.

I get the feeling it’s time to leave but for some reason we can’t go out the front entrance and I spend a few urgent seconds prying open a glass door from the wall. I succeed and it’s a relief to get out of the apartment’s stuffy atmosphere into a lighter, fresher space. I can see through the walls and ceiling of the corridor to the outside world, a sort of city street scene, but I’m still inside. This is a familiar problem from other lucid dreams, and I’m determined to find a way out. I spot some stairs and head down them, wondering and hoping my companion will follow me, but then I hear him ask me where I’m going. I look up at him and tell him, “We went up to get there, so I’m going down to get outside” which makes perfect sense, but he informs me, telepathically (as all the speaking in this dream has been really) that’s not where we want to go, and I understand he means it’s real busy and distracting down there. But I’ve found a door and walk outside in triumph; I’ve made it out of the confining space and am now free to fly away if I please. I distinctly see two men in suits speaking and I admire the face of one of them as I walk by, especially his mouth, thinking, what a sexy mouth he has and hoping he’ll notice me and tempted to interact with him, but I keep walking and feel the dream fading away as I find myself lying in bed at approximately 5:00 a.m.

***
In another dream, I recognize events as ones that I’ve foreseen in a dream. Walking past my sister sipping juice in a corner of a restaurant, I tell her I’ve seen her doing this in a dream. I’ve also seen the men helping me load my belongings into a moving truck doing it in a dream. I’m elated that what I’ve dreamed is coming to pass exactly as I saw it. I walk outside at night, on cold wet flagstones, to the shining dark-blue car I’ll be riding in to my new home, and in which I sense deceased family members already sitting, waiting. I watch as items that might have been left behind are hastily stacked on a round, Indian-style table with a raised gilded border, items I recognize from already having unpacked them in reality, so I know they’ll make the journey safely. I seem to recall a carved ebony elephant and other aesthetic items with an Oriental look. Then walking with Mami inside a small, shadowy, tasteful gentleman’s-club-like bar, I’m telling her, in an excited voice, about how my dreams are coming true. The dark-haired bar tender can’t help but overhear, and I’m glad he’s interested in what I’m saying. But then someone walks in and demands his attention and I have to keep moving. Just beyond the bar, in a white, well-lit foyer of sorts, I pause before walking outside. Now the man is standing in the doorway of a small space like a break room listening to me and watching me as he leans against the wall smoking a cigarette. I really have to leave but, before I go, I walk right up to him and kiss him full on the lips. When I step back, he dramatically blows out the mouthful of smoke I almost made him swallow. I know he’s deliberately being amusing, but that the truth is he doesn’t really want me to go, he’s only acting this way to make it easier for me. I recognize, as in countless other dreams, that we can’t be together now, not yet.