(Wednesday, August 28, 2013) I am sitting on a wooden chair on the front porch of a large, two-story beach house, facing west. The house sits alone on a huge, barren plain, like a prop on an empty stage, in the midst of a black light sky. There’s a dim glow at the horizon all around. The ocean is too far away to be visible.
Chris is standing next to me. He has dark hair and is twenty years younger, but I still recognize him. He shows me a metal structure that’s shaped like an open, ribbed seashell at the front of the porch. It curls up into a low barrier. The house seems to sit inside this shell. He’s a little distressed; he waves his arms about and says, “Can you believe it? This is all the protection they give us!”
I telepathically understand that he’s fearful of a tsunami. I’m caught off guard by his expectation to be protected from a wall of water ten stories tall. I wonder who “they” are. The dream architects? The tsunami is Chris’ fear of death and in the dream I wish he didn’t feel he is the only one to face the inevitable.
Because of the surrealist surroundings (it all looks very much like a Salvador Dali painting), and because of my telepathic ability, I know I am dreaming.
I walk into the house and sit down at a table to play cards with Chris and a few other people. I look up to see a double row of Souls who are watching us play. No one else at the table seems aware of them. A female Soul in the back row leans forward and focuses her brilliant blue eyes on me. She has an electric aura that crackles with power. She is Chris’ favorite aunt Jo, who died of dementia in 2009. It’s very important to her that I recognize and acknowledge her presence.
Day notes:
We received an unexpected check from Jo’s estate last week, just in time for Chris’ birthday and his trip home to Chicago. I often find myself thanking her for the generous gifts she left us in her will. I have wondered if she can hear me.
The way Jo looks at me in the dream is very much the way she locked her gaze in on me the last time we met in the nursing home. She stared mutely for several minutes. It seemed she was trying to tell me something: something big, something overwhelming. It broke my heart.