Claudia shared a dream on Monday of flying in the spirit plane. The vessel was a cargo plane with a clear bottom. Military cargo planes often fly overhead when I walk at Big Rivers park, and they are always a soft medium grey. There was also an underwater spaceship in Claudia’s dream that she said was a soft medium grey. Soft. Medium. Grey. Grey is a medium? Unformed. Un-manifest.
My aunt Mary Murphy passed away on Wednesday evening. Chris said he awoke abruptly in the night. Steel-grey light was shining in the bedroom window. He knew immediately that Mary had transitioned, and he prayed to his mother Kay to help Mary navigate.
Western culture tends to equate grey with depression and mental fog. But when my dreams take place in a field of grey light (I call it twilight), it seems to indicate transition: sometimes between life and death, sometimes between dimensions. My Jacob Wetterling dream transpired in twilight.
I did not dream of Mary’s death. But on Tuesday I drove to the nearest mailbox to drop off a card for her. The postman was retrieving the mail and putting it into his little white truck. I handed him the envelope and thought, “Just in the nick of time!” Which it was, because the card arrived on Wednesday morning, hours before she departed the physical plane.
I chose a meditation for Claudia’s dream called “Morning Flight.” Mourning Flight.
(Monday, November 14, 2016) supermoon in Taurus / tarot five of pentacles
I awaken in the early morning, maybe around 2 a.m., from a simple dream: my third eye is energized. The circular chasm of the chakra has opened my entire forehead. Through this window I can “see” into a clear, bright void, into the mind of The Creator. Several concise messages are transmitted to my consciousness that I remember when I wake up. Sadly, I know I will lose the information if I fall back into sleep, which of course I do. I am just happy I remember the dream at all. The missing knowledge is stored in my body, somewhere. Perhaps it will resurface again.
I watched election coverage last night until Pennsylvania went red and Trump was declared the winner. This morning when I woke Chris up to say good bye for the day, I broke into a loud, deep, sobbing moan. My heart felt the kind of inconsolable grief one feels at the loss of a loved one. “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!” He tried his best to comfort me and my rare tears.
This overwhelming sorrow did not dissipate. People at work tried to cheer themselves up by eating a huge box of sugar donuts. I did not join them. I did not want to feel any sicker than I already did.
I decided to go to the two medicine wheels at Oheyawahi on my lunch break. It was a warm, beautiful day with a turquoise sky and feathery clouds in the stratosphere. A white Prius was parked in the tiny gravel parking lot. I got out of my car and started walking the trail, wondering if I would encounter the driver of the car. Sure enough, I passed a young man who appeared to be Native American, lying in the brown prairie grass, holding empty plastic lunch containers. We greeted each other, then I continued on.
At the exact moment I reached the first medicine wheel, the bell tower at nearby Acacia Cemetery began to chime. It was high noon. I stood praying to the four directions. When the bells went silent, I moved on to the second wheel at the crest of the bluff, where the wind was blowing strongly. I covered my head with the hood from my black sweater, gazing for a few moments into the river valley, then turned back onto the path.
The young man was still lying in the grass as I neared my car. I clutched my hood at my chin and the wind swirled the edges of my thin sweater like a cape. He said, “You are wearing black for mourning.” I must have looked like the Grim Reaper. I looked at him more closely: he was wearing a black sweatshirt. “You are too,” I said.
We dived into the most intimate conversation I have had with a stranger in my entire life. We were both suffering shame, shock, horror and grief. He had been a volunteer for the Sanders campaign and had traveled throughout the Great Lakes for Bernie. He was a landscape designer, particularly terrified that the Paris Accord would not be honored, certain the planet was doomed. I said I felt our human species did not deserve to survive on our Mother Earth because we have been unable, unwilling, to stop the destruction of our animal brethren and the planet. He agreed.
We must have talked for a good twenty minutes, opening our hearts completely to each other. He was a wise and brilliant young soul whose quiet, truthful voice made me able to effortlessly express things I have said to no other human being. When our short time together was up, we walked to our cars, shook hands and looked sadly, compassionately into each other’s eyes.
