A Shooting Star

 

The mid wife looked up at me from where my newborn child lay and asked, “Do you want to cut the cord?” It was a special moment in the living room of our little house. The doctor stood nearby and my tired but happy wife lay on her back with the baby on her stomach.

Doctor, at birth of Naomi

Morning light streamed in the bank of windows nearby. I took the scissors offered me and cut the cord—separating mother and child. About a foot of cord stayed attached to my daughter’s navel. I hardly could take my eyes off her, marveling at her perfection. The day: January 11, 1980. 

Newborn

Tomorrow would be her 41st birthday. Naomi died when she was but nineteen.

There are countless mysteries in life, and most of them will not be unravelled. I will have many questions when I cross over to the other side to reunite with Naomi and my ancestors. Then, as I stand in the light of truth and divine love, understanding will be given.

Colored pencil drawing Naomi made hours after learning of her cancer

One mystery that haunts me is the dream I had when Naomi was 12. I woke up with a feeling of extreme sadness and dread and then wrote the details down. It was a marvelous dream in all respect—full of awesome symbols of power and beauty—yet in the end the death of a child occurred. I could not understand its importance and even went to a psychologist to unravel the meaning. I made a painting using its images. Then, when Naomi was diagnosed with terminal cancer at age 17, I thought about the dream again. 

I will carry this mystery with me until the end of my days.

In the dream, which occurs at dusk, after witnessing an amazing flock of birds fly by, I ask for a sign and it is given immediately—a shooting star racing through the evening atmosphere, fiery, fast and bright—just above barren winter tree tops. More events unfold, before the sudden surprise ending that left me gasping when I awoke.

And so too, Naomi’s life was short and bright, for especially in the two years of her struggle at the end, she incandescently shed light as her life burned up. 

I am filled with a wonderful sense of happiness. It is an indescribable sense of utmost freedom and joy. When I am in touch with it I just think, Oh, God, thank you for this beautiful body and life. I have learned how to use THANK YOU throughout everything.
  —Naomi, age 18

The book I wrote about Naomi is available in print and digital edition: A Heart Traced In Sand

The Diamond

 

Amy gave me a special potion and offhandedly said, “This will give you sweet dreams.” It is YIang Ylang and comes from flowers that grow on an exotic tree in Madagascar, the island off the eastern coast of Africa. I dabbed a little on my wrists and under my chin and went to sleep. Sure enough, I had a sweet dream. Like everyone else, I probably dream 3-6 times each night in segments lasting 5-20 minutes. Ninety five percent of dreams are not remembered, but with me, it is closer to 100%.

It was not always so. Earlier in my life I dreamed and remembered frequently. I kept a journal that quickly filled a binder with pages of handwritten recollections. Then in mid-life my entries tapered off. For a couple of decades now, I might recall a dream only a few times a year. I explain it away by rationalizing that my waking life is so full of creativity that I need a rest from the fantastic during my conscious hours.

The morning after I sprinkled Ylang Ylang on myself I woke with a dream lingering in my mind. I recalled that I was outdoors in a tiny clearing in a forest. I was seated and looking down at the earth under me. A gleaming stone half covered by dirt caught my attention. It was a diamond about the size of a golf ball. Wow, what a dazzling gem! I picked it up and felt its impenetrable facets and gazed at its magical capture of light. I knew I had something of great value and immediately began wondering if I could keep it safely, and thought it may be taken away. Shortly afterwards I awoke.

Dreams can foretell events in real life and this one did.

Two days later, a man came into my gallery. I was at my easel working. We greeted and he went and stood in front of my biggest painting—a sunset that is easily seen through the gallery window. Many people have admired it and wished they could buy it but the price is high. The man and I talked a bit about my painting process and the way I use thick layers of paint, called “impasto” effects. He asked how the colors were so brilliant and I explained that I use only the finest oils. He then left but came back with his wife. I liked the the couple very much. They began discussing where the painting might go in their home and decided another piece of art would have to come down and be replaced by the sunset. They left but said they might come back.

I went back to work and about an hour later turned from my painting to find the man standing behind me. We smiled and gazed in each others eyes, then met with his wife again in front of the sunset painting. They bought it. As I was writing up the big sale, he said “Hold on a minute . . . my wife is looking at something else as well.” She was entranced with two other landscape paintings and instead of picking one or the other, the couple bought both.

The experience was entirely magical and I could not help but think of the dream—and the diamond delivered into my hands.

 

White Rabbit

 

At 86 years old, Polly's energy arrived in short bursts and then would fly away like a bird that longed to break free from an old cage. It would come back but fly away again. Her habit was to take lunch at noon, then promptly go nap. In sleep or in visions as she lay on her bed in the afternoons, vivid wonders came regularly—vanquishing the thinnest of veils between worlds.

She had lost her dear husband years ago, and resided alone. Her son lived a thousand miles away. A few close friends visited regularly, bringing her books to read, and sometimes playing a game of cards. Recently in her dreams at night, and regularly in reverie as she rested in the afternoons, a lively and animated little vision would occur. The same four characters would arrive: a white rabbit, an angelic girl dressed in white, and two ballet dancers—male and female. Usually the rabbit appeared first, then the child angel with the dancers.

When Polly was six years old her parents brought a white rabbit home for their daughter, and her father made a cage where it lived in the backyard. It ate greens and carrots and was content, especially when allowed out to hop around the yard. Polly loved to stroke its long ears and feel its twitching nose on her tender fingers. It was so long ago! Whatever happened to it? She could not remember. 

Her mother was an ardent lover of ballet and often booked seats whenever a ballet group came to town. Polly had many fantastic youthful memories of blissful nights seated next to her mother and father, watching famous dance companies. She had seen some of the greats perform; including Rudolf Nureyev and Nadia Nerina. Now, the pas de deux ballet memories came through the mist like whirling dervishes arriving from afar to entrance her mind and lift her heart. 

A tragedy had occurred in her home when Polly was just thirteen. Her best friend visited after school. The two were playing jacks on the hardwood living room floor. Polly got up to get a glass of water and when she came back her friend was choking. Mother was summoned as the girl was turning blue in the face and not able to breathe. Frantically, mouth to mouth resuscitation was attempted but the child expired. Minutes later, the girls father rushed through the front door and gave out a wail of grief seeing his lifeless daughter in Polly's mother's arms. An autopsy revealed that the poor girl had one of the jacks lodged in her windpipe. For many years afterward at random moments of work or play, Polly sometimes fleetingly glimpsed her friend—as if she was not gone at all, but just transparent.

The foliage on the trees outside the living room window were changing colors. The days became shorter and the air chilled. Polly felt a tinge of remorse anticipating the cold coming. One day, she sat in her rocking chair, gazing for hours at the leaves falling, before suddenly getting up.  She went to the refrigerator and pulled out a pot of soup and heated it for lunch. She ate slowly, put the dishes in the sink and feeling tired, went to her bedroom. Outside, the sky was overcast, with bits of sunlight puncturing the clouds. Kicking off her slippers, she laid down in bed and felt her energy gather like a bird and fly out the window. She followed it. It flew and careened past the trees to a field not far away that was bordered by woods. Suddenly on her feet at the edge of a meadow, something white caught her eye. Rabbit stood at attention, one eye cocked toward her, watching, ears standing straight up. With a little hop, he was in the woods. Suddenly, by Polly's side the girl angel appeared and took her hand, pulling her to follow the rabbit. A path became apparent. Rabbit ran ahead. Polly heard footsteps and holding to the angels hand, she looked back to see two dancers, man and woman, in ballet costume coming up fast behind them. Rabbit hopped to the right. Everyone followed and entered a tunnel of earth and vines. It became dark but smelled wonderful. Polly squeezed tight the child-angels's hand who squeezed back and in a second, the darkness gave way to light as they entered a plush theater. Light dazzled from spectacular chandeliers hanging above. Rabbit disappeared. 

The dancers bounded past. An orchestra was tuning and a ballet company waited onstage for the arrival of the two celebrated dancers. Finely dressed people were arriving. The child-angel leaned softly and whispered in Polly's ear, “Look down there darling!” She gestured toward the front row. A lovely couple seated in the middle turned, and beaming with smiles beckoned to Polly. Her parents had an empty seat next to them and waved excitedly for Polly to come join them. Suddenly, Polly's energy came back to her, as if she was not 86 years old but 16. Joyfully she rushed down the aisle to join them. 

Nora, 80, Polly's neighbor, knocked but got no answer. The morning paper was at the doorstep and it was almost noon. She took the extra key Polly had given her and unlocked the door. “Polly, are you all right?” The home was silent. Nora went to the bedroom and opened the door. Polly's hands were folded on her chest and she lay with closed eyes, not breathing. Nora walked to her side and looked close. Polly seemed to be smiling but she was certainly dead. Nora peered tenderly at her friend. "OH! You rascal!” was all she could say.

© 2016 Steven Boone ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Bound Together

Sometimes my artwork goes into dark places. Creativity lives there just as it does in the lofty realms. The domains are bound together; one informs the other.

I have prepared to submit photo images to a juried show called Dreams. A work re-emerged from my past that I have remade. It has dark elements, but also redemptive ones. It could be a symbol of madness, or claustrophobia, or heartache. Or it could be salvation, enlightenment or instinct. The viewer brings their own interpretation. Intrigue and mystery live here.

I have to be able to bring my brush to hell as well as heaven. Both are creation.

Place Of Not Knowing

A person dear to me and I have had many conversations about dreams, symbols, imagination, spiritual paths, esoteric thought, psychology and perception. We both easily jump into the same deep pool. We share books and are both in similar soul searching processes, seeking higher truths that lead to rebirth in spirit. She dreams and remembers them. I do not remember my dreaming. When she shares her dreams that are so full of rich symbols and extraordinary happenings, I sometimes am breathless.

I often think that life is a big DREAM. Fantastic surprises come and go frequently. We are often in wonder and awe. Mystery surrounds us and permeates every atom of our existence. It is the realm that poets, visionaries and seers draw from. It is why I call this blog My Fairy-tale Life.

Rather than be suspect of mystery, I relish the place of not knowing. It is full of potential. It calls me to be creative.

I tire quickly when I am bound to pragmatism and dogma. Thank God I can be an artist and make use of dreams, symbols, flights of fancy, flesh, blue skies, storms, crumbling earth, crashing ocean waves—all impermanent.

Life in THE DREAM.

Imagine Vividly

Gondola traffic in a narrow canal.

For many years now, when I awake from sleep I do not remember dreams. There was a time when I remembered and wrote prolifically in a dream journal. These days, perhaps my entire life is a journal and is not separated by boundaries—what happens in sleep is simply rolled into waking consciousness and woven into creativity. In conscious thought I imagine vividly.

Now, living in Venice, Italy, the waking hours are even more remarkably like fantasy. A huge window is in my kitchen and the first thing in the morning, I look out upon a small bridge that crosses over a canal below, which is often traveled by gondolas, the way it has been for centuries. Further on is a 1000 yer old stone paved campo lined with little shops and honored with an ancient church that sounds wonderful bell chimes.

When I first arrived in Venice, I bought a vaporetto (water-bus)  pass, but have hardly used it since I walk and explore. It is remarkable how little changed the city is from the last time I visited in 2008. Elegant instrumental groups continue holding court in the evenings at cafes on St. Marks Square, the Doges Palace gleams with gold mosaics, tourists from everywhere pour through the streets and empty starry-eyed onto the campos, and the air feels the same with a slightly pungent smell of sea and canals. One thing has changed and that is that many people are addicted to “selfies,” and walk around with smartphones attached to long rods taking videos of themselves as they go from place to place. They can't take their eyes off of themselves and I wonder how they see anything else!

Tourists, completely tuned into cameras.

This Dream

On occasion, I have been able to see into another dimension—a spiritual realm of greater reality. It is a place that transcends the material world and goes beyond time and space. I had such an experience just today, but first I will describe a couple other episodes from when I was in my twenties. I was traveling with a few friends to visit a Native American man on the Navajo reservation. We had stopped outside Gallup, New Mexico to visit someone who could tell us the way. I was in a chair, not paying attention to the conversation and instead half dreaming. A vision came to me of driving on a dirt road, and arriving at a place where an Indian fellow was building a house, laying cement blocks by hand. Suddenly it was time to go, so we headed out and in about ½ hour, we were on a dirt road and then came upon the man, building his house exactly as I had seen earlier—including the wall, and him with his trowel in hand laying the blocks.

In my book, A Heart Traced In Sand, I recount another spiritual experience:
For years I had felt the presence of angels that reside in God’s other realms. When I was twenty-two, during a summer break at the Maryland Institute, College of Art, in Baltimore, I moved to a small town in Maryland and rented a room in a YMCA. One evening while ending my prayers, I felt a change occur around me. I seemed to be wrapped in a hazy, otherworldly light, and suddenly the perfumed scent of a thousand roses filled my nostrils. Turning toward the one window in my little cubicle, I saw a shimmering light come down, pass through the wall, and then hover above me in the approximate shape of a person’s aura. Immediately I knew I was in the presence of a spirit and was frightened. The light shimmered in place, waiting for some acknowledgment, until with trepidation I said, “I am afraid. But come into me.” Then it descended into my soul and for a few dazzling moments bestirred my whole being before vanishing.

Every now an then, my third eye glimpses into the spiritual world of light. But I can't predict when the door will open or what I will see. Several times I have been praying from the depths of my soul over some important matter that is weighing heavy on me, such as when my daughter was dying and I could not bear to see it and needed help. I cried out in anguish. And then I got a glimpse of angels who were smiling and  calm as could be. This sort of infuriated me at the time—that I was so anguished and they were absolutely calm in the midst of my storm. I did not understand what help this was to me, but accepted that I was the one whose vision was limited. This happened again today, but it has come to my awareness that in fact, despite appearances here, all is well in heaven. All of us have one foot there already.

Here is a poem by Hafiz:

Forgive The Dream
All your images of winter
I see against your sky.
I understand the wounds
That have not healed in you.
They exist
Because God and Love
Have yet to become real enough
To allow you to forgive
The dream.
You still listen to an old alley song
That brings your body pain;
Now chain your ears
To His pacing drum and flute.
Fix your eyes upon
The magnificent arch of His brow
That supports
And allows this universe to expand.
Your hands, feet, and heart are wise
And want to know the warmth
Of a Perfect One’s circle.
A true saint
Is an earth in eternal spring.
Inside the veins of a petal
On a blooming redbud tree
Are hidden worlds
Where Hafiz sometimes
Resides.
I will spread
A Persian carpet there
Woven with light.
We can drink wine
From a gourd I hollowed
And dried on the roof of my house.
I will bring bread I have kneaded
That contains my own
Divine genes
And cheese from a calf I raised.
My love for your Master is such
You can just lean back
And I will feed you
This truth:
Your wounds of love can only heal
When you can forgive
This dream.

Witnessing

Kapaa Rooster, oil on linen, 24 x 20 inches

“I know that thoughts are not always 100 percent good, but I sure do hate it when they are negative.” My daughter Naomi wrote these words in her journal as she struggled to survive the cancer that eventually killed her while still a teenager. During my recent difficulties—finding myself single and bereft, I have often taken inspiration from Naomi's example of making effort to replace bad circumstances with something good instead. Her task was monumental and she achieved remarkable victory over negativity. She shaped her mind to be her ally. She also wrote, “Hardships can make us stronger . . . every situation has some good in it.”

My circumstances and efforts to shape my mind have brought me to remember a notable dream I had many years ago. Dreams are mostly fluff and reworking of days events, but sometimes a dream will act as a sign to higher levels of consciousness. This was such a dream: I was buried in the earth, upright with arms and legs spread, but only my head above ground. I felt fine, even happy and content. At the same time, I could also see myself from outside, as if witnessing. I was in a clearing in some woods, the sun was shining, air balmy. Two people arrived to stand in front of me. They were spiritual beings and stood in front of my head as if the situation were completely normal. They even chatted together. Just then, from behind a nearby bush, a chicken came running to peck at my face. He would peck, run back behind the bush, and come running to peck at my head again. I was completely defenseless except to wiggle my face side to side and try and close my eyes tight to protect them against the bird's beak. The two onlookers watched calmly as if nothing were out of the ordinary. I awoke.

Now upon reflection, I see that I am at one with the earth, and all is well. But thoughts coming from the ego or false imaginations can be like the pesky chicken upsetting the peace. My spirit guides are with me, bearing witness, but also informing me that in reality, I am in a safe embrace of essential elements and in oneness that is expansive. Not to worry about the pecking, which will pass.

You Must Do Something More

I think that the reason I am still alive, is that I am continuing to work through the veils that are between me and God. And I have things to do yet, although I might not know exactly what.

After my daughter Naomi died in 1999 at age nineteen, I often slept in her bed, where she took her last breath. It comforted me and I felt nearer to her. One night I had a dream:  
I was on a wooded hillside, and below, in a valley, was a little village. I could see that festivities were occurring. The next thing I knew I was at the carnival, and holding the hand of a little girl. Then I was alone, and jumped on a carousel that was slowly spinning. I watched the landscape going past and as the big wheel turned, suddenly I saw a door in front of me. I realized the door led to another dimension beyond time and space, and I thought “If I hesitate, the opportunity will be lost!” I had a moment of trepidation, but nonetheless, hurled myself forward. At the same moment, a voice spoke into my ear, “If you wish to go beyond the door, first you must do something more.” At that instant, my body lurched up from bed, and I banged my head against a textured plaster wall, cutting myself and bleeding.
The dream could be interpreted in various ways, but I can see that perhaps I was anxious to get off the big merry-go-round of life and enter the realm of pure spirit, leaving the mortal world behind—and Spirit warned me that my wish was premature . . . I had more work to do.
Since then, I have had so many valuable experiences and my soul has deepened. My fruit is not ripe enough yet to fall from the vine.

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round,

I really love to watch them roll,

No longer riding on the merry-go-round,

I just had to let it go,

-John Lennon, from Watching The Wheels

A Greater Reality

What is distance? It is a system of measurement determined by space and time. Arbitrary units are devised, e.g. minutes, hours, inches, feet, miles, meters etc., to allow for a common agreement and understanding among human beings. These units of thought govern our physical lives and are the basis of our cooperation and communication.

But what about dreams? Dreams exist in other worlds beyond time and space. Cultures that value dream consciousness are most often dominated by those that place greater value with “facts.”

I love the realm of art, because “facts” can be blurred, twisted, or re-arranged. A blue sky can turn pink, a wristwatch can melt, a person can sport both eyes on one side of a face . . . anything can happen. In poetry too, a tree can grow from inside of a heart, birds can flutter forth from thought, an elephant can appear in a living room . . . limitations are obliterated.

Once I was on a trip with friends. We were going to visit a Navajo man who lived on a reservation in New Mexico. We stopped along the way to visit other friends at their home in a town called Gallup. As I sat in a chair, relaxed and at ease, I fell into a dream state, and suddenly arrived at the Navajo man's home. He was outdoors, building a house, brick by brick, trowel in hand. I awoke from this vision, and a couple hours later, we drove up a long dirt road and when I saw the same Navajo man, it was exactly as I had seen him earlier, in my vision. How was it that in dreaming, I escaped the bounds of time and space and arrived at a greater reality?

A Fairy Tale

It is interesting how sometimes when we are looking for one thing, we find another that is more important. In Bavaria recently, Erki Eichenseer, a cultural curator, was looking through some old, forgotten archives searching for original texts in an old castle and discovered a treasure trove of over 500 unpublished fairytales from past ages.  (See BBC article)There is a word for such an occurrence: serendipity.

I call this blog, My Fairy-Tale Life, because I view my conscious existence through the prism of dream thought, mystery and spirit. I call our world, THE DREAM. The essence of this perception came to me when my oldest daughter and I were in a doctor’s office, waiting the results of an exam and when he came into the room his face was ashen. He looked at us, and spoke, saying to Naomi, “You have cancer, and the tumor in your hip is very large.” He then held his hands together to make a circle the shape of a grapefruit. In that instant it was as if an arrow pierced my heart, opening for one second a door of perception that then just as suddenly, shut. I felt we must be dreaming, that this sudden turn off of a cliff could not be reality. Life changed drastically in just a few moments and I knew the world is made of sand. Yet, there we sat together, numb and wondering what to do next. The experience has stayed with me as a seminal event that has permanently altered my consciousness.

What is a fairy-tale? “A fairy tale, or wonder tale, is a kind of folktale or fable. In these stories we meet witches and queens, giants and elves, princes, dragons, talking animals, ogres, princesses, and sometimes even fairies. Marvelous and magical things happen to characters in fairy tales. A boy may become a bird. A princess may sleep for a hundred years. A seal may become a girl. Objects too can be enchanted — mirrors talk, pumpkins become carriages, and a lamp may be home to a genie.” (See: Fairytales ) Usually, a fairy tale has a plot with twists and turns, shades of light and dark, and there is an object to the story.

Spies

I have never been comfortable with spies; people who secretly obtain information about other people in order to build intrigue against them. It can be childish, as in the case of teenage girls who take sides against one another and tell stories, or serious, as in the case of national espionage where whole societies are at stake. Spies give me the creeps, and this is why, for most of my life I have preferred dogs to cats. Cats seem to me to be spying. They are always watchful and seem to be sizing up what is in front of them, whereas dogs simply respond transparently. The cats I enjoy the most are like dogs.
When I was a child, one day a neighbor came to our house asking my father if he had seen his missing wrench. It was soon discovered that I had taken it from the neighbors shed. I don’t recall taking it. What became seared in my memory was my father, marching me next door to the neighbor, and in a very loud and angry voice, scolding me, much to the neighbors chagrin, for I was only a little boy who had meant no harm. This scolding had an opposite effect on me than my father had hoped. I took all this heated and direct attention into my being, and noticed how my father, who I treasured and wanted more than anything, was completely gripped by me and giving me absolute devotion. My parents had five children in eight years, so absolute one-to-one devotion was scarce to come by. Over the years, I was in trouble many times, and always I could count on complete and total attention from my object of worship—my father.
As I became a young adult, I realized that I had a double nature, both good and bad, and as I stepped out into society, I came to be at war with myself. There was a brief period, when I was nineteen, that during the course of my extensive reading, I read two important books of psychology, by the esteemed psychotherapist, Karen Horney (1885 - 1952): Our Inner Conflicts, and The Neurotic Personality Of Our Time. I understood from her theories, and this is simplification, that neurotic people are essentially at war with themselves, have self-hatred and build defenses against self discovery that causes neurosis. I was aware that possibly I was becoming divided against myself. I then experimented and took the bold step of allowing all of my feelings and thoughts to flow freely without condemnation. I felt frightened, but very alive and whole. This did not last. Eventually, the weight of my “madness” became too much to bear. I became desperate to fit safely in society.
Even after I became religious, I grappled mightily with the dark urges inside of me that seemed to come from nowhere and torment me. I attempted with all my being to shut them away and hope that they would simply disappear. If a dark thought came unexpectedly, I panicked and threw myself to scriptures and light,; to be "saved". The early problem of duality came back with a vengeance. I hated myself. It felt like a war with real espionage, because open communication between my various parts did not exist . . . only dislike. My “saintly” side spied on the darkness, and vice-versa. This went on for years.
So now, decades later, thankfully, I welcome all of myself as vital and necessary. I love mystery and surprise and call my life THE DREAM. Here, material things are not as important as experience and symbol. I live moment to moment without judgment. I do not spy on myself or anyone, but receive one and all as part of THE DREAM that informs my life and is my life. If I find myself with a drunk or robber one minute, and a holy man the next, well, I accept and honor both occasions equally in the moment. What is important is THE DREAM and where it is taking me.
I do not spy on myself but stay in wide-eyed wonder at the universe. If I think people are taking notice of me as “spies”, that is, they are gathering information about me to be opinionated, I simply think positive, close the door to intrigue and condemnation from within myself, and concentrate on the honest gifts each moment of THE DREAM is bringing.
THE DREAM, to me, is a function of consciousness and interpretation of perceptions. I prefer not to interpret and judge my experiences but rather live them entirely as to “know” them. THE DREAM goes before me and I trust it because it is myself, in dialogue with God.
“As far as the laws of mathematics refer to reality, they are not certain; and as far as they are certain, they do not refer to reality.”
Albert Einstein (1879 - 1955)

Not Burned By Fire,

I find it fascinating that people are so wrapped up in the material world. It is as if life and its meaning depends on being comfortable. Then, the more wealth a person has, the happier they will be. For me, this is illusion. THE DREAM is where my treasure exists, and it will never be exhausted.
This is not to say that the material world does not matter. Recently a friend in Nairobi, Kenya sent me a text message asking if I could send her some money to see a doctor, and mentioning that she and her daughter had no food in their house. In those situations, it is more difficult to be philosophical. I often wonder how I would face the world in similar circumstances.
I think that the death of my daughter Naomi brought me to the state I am in now. During her final days, I felt that all the wealth in the world was only dust scattering in the wind. Deep down, I knew how remarkable was THE DREAM that continually unfolded and that I am privileged to witness. I saw in Naomi a being that had surpassed the physical, and in my book, A Heart Traced in Sand, I quoted these words from the Bhagavad-Gita:
The bonds of his flesh are broken.
He is lucky, and does not rejoice:
He is unlucky, and does not weep.
I call him illumined.

Not wounded by weapons,
Not burned by fire,
Not dried by the wind,
Not wetted by water;
Such is the Atman,

Not dried, not wetted,
Not burned, not wounded,
Innermost element,
Everywhere, always,
Being of beings,
Changeless, eternal,
Forever and ever.

My Astonished Eyes

I arrived in India with only vague ideas about what to do and how long I would stay. In less than 48 hours, THE DREAM whisked me away from New Delhi on a magic carpet ride and set me down on a big houseboat that I have all to myself on a pristine lake at the foot of the Himalayan mountains in Kashmir. Furthermore, I have my own personal servant, Mansoor, who prepares my meals, takes care of my room, escorts me everywhere and even puts a hot water bottle in my bed at night before I retire. I did not plan any of this . . . it just arrived with THE DREAM.
The population in these parts is 90% Muslim, so I hear the call to prayer five times a day. The people are upright and proud, very sturdy and live close to the earth. Religion is central to their life and they get up at 5:30 AM with the first call to prayer. Most of them have had little schooling and the government does not do much to help.


People shuttle around in canoes, rowing themselves wherever they want to go. They either crouch at the tip and pull themselves along, or row from the back. I have not seen a single motorboat. Various vendors come by in their boats, including Mr. Wonderful the Flowerman. He glides around with his boatfull of colorful flowers he has grown. I bought a bunch of dahlias and zinnias from him, and also bought a variety of seeds from gorgeous Kashmir plants. Sometimes, when I am on the lake, amid water lilies and lotus plants, with the majestic mountains all around, the air pure, quiet, and peaceful, I feel bliss, and wonder, am I in heaven?
Srinagar is the city close by. To get into town, I must board a dinghy and be rowed (about ten minutes) to a landing where I can catch a waiting taxi. All my costs are included in the package, so I do not need my wallet, but simply enjoy the ride. I am living for less than it cost me in Europe.
Everyone treats me well, and often I am asked, “Are you happy?” There is a small community around the houseboats and I am already part of a circle and continually invited places. I will go to a wedding soon, and tomorrow I have been invited to lunch with a family and to go for a drive. Traditionally, weddings are held in the fall and they are big events with lavish food, music, dancing and many hundreds of people.
There are four seasons, and it is chilly at night and then warms during the day. The local language is Kashmiri, but people usually know a little English. My landlord knows English very well and we have good conversations. My servant Mansoor never went to school but knows at least four languages—all learned from tourists. His wife just had a baby, their second child.
Kashmir is offering me so much, the days are flashing by, so I am staying two weeks instead of one. Certainly, THE DREAM will surprise me again, so I keep my thoughts from straying too far away from the present, and simply trust what is ahead will be unfolded before my astonished eyes.

Grand Confusion

For the first time in 22 years I am single again. I pinch myself and realize that basically, I am the same. My values have not changed, I look the same, my voice is recognizable, and my studio phone rings as always. What are different are my obligations. I am not obliged by marriage. I feel freedom by being released, and also, my aloneness. Thinking about it, I realize for many in marriage, the obligation is a sweet imprisonment.
Jean came to my studio and got the divorce papers. We talked and as she was about to go, she looked at me and said “We are now officially ex’s.” We hugged, and as she turned to go, she cried a little. At least we are still deep friends. Certainly, there are many days ahead to celebrate together the good between us, and share it with the world.
I have been mentioning to friends that soon I will be selling my possessions and leaving to travel. Many fine discussions have ensued. The other day, voices from the spirit world added their note. When I awoke, I recalled a sentence I had just heard: “The vessel he entered was a grand confusion between his world, and the world outside him.” As it is with messages from the other world, these words, strewn together seemingly randomly, are powerful, mysterious, poetic, and also a puzzle. A vessel can be different things, like a blood vessel, but I take it to mean a ship, or large boat. Anyway it is a container for transport; something that allows for traveling. So, the transport is a grand confusion between inner and outer world. Thankfully, the word “grand” describes confusion. Grand can mean many things, but is quite positive in every respect. Synonyms are: impressive, fantastic, wonderful, enjoyable and memorable. Confusion has other connotations that are mildly negative. Like the state of being confused or perplexed. A chaotic or disordered state. Not thinking clearly or else unable to distinguish between people or things. The fact that the word “grand” comes before “confusion,” shifts the confusion positively. Also the vessel the person is entering is a grand confusion between the inner world and the outer. I like that, because it means the boundaries are falling into nothingness. What a crazy boat to embark in!
Readers, if you have any other thoughts on this dream sentence, please comment.