True Wisdom

The greatest thing you can do to cultivate true wisdom is to practice the consciousness of the world as a dream.  -Paramahansa Yogananda

In 2008 while I was traveling for one year around the world, life became THE DREAM. It was a subtle shift in my consciousness. As I relaxed into my new role of adventurer and observer, I realized how fluid life is—and how obstinately hard my consciousness had become with years of built up mental formulations. I determined to let go and be in flux. I shook off notions of nationality, race, wealth—all the usual prejudices that are obstacles to oneness. The more I let go, the more I realized the world is phenomenal, fluid—and ever shifting sands.

If the sound of waves outside my door kept me from falling asleep, I laughed at how accustomed I had become to silence at bedtime. If I found myself in a crowd of strangers in Africa, and I was the only white person, I delighted how the kaleidoscope of human colors before my eyes shifted radically to ebony. Deep in the blackness I went "clubbing" with new acquaintances in Nairobi; dancing all night. Some people must have thought they were dreaming to see me, just as I knew I was in THE DREAM experiencing the night, the African milieu, music and being lost in it.

In Rome, I missed a long distance flight because I was confused by the 24 hour clock. My plane was scheduled to leave at 01:30. I arrived just after noon, and at the ticket counter was told the flight had left 12 hours earlier at 1:30 AM. I was shocked and breathless for a few moments, but realized how THE DREAM had unfolded with a major surprise. I became observer and even laughed at how I stumbled and hurt myself.

During youth, occasionally my young mind would wander into zones that made me question “reality.” Then youthful angst would set in, and fear of being mentally ill would arrive. After all, aren’t we supposed to be on firm footing in the world, knowing from where we come and where we are going?

When, in the spring of 1997, I found myself in a cancer clinic with my oldest daughter, Naomi, who was seventeen, the surroundings seemed foreign, nightmarish. We did not belong there and I was confused. After waiting, a doctor came to us and announced with considerable concern that Naomi had a very large tumor in her hip and it was malignant. The cancer most likely had spread to her lungs and maybe brain. I sensed being in a dream. Reality had shifted so radically that I clearly perceived we were in an unreal world because in essence, we were okay, safe, protected in SPIRIT; even eternal. But death was all over us. What was real?
Six years previous to that episode, while on a family vacation in Oregon, I had a powerful dream that shook me to the core. When I woke I was devastated. The vision was full of mesmerizing and beautiful imagery, spiritual throughout, but I woke with a start when an arrow, sent by a spirit being, pierced the heart of a child next to me. The imagery and symbolism had been profoundly spiritual up to that point. What had happened?
The day at the cancer clinic, standing next to my child when the doctor gave his report I felt an arrow pierce my heart. How are the worlds bound together? What is “reality”? (For more about Naomi and I on our spiritual journey, see my award -winning book A Heart Traced In Sand)

After my extensive traveling I retained a sense of THE DREAM but it tapered off. Perhaps I needed flux. I needed uncertainty, mystery, enough constant change to keep me off balance. I began missing it enough that I have tried to cultivate the sense permanently.

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.

DREAM Perception

I called it THE DREAM; a year of astonishing travel around the world. The DREAM perception began in Belize, when I arrived to live among black folk in the town of Dangriga, on the Caribbean Sea. (Entering THE DREAM) Each day, I painted, wrote, and made photos, venturing forth into the unknown. My mind shifted from analysis and planning to complete acceptance of the moment. I began having total trust in what was being presented to me, seeing the gift of life everywhere and in everything. Opportunities arose and I had no fear because I did not live with feelings of opposition or separateness. My surroundings and I were one, and as events unfolded and I met people, the experiences were more profound because I was open to them—even expecting them. Events and consciousness seemed continuous and woven together, full of wonder and surprise—as if in a dream. I was the dreamer bearing witness. 

With Windell, in Belize

 When I wrote my blogs from nineteen countries, I often described living in THE DREAM. It took care of me and informed my life.

Now I am newly single again. Once, during a therapy session while I was married, I was told “You may never be able to travel like that again Steven.” But I think I might.

Erg Chebbi, Morocco

Lately, during the pain of losing my mate and the aftermath, I have wondered about the random thoughts that effect my thinking and emotions. Thoughts and emotions are not permanent. I have been looking to a higher reality to gain perspective—to find immutable truth. Everything depends on it or else falls apart. My life has come undone so I have been ardently going to the place of truth, longing only to stay in that sacred temple. The more I am there, the more I see that THE DREAM is not only the fleeting occurrences all around me, but the terrain of my mind as well. Truth is independent of mind, beyond time and space. I am not talking about relative truth but rather the absolute: God, the uncreated Creator Who dwells in all, and is first recognized by our souls. 

Temple, Danang, Vietnam

Disappearance Is Illusion

I visited my daughter's grave today. Yesterday was her birthday—she would have turned 34 years of age. Nobody else was around as I stood on the grass where she is buried. A cold winter wind made me pull my coat tight to my chest and I stood briefly, praying for her soul and remembering the day she was born. I was with my first wife at home, with a nurse and doctor when Naomi was delivered around 11 AM. I never would have thought that she would die in 1999, before reaching twenty.

A few days ago, I was in California, visiting with my parents who are close to death. This all makes me think of my own dying. I do not know when it will be, but death is certain for every created thing. As I think of creation, I realize it is always renewing itself—almost like a wave that arrives at a shore and at last culminates in a surge upon land and then disappears. The disappearance is illusion, for the ocean remains and gathers itself together continually to transform and surge again, over and over.

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.

A Grand Play

 

When I was a young man, I had an aversion to wearing a tie. My father would have to stand behind me and while facing a mirror, help me put one on, and tie the loop. I did not like the feeling of a knot around my throat. I could not even wear a turtleneck sweater—it felt tight around my neck. Perhaps this discomfort had to do with a terrible dream I had when I was a child. In the dream, I was in a bed, resting peacefully at the top of a house, under a pitched roof in an attic. An open window with lace curtains was by my bed, and as I lay on my back, I could feel a soft breeze. Then, a woman appeared beside me and gently leaned over to stroke my head. She was soft, and her dress fluttered slightly from the breeze coming through the window. As I rested, peaceful and still, observing the woman, she leaned closer and with utter calmness, began choking me with her hands. I awoke terrified, and my body was paralyzed so that I could not move a finger. My throat would not utter a cry. After what seemed an eternity, I screamed and ran to my parent’s bedroom, where my mother calmed me from my nightmare.

Now, decades later, I can wear a tie, and sometimes I wear a scarf. I have come to see that all of life is a dream. I do not react negatively to this dreaming, but rather, embrace it. I am an actor in THE DREAM. The script is written, and as my lion-hearted daughter Naomi said before she died, I must, “show up and be lovingly present, no matter what it looks like out there or inside yourself.”

We all play a part in THE DREAM, acting our part in a grand play, written by the genius Creator. He has given us ability to make the script into an improvisation, and in some ways, choose our own endings. We are all adding our lines and performing our unique roles to create the grandest drama.
When a person enters the stage, I do not judge, but rather concentrate on my part, which is to be loving and full of life, to add vigor and grace to the scene. Everybody’s part is important. If the stage held only one or two grand actors, it would be boring indeed.

Villains are a part of any great drama . . . and if mankind advances sufficiently that there are no longer human villains, then there will be other darkness to face. It will always be this way. This is how the show goes on.

Absurdity

Of all animals, only human beings can be absurd. Other animals can act playfully, but not go beyond that into absurdity.

Absurdity is the parallel of rational thought, inverted. For instance, rational thought dictates being careful against self-injury while handling a gun. Absurdity is when an artist, in this case Chris Burden (born in Boston, Massachusetts in 1946), creates an art performance where he shoots himself in the arm. Rational thought says that when we wait for a person to arrive and they do not, we get up and leave. In the famous play by Samuel Beckett (13 April 1906 – 22 December 1989), called Waiting for Godot, two men wait endlessly and in vain for a vague person named Godot to arrive, and from the beginning it seems absurd. Yet, this play was voted "the most significant English language play of the 20th century".

There is use for the absurd. It can jog our minds to question our reality, and so keep us from falling into dogma. Comics use absurdity to make us laugh at life. We assume that we must take everything seriously, especially our selves, but absurdity says laugh at yourself!

In fact, people who take themselves too seriously risk becoming an absurd cartoon. Witness some of the tyrannical rulers in the middle east, who hold on to power at all cost and erect monuments to themselves, thinking themselves as gods worthy of universal admiration. They only see what they want to see, and when someone says, as in the Hans Christian Anderson (Danish, April 2, 1805 – August 4, 1875) story, The Emperors New Clothes, “but you are wearing no clothes”, the person is sent to jail or killed. So, this "absurdity" is only found among human beings, and it is like living in illusion. So many people live in illusion—and not another species of animal does that.

Artists can poke fun at absurdity and in fact that is part of their job. They work with materials to create realities that are mere illusion. The Mona Lisa, by Leonardo DaVinci (Italian, April 15, 1452 – May 2, 1519) is a painting, but her smile is so real. Pablo Picasso (Spanish, 5 October 1881 – 8 April 1973) makes a portrait and the woman has both eyes on one side of her head . . . this is absurd, but makes us think, what is real? Could a woman in a dream have two eyes on one side of her head? After all, dreams can be real too, since this is where we reside for about a third of our lives.

Some years ago I made a series of paintings called Hangups. The idea came to me as a funny vision from out of the blue that occurred while I was driving home one day. I saw a face hanging on a clothesline, just like it were laundry. Amused, I could have dismissed the thought, but I am an artist and the vision was so original I knew I had to make a painting of it. Eventually, I made over thirty, and published a book too (view here). People either love them or hate them, and there is no middle ground. This is the way good art is . . .  it has effect, for if it only inspires ambivalence, then it it is more suited to go in the trashcan.

My Hangups are outwardly absurd, but reflect the absurdity that is parallel to reality. For instance, often people think they are immune to life’s disorders and especially, want immunity to death. But mortality has a way of chasing us like a shadow. When we get sick, or feel heartache, or see death, then we are shocked out of our illusion of safety. In my painting called “Pecking Order”, seen below, I push this to an absurd extreme.

If a person is too serious, these paintings are frightful and insulting, but on the other hand, look closely at “reality” and we can see the absurdity that runs so closely alongside of it.