My dream girl turned out to be a “trickster.”
A young, reddish-blonde haired woman beckoned to me to visit her, not in a dream, but in the conscious world, and she told me to get ready for “Thursday night.”
The woman, almost child-like in her demeanor and in her soft, tender touch , looked me in the eye and posed an unspoken question. Would I wear the proper attire for Thursday? I felt chosen to attend an affair of utmost importance that would involve the utmost ceremonial functions.
This dream occurred on Monday, two days before me setting out for Omega Institute along the Hudson Valley in New York [some 50 miles from Albany]. I have heeded my dreams for a half a year now, after religiously jotting down my nightly excursions in notebooks over a six-week period this past February. Someday, I will re-read them (publish them?) and see what message they provided and whether they had foretold a possible future or a better retelling of my past.
But as far as Omega went, I got excited about the dream. Here I was headed into an unknown land where a lapsed Catholic was to mingle with hard-core “New Age” practitioners; scores of brave people who openly professed beliefs in Reiki, reincarnation, Shaman healing, as well as the more mainstream acceptable practices of yoga, meditation and eating nothing but vegetarian foods. Who knows how I was going to fare? What kind of people would I meet? Where will I go to see this dream apparition and what event will take place come Thursday night?
We meditated a lot at the Omega Institute. Starting at 7 a.m. and going through to 9 p.m. and later some nights. There was walking meditation, sitting meditation, and the coordinator, an American who became an ordained Buddhist monk, requested we be as silent as possible when we left the meditation hall. “If you have to speak, use as few words as possible,” Claude AnShin Thomas told our group of 50 veterans and a few family members.
Eating was another matter. Our workshop leader told us to chew each bite 50 times.
And, to remain silent throughout the meal.
Meditate on your food.
In order to taste your food.
Now, I’ve done this before. But only when I intentionally sat alone, and away from people who would have thought me rude if I did not share a conversation with them. I found I could really get into the food, by “being in the moment.” I enjoyed food so much better.
But eating with others? Hey, I’m a social animal. I enjoy people. I like to talk and joke and make people feel good about themselves. That’s how I get to feel good about myself. I get validation from their smiles, their laughter, and their sincerity toward me.
Now, I had to shut up.
Well, I might have had my voice silenced, but I could still communicate with the written words. And that’s what we did for five straight days. Writing on sand-colored napkins using both sides of the flimsy paper to write and then pass on to be read by some four or five other like-minded participants who sat at our regular table every breakfast, lunch and dinner.
“The Dharma police are really watching us,” got the hardiest laugh of all the messages I passed during the time we spent at the table. None could resist a belly laugh that, unfortunately, interrupted and may have intruded upon all the other diners. Heads turned toward our direction as we got those kind of looks that scolded; the glances from a few, however, seemed to envy our posture.
Except for the look and the piercing eyes of the monk’s assistant. She appeared at every meal and always seemed to be looking right at us, the non-speaking yet noisy trouble-makers. Once, the German-born young woman had actually sat at our table. Dressed in her monk’s garb wearing a monk’s long-suffering non-smile. That brought an end to the passing of notes and the giggling of the child inside of each one of us.
I held fast to my protest though. Unable to chew a green leaf of spinach 50 times, I would shovel spoonful after spoonful of morsels into my mouth, bow my head as I placed my elbows on the table, and appear in prayer as I closed my eyes and rested my head on my folded hands.
Chew 50 times? How about 150 times?
Anyone looking at me would have immediately thought I was moving my lips saying several rosaries, acts of contrition and all the Latin I remember memorizing to help the priests as an altar boy when celebrating the Mass. Boy did I fool those Buddhist brothers and sisters!
Well, it wasn’t long before Thursday had come and I started to open myself to whatever possibility a synchronicity occurrence would offer. We finished dinner and I went to my cabin that I shared with a former Marine, waiting patiently for my dream to come true.
I learned there was live entertainment at the Cafe on the Omega campus and I strolled over to the building which, incidentally, served no alcoholic beverages. A young woman with blonde hair (not even a hint of red mixed in) was playing a guitar and singing songs. I enjoyed her music and she was warmly received by the two to three dozen people sitting at tables facing her performance.50’ish woman who practiced healing as a Shaman and she re-adjusted my head, my heart and my life with just a few soft, ceremonial touches to my skull, my chest, and my way of life.
I noticed she had reddish-blonde hair as she very softly whispered ceremonial words and opened my very soul for a much-needed healing.
With the haze of steam all around, she appeared dream-like, and I knew right then and there that dreams really do come true. You just have to let your true self get out-of-the-way to see them manifest.