A gun appeared in my guided meditation last week and I was afraid something horribly wrong was about to happen. It was a small, black handgun, what they used to call a “Saturday-night special.”
I owned one of ‘em when I served as a training officer in Ft. Polk, Louisiana. I believed I had to get one because I was living in another country — “way down yonder” some two hundred miles outside of New Orleans. It felt like the Old Wild West to me, a city boy living in a trailer park with another second lieutenant off the army base.
I bought the gun one lonely weekend. I remember walking into the gun shop, looking at a couple handguns, and then choosing one that cost around thirty dollars. I don’t think I had to sign anything or even show identification, let alone have a waiting period before the purchase went through. Within minutes, I became the proud owner of the .38 caliber revolver.
Although I was qualified as an expert with a rifle, I never really liked guns. We never used them in North Philadelphia, although some of the old head did create and fire zip guns in Faimount Park.
I kept my pistol empty and hidden away most of the time, especially after Nicholas, my favorite son, was born and grew up in our abode.
My meditation journey, however, brought visions of shootings on the street as well as nightly television broadcasts of the massacres in churches and in elementary schools. I was afraid of something so deadly re-appearing in my life.
All of a sudden, however, the metal gun turned into a paper mache gun. A toy gun that could be used as a decoration or something one could put on display, if something like that turned them on.
I mentioned this gun to my good friend Christina, who was guiding the meditation. Christina runs the Inner Light Holistic Center in Gilbertsville, PA, where I meet weekly for what I call a “shamanic-travel.” Eight to ten of us gather in the pleasantly-scented room as soft music plays in the background and Christina takes us on a journey through our minds.
She advised me that the gun was made of paper and that I should put the gun onto paper. That I should write about it. Write about the guns I came into contact with as a younger man in war, and how I survived the shootings and the battles and the fear that comes when someone you don’t even know wants to kill you. Or you kill them . . .
Yes, I no longer fear the gun. I have conquered its symbolism with Christina’s help and guidance. Now I can turn the weapon back into a plowshare and cultivate the many fields of my mind for more useful purposes.
The following conversations took place between Belva and Contoveros on Facebook:
I had a dream once of a gun and it really rocked me for a few days. Then I remembered that it was the same gun a friend of mine carried — a Barreta (?). Silvery, shiny, scary… I called him asked him how he was doing. It had been years since we’d spoken. I told him about the dream and he said it’d made sense since he’d been thinking about me too — wondering how I was…. Not sure if that’s what my dream was about, but I worked through it to take it away from a fearful unknowing place and got back in touch with an old friend.
A paper gun? Fascinating on so many levels. So glad you were also able to find peace with it’s meaning….
I’m glad that you could find peace and calm after your dream involving a gun. It’s amazing how such an image could have effects on some people like us. Maybe we’re just too sensitive or too open. I don’t know.
I’m glad you could hook up with your old friend. It was “synchronicity” in a way because he was also thinking about you. So, it had a happy ending after all!
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I always found it interesting that when you step back from the technology, all that a gun does is throw a rock really, really fast … the reality is we have not come that far from the cave – Have we?
Throwing rocks to obtain food or to protect oneself is one thing. Killing for politics is another, one in which my country never returns to. Yes, we have come a long way technically, but our mind set may not have kept up with evolution of the heart and soul.
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