The Wizard

He says I have to dig deeper. He says it's the only way I'll overcome. He insists shallowness will get me nowhere. I stand there at the door in a basement of a house. In front of me are rows of bookshelves and what feel like ancient texts in all different colours--rich purples, reds, and golds. I intuitively understand that everything I need to know rests in this dwelling. To my right sits a Wizard. He wears a long, purple pointed hat and a shiny purple robe with gold symbols. I find it odd that he sits behind a desk that appears to be too small for his height, his stature. Then I perceive that this image is perhaps on purpose to create a certain impression and some kind of poetic effect. It works. He says, You know, you're going to have to deal with all of this some day. And I answer him by saying, Yes, I know. But I really don't know. I don't have a clue. Well, that's not entirely true but sometimes, just sometimes, I really wish I didn't have a clue or inclination.

I walk upstairs and out the front door but the memory of it is a blur. Like a blanket laid out by the gods, I see nothing but open space as far as the eye can see. It's cloudy but warm and slightly windy. When I turn to look behind me, I notice the structure from which I came--squared shape, made of stone, with a flat roof top. There are two white pillars, one on each side of the porch which is a single step from the ground. On my left, I see Jesus leaning against one of the pillars. He says nothing. He never says anything. It's an agreement we have.

You see, for a lucid dreamer like me (one who knows s/he is dreaming), to see the dead is a pretty frightening thing. Whenever I have a dream of someone who's passed, it's understood s/he is not to utter a word to me unless I'm asking a question or making a comment. I just don't want to hear what they have to say. I don't want to know what the message is...through words. Words from the dead and I just don't mix. It doesn't matter that it's just a dream. I can't put any faith in just, not in this context. I sense there would be too much power in the delivery. I don't trust in the idea that they'd ever have anything positive to share. That being said, a dream of Jesus never makes me feel uneasy. On the contrary, I'm always left feeling quite high. So Jesus stands there and stares at me with arms folded. He has a way of making me feel safe and whole. I also see a faint smile on the side of his face. But the same rule applies to him, nonetheless. If he needs me to know anything, he's got to come at me with feeling. I'm a feeler.

I want this life to have meaning and purpose. Otherwise, what's the point? Why bother? Why care? Why anything? But I'm the only one that can infuse meaning and purpose into my life. Me and me alone. There are teachers that can help show the way but ultimately it's up to me, up to us, up to those of us who want more or who want what is but aren't able to see what is. Jesus is a self-master. I'm not even close. There's so much work to do, so much information to unravel and I'd rather surrender to fantasy and dream today. But maybe that's part of the work, my work. So I'll smile and say nothing more.