Dancing in the Rain
Life's tapestries are woven one thread at a time.
Imagine for a moment a floating dock in the middle of a channel that spans maybe half a mile. There are no ships, boats, or vessels to be seen coming in or out of the channel, which probably has to do with the tempest coming from seemingly everywhere all at once. On all sides are the tumultuous waves crashing down on this decrepit surface made of nothing more than wood, cement, old tires, all held together with rusty cables and wire, the surface itself not measuring more than thirty feet in length. There I am, and at my side is a young boy, maybe seven years old; and, I'm not at all alarmed to see him. In fact, having him there makes perfect sense, once you consider that this young boy with blue eyes and blonde hair has been a part of every significant dream that I've had since I was his age.
The boy doesn't speak, but wherever I move, he moves. From one end of the floating dock to the other we traverse. I'm trying to gauge the distance to the shore, all the while asking myself whether I could make the swim through the cold tempest waters. I'm an excellent swimmer, and I've certainly swam through worse; but, it's not just me that I'm worried about. On the one side, the shore is far enough away that even with good weather it would take me two hours to swim it. On the other side, it's only fifty to seventy meters to shore; but again, the boy would never make that distance, and it's not even a consideration that he doesn't come with me. After all, he might very well be me. Because, as a child in repetitive dreams, I was him—meaning, I was me, but, when I would see myself, I was also him—and then, as I became older and grew bigger, he did not. Again, we repeatedly walk back and forth, somehow managing to ignore the splash and spray of the sea that doesn't want us there any more than we want to be there. And as I gauge the distance, again and again, I arrive at the same determination: we can't make it.
When we approach the side of the floating dock closest to land, we suddenly notice a large party of elegantly dressed people beneath a large white tent. The land is forty feet above the water, so there is no point in trying to shout to them, as they would never hear us over the wailing tempest, anyway. But that's part of what's so strange. They don't seem cognizant of the storm, of the large channel of water, or of the floating dock being tossed around with a man and a young boy. Again, we walk back to the other side; and again, there is no change, so we return to the side with the well-dressed people, with what appears to be champagne flutes in their hands. Why don't they look in our general direction?
Repetitive, symbolic, prophetic dreams have shaped my life experience since childhood. Of course, as a child I didn't appreciate how relevant these dreams were to the occurrences in my young life; or, for that matter, how important it was for me to better understand the language being spoken. As many of us know, dreams don't exactly speak a language of words, it's more about taking a moment to stop and observe—feel—perceive—know, and then have the courage to believe. As the internationally renowned author, Paulo Coehlo, has repeatedly revealed in his books, dreams can either speak to us in the language of the world or in the language of our souls, but first, we have to remember—rather than learn—the language. Because, whether we realize it or not, dreams are a bridge between that version of ourselves that has always been (some call it the soul); and that version of ourselves that faces the tempest in the mortal moments in which we find ourselves in the here and now.
My inner spirit (or, as the ancient Greeks would have called him, my daemon) or guardian has been with me for as long as I can remember. I am not aware that he has ever spoken to me, maybe because the language he speaks is not necessarily verbal. Dreams are his method, one that has taken me most of my life to understand. As a child, the dreams would often frighten me to such an extent that I would wake up with extreme fevers and find myself being rushed to the emergency room, only to be told that there was nothing wrong with me. This happened countless times, and to this day I can still remember the vivid images from those dreams as though they occurred just last night. They weren't frightening in a sense that something awful or horrific was taking place; imagine, instead, that you were seeing life from the perspective of another form of life, or perhaps seeing a different type of realm where absolutely nothing is as it appears here. What was frightening was the part of not knowing what was what; the not having any point of reference or distinction between me and what I was seeing. But, eventually, it came down to something as simple as asking for the dreams to stop, and just like that, they did—at least, they did in form that was causing me so much anguish.
Later, I began to notice that some dreams would disappear moments after waking, while others would stay with me forever. And, the dreams that I could remember would often repeat themselves to the point that I would find myself just going through the motions of the occurrences in the dreams—already knowing what was going to happen—just to get through them. The repetitive dreams never deviated from the first occurrence to the last. And, eventually, I came to understand that some dreams were prophetic, while others were meant to show or teach me some aspect of self—the latter being the most frequent.
All of which brings us to the obvious question: if my daemon has always been there to show me what I needed to see, why couldn't I avoid the pitfalls of falling into a supposed friend's deception and the wrongful conviction that followed?
This was the very question I asked, as I sat there in disbelief as the jury verdicts were read at my trial. And, answers weren't exactly forthcoming; at least, not in the ways I would have liked. Though, when the answers did come, what was shown to me was that destiny and purpose are not just the romantic notions of poets, the divine retribution of religion, or the harsh truths of philosophers. Rather, they are the threads of life's tapestry that keeps existence flowing, expanding, and forever changing. The fluidity of life depends on the purpose that drives and dares every single one of us to confront our destinies. Where the tragedy resides, isn't that some of us find ourselves in prisons, hospitals, in circumstances of severe illness or disability, or in so many other seemingly unfortunate predicaments. The tragedy is that so many of us will expend every last drop of our life forces avoiding the destiny and purpose already laid out for us—a category of individuals that I was definitely a part of.
I never liked the idea of fate or destiny. Mostly because I didn't like the idea of not having a say in the matter of my life. Freedom is premised on choice, which is a matter of singular preference centered on me, myself, and I. And most of us will expend exorbitant amounts of energy and time attempting to reinvent or recreate the very nature of life that has always been what it is—in a word, immutable. What we think are the most important questions—why me? why this? why now?—we come to find, are not even relevant. Because all that really matters, is whether or not we are brave enough to adorn ourselves in the tapestry that Destiny has made for us. If the answer is no, then we proceed unhappily distracted to our respective, mortal ends. On the other hand, if our answer is yes, we still proceed to our respective, mortal ends, but we do so with such joy, contentment and peace that not even death can take from us the bliss of dancing in the rain adorned in the tapestries made just for us. Which is not to imply that we step into life enslaved to a particular destiny without choice. The choice is, and has always been, mine and yours to make; it's just that, as best as I have been able to understand it, the outcomes that most confound us today are choices that were made prior to stepping into this life, and what we're dealing with now is the part where we live out those choices as we come to understand them.
I frequently say that I found my destiny on the road I took to avoid it. Which isn't to imply that I fully understand the full implications or totality of my destiny. It just means that I have become a willing partner in my daemon's intention to get me to where I need to go. Which means that I embrace rather than resist, and instead of being frustrated when road blocks appear, I instead give thanks for what I now know to be a necessary thread and pattern for the tapestry of my life being woven. Throughout our lives we have been taught to see occurrences in life as either good or bad. People appear and tell us that they have good news and bad news, and then proceed to ask us which do we prefer hearing first. But, what we don't understand—at least, initially we don't—is that “good” or “bad” are nothing more than passing preferences like the weather or the clouds in the sky. If my plan this morning was to fly a kite with my daughter, but it turns out that she now has a cold, that's not bad news, it just means that our respective tapestries require something different from each of us today, and should therefore be embraced as such.
Even now, when I am told that the court clerk doesn't have the record and transcripts that would seemingly prove the illegality of my conviction; or when I learn that my trial attorney is unable to remember what occurred at my trial; again, none of this is meant to be bad news. Because I know that when something is shown to me in a dream, that is inevitably what will happen. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but eventually it will happen—as sure as the sun will rise every day until the day it happens. So how does the dream end?
My daemon and I have traversed back and forth on the floating dock any number of times. Now we're on the side closest to land, again looking up at the party of people seemingly oblivious to our plight, when suddenly, there before us from the depths of the angry sea comes to the surface another floating dock large enough to span the necessary distance so that all we have to do is walk from one dock and surface to another. We immediately do so, and then a ladder—not unlike something you would find in a swimming pool—appears as mysteriously as the dock itself. We both climb it with no problems, and once we're at the surface, beneath the white tent, everyone's attention is suddenly turned to us—or maybe just me, as I'm not entirely sure if the boy is visible to anyone other than myself.
People are congratulating me, extending hands to shake, patting me on the shoulder or back as I walk through the parting crowd. Some try to engage me in conversation, or otherwise tell me how happy they are to see me. But despite all of their entreaties, I don't stop walking or otherwise moving through them, and next find myself in a room of some sort with an enormous pile—more like a mountain—of clothing that encompasses the entire breadth and width of the room. There is my mother, maybe someone else with her, and the boy. After taking a moment to embrace my mother, I proceed to slide down the mountain of clothing, as I'm in a great hurry to find something suitable to wear. They toss me various articles of clothing as suggestions, and I grab what's offered, quickly dress, and rush from the room.
I readily understood when I awoke from my dream that the floating dock in the tempest represented the present circumstances of my life. I'm seemingly alone and separated from everyone, and even those who are close enough to see me and maybe even come to my aid, can't be bothered to turn around and look in my general direction. But, my daemon, he's there, just as he's always been. And, more importantly, regardless of how furious the tempest or sea is, or how high the waves crash down on every side of us, the simple truth is, nothing can harm us—in fact, not even a drop of water touches us. As for the second floating dock that seemingly appears from beneath the sea itself, that's to tell me to be calm and relaxed because the outcome is as immutable as destiny and life itself. Which finally brings us to the question of where I was going after I so hurriedly dressed myself in the room with the mountain of clothing. That wasn't initially revealed to me in that dream, though I understood the clothing to signify the countless, irrelevant life choices and distractions that inevitably take us to the same place, anyway. But, as for my final destination, in which I was in such a hurry to get there, it was recently revealed—but, for the moment, at least, I'm keeping that revelation to myself (just for now, I promise!). But, I'll give you this: the reason my daemon didn't utilize my dreams to prevent me from falling in this predicament, is precisely because we're not meant to avoid the pitfalls; the pitfalls are why we are all here.
Image: Native Rain Dance, by Native Dances
