Well, THAT was a weird dream!
The other night (December 16th to be exact) I had such an odd dream. Before I share, I’d like to tell you about a conversation I had with my best friend the evening prior. As has always been the case, we touch base when we need it most. It’s a psychic connection we’ve noted for decades. Her message was, “Have you read this book?” I didn’t recognize the title, Many Lives, Many Masters: The True Story of a Prominent Psychiatrist, His Young Patient, and the Past-Life Therapy that Changed Both Their Lives, by Brian L. Weiss, M.D.
She went on to say, “I don’t know why I asked because I knew you had not and I was supposed to tell you about it.” She said that it should be in my stocking, but there is something I need to finish before I am ready to read it. If the book sits unopened awhile, that’s okay. Then, once I’m called to read it, I’ll be equipped to get what I need out of it. As we texted, I ordered the book.
Back to the dream that I had that evening. In it, I visited a strange amusement park that was washed in amber light which made all the flat surfaces appear yellowed, like old plastic. I was there with my kids and my husband was somewhere, but not nearby, which I found disconcerting. As the kids and I stood waiting to board a rollercoaster on a wooden platform high above the park, I looked down at the people sitting on benches here and there. I recognized a few. I won’t name them here. One old friend locked eyes with me and we shared a moment of mutual understanding. We were enduring something painful and profound.
Next, the dream jump-cut. The ride had just ended. It was a rough one, as we emptied into the gift shop, I registered the soreness across my body. The kids browsed and I had an urgent need get ahold of my husband. I found my phone in my purse and the model was unrecognizable, a strange older version. I struggled to find the button that would allow me to call him. I handed my phone to the kids who, in seconds, opened the call screen.
As I retrieved my phone, I noticed a strange mark across my mid-thigh. It was a razor-thin line, shaped like a wave and ran the circumference of my leg. It didn’t hurt but drops of blood seeped out of the cut here and there. I knew eventually I’d feel the pain. For the time being, though, my skin was numb. How could I keep my skin together? I didn’t have any bandages or tape.
Panicking, I turned to my phone again to call my husband and the screen was blank. Frustrated, scared, the dream jump-cut to me standing outside of the shop. I was talking with my mother, Kate, who was distraught. I reminded her that, although Gary Riley, her husband and my father, hadn’t overtly shown himself to us since his death, he was here, we just didn’t have the fine-tuned senses to ‘see’ and ‘hear’ and ‘feel’ him. I felt the truth of that to the marrow of my bones. I told her about the tandem dreams my eldest and I had the night before he passed. Nora stood on his blind side, me on his sighted one, as we helped him prepare for death. I helped him process his anger and bitterness at not having more time; he wanted more goddamn time, while Nora floated with him in deep space sorting out math and physics needed to operate in the beyond. I explained to Kate that Gary Riley was busy doing important work. He’d check in with us when we need him most. When we think of him, he is with us. He can do many things at once.
I woke up and went about my day. A van pulled to the curb, and the book was delivered to my doorstep. I barely had time to tear it from the packaging when my college daughter pulled into the driveway. There wasn’t a free second to crack the binding. An hour later, I offered to drop my daughter at her hair appointment. I’d bring the book along, intending to read it once I finished my errands. Still at the curb, I received a text from my eldest, “Let’s catch up soon.” I responded, “I’ll be free for an hour or so while I wait for your sister.” Nora said that would work.
As I ran errands I caught up with Nora on the phone. We spoke of dreams and Gary Riley and the conversation I’d shared with Kellie, and another I’d shared with Kate. Nora, on some unexplainable level, had been listening in. Their dream contained shocking, breath-taking connections to those conversations. Then, I shared my odd theme park dream. Like a five-strand braid, our real-lives and dreams plaited into a cohesive message. I’m still trying to understand all of it. The coming days will reveal the rest.
In the meantime, and what I feel led to share now in hopes it gives you comfort as we face the holidays with holes in our hearts, is that death is not a noun, it is a verb. We continue on in another form, we still are, will be forever, and the energy of our loved ones found us in this lifetime and will find us again over and over and over. Remember your high school physics class? Energy cannot be created or destroyed; it can only be transformed or transferred from one form to another. So if you need proof that death is a verb, there it is. Our energy cannot be extinguished. Our loved ones are with us. It’s a great comfort knowing this, isn’t it?
In that spirit, if you are looking for a simple way to honor your loved ones over the next few days, how about doing an activity they loved? Whether that was baking, watching B-movies, volunteering at a pet shelter, cross-country skiing, gathering friends or playing boardgames; do this in their honor. They’ll be there with you, celebrating.
As always, I love you. I care. You are not alone. All my love for a peaceful, joyous, New Year. <3 Jenn
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Note: I finished the book Kellie recommended last night. Remarkably, his conclusion, after years of skepticism, after counseling many that have revealed their past lives to him through hypnosis, is eerily similar to the conclusion I came to two paragraphs up. Death is a stage, not an end. There is no end of us, we continue on in various forms as we learn and relearn lessons that we’ve yet to master. He also noted that many of his patients find resolution when they revisit past traumas. I’m taking that to heart as I poke the sore parts and struggle to find my own path to healing.