I have never died in a dream. I grabbed a grenade once. I had attempted to toss it toward the enemy, and in my confined position, I was unable to sling my arm hard enough. The grenade rolled about three feet from me. Not far enough, and in a moment of desperation, I crawled on my hands and knees to retrieve it. It was too late. I had to throw it. I pulled my arm back in preparation to throw. At that moment I woke up.
What woke me I wonder? Was it the explosion of the grenade? What it the sheer panic of the dream? Had I heard some noise that jolted me from my sleep? Courage in the dream, yes. But for what purpose?
My adult dreams are different from when I was a child. I fall, yet I don't awaken. I continue to fall until I hit the ground. I live through it. I see others die. I face fears with questions. The worst fear is the lack of answers.
The worst feeling is to see the road that I must travel disappearing beneath a vast expanse of water. Impassable water. Deep, muddy water. Water that removes all traces of the landscape. Often, in my dreams, the road I am traveling comes to such an obstacle. I stand next to the vehicle and stare at the pavement sinking into the deluge. Sometimes I can see the road reappearing on the other side, ascending from the choppy red stained sea. Sometimes the road breaks away abruptly, and I am left with no hope of crossing.
The woman looked at the chart she held in her hand. She was dressed in a white lab coat, and I was reclining on a couch. "Your problem is that you've got A parts and B parts to your dreams, but you don't have any C parts." She set down the clipboard. "See, you're discovering the problem-those are the A parts. And you're finding clues to the solution-the B parts, but you never solve the problem before going on to the next dream and the next problem." I nodded. I was dreaming. The woman analyzing my dreams was only a part of another dream. However absurd this seemed, what she was telling me made perfect sense. The pattern of the dream sequences fit. Many problems. Few solutions.
I had found the Egyptian ruins to be less than what I had hoped. My companions and I were not allowed to tour what I suspected to be the intriguing parts of the ruins. I had no sense of the real history of the place.
Same dream. A different place. I found myself in a room similar to a small modest apartment. The colors here were mostly blues and greys. The furnishings were simple. A table, bare. A window, naked. But there was a door, and it was the door that gripped my attention. Upon opening it, I found a closet and another door, smaller than the first. I opened this door and found a small room such as one that can be found beneath a stairwell. The small room was fitted with a desk, paper, a candle, a bed without sheets. Memories lingered about the empty room. Memories of soldiers, white faced people crouching silently in fear, and a diary.
While inspecting the little room, I was aware of the sounds of someone approaching the outer room. My heart beat violently. Two closed doors divided me from the fear that penetrated the outer room. I became alarmed and torn by the thought that whoever lurked beyond the door might need help, and need it quickly! This moment of deep compassion was coupled with the fear of risking exposure should there be only danger on the other side of that door. The sounds outside the door grew louder, and the beating of my heart quickened as I held my breath. Would the person who opened the door be friend or foe?
As if looking inside through a window, a logical part of my mind questioned the meaning of what it was seeing. How did this all connect? What was the meaning of the ruins and the small rooms?
Again, my mind switched scenes, and the dream continued without interruption. In Egypt, we took the boat and
drifted peacefully across a clear, shallow body of water to the other side, where the people gathered in droves. I
peered over the edge of the boat, and I could see the pebbles shining on the bottom. On the shore the awaiting
crowd was clustered around one man. The crowd kneeled fearfully in worship to this man. As the boat slid
smoothly onto the sand, I stepped out and approached with curiosity. I slipped through the crowd and finally saw
fully what the people were so fearful of.
Wearing a long white robe, the man was beautiful. Azure blue eyes gazed serenely at the crowd. His head was smooth and hairless, and protruding from his forehead was a single wrist and hand, an incredible deformity that effected power over his cowering subjects. He turned to meet my gaze momentarily, and I was overwhelmed with the notion that I was looking into the eyes of the anti-Christ.
As I beheld the man and the repulsive hand on his forehead, my mind was filled with knowledge. Knowledge from where, I knew not. I saw the man, in hopes of controlling others, somehow obtaining an unimaginable power, power, he determined, to be equivalent only to that of the Christ. His potential and the danger that it presented, I did not doubt. That he was equivalent to Christ, this I doubted. He had assumed inaccurately that having the power to perform acts like a god would make him a god. His greatest victim of his deceit was his own self.
As I received this knowledge, I saw the people around me rising to their feet. As they surrounded the man, I realized that perhaps they had somehow received the knowledge from me, though I had not spoken. Two strong men overtook the leader, grabbing his arms and dragging him away. Shouting and angry, the crowd followed. And I saw them disappear over the edge of the horizon.
The hand. Memories of another dream. Another hand lacking a body. Floating in air, pressing me down. Forcing me on my knees. Is it for this reason that I traveled to this foreign shore? To vindicate old dreams?
A vast chasm lies between this point and the point where the road resurfaces. Sometimes there are no edges to contain the murky sea. Sometimes I can see the other side, and I still question what I see.
I still have questions.